On Wednesday my eldest returned from school. "This is the last time you'll see me in uniform, Mum." The next day she took her her first GCSE. It's mufti from now on. An era ends. I was utterly choked. She is a brilliant and beautiful young woman, brimming with life and goodness. Yet I mourn the child she once was... An hour later, the bell rang. On the doorstep a glorious creature in a long dress coat and hat. My youngest. Who that morning had complained, "I've had the same disgusting anorak for four years." I gave her twenty pounds, "See what you can get in Primark." And there she was, like a Hardy Amies model. My baby had become a teenager. A double whammy in the space of an hour... Nostalgia has set the tone this week. On Thursday, the theatre. Attempts on Her Life. It was either totally brilliant or total crap. I had such a stiff neck from craning upwards at a suspended screen in a freezing auditorium, I lost my powers of judgment. Later, we hotfooted it to Canary Wharf. A farewell drink with knacker and co. I regaled a drunken detective with tales from my days on the local rag. Within seconds we'd established one degree of separation. His DI was the man who provided my first front page splash on The Stratford Express. Happy days. It struck me then that most days are happy days, even the ones that appear crap at the time. Indeed, the happiest months in recent years would read as crap if documented. Tonight, seven for dinner. Vegetable pie. Again. It's good for the constitution;-)

Where have the weeks gone? The days. The hours. The minutes. Swallowed when my back was turned, and sitting undigested somewhere. So much to do. So little of it done. And yet I haven't stopped. This morning, a uniform crisis over brekkie. Twenty minutes lost on Hunt the Games Kit. Forty minutes later the phone goes. I'm making the beds. Where are you? A forgotten breakfast meeting! I pull on jumper and shoes and run for the car. Another two hours disappear on ideas. Sometimes ideas become realities. At the moment, they're simply cappuccino opportunities. They have to stop! Instead, it's the writing that's stopped. Just 2000 words in a fortnight. Tomorrow morning, the self-help group is meeting. We're all suffering creative meltdown. After that, off to the Beeb. To chair a discussion. Do celebrity presenters undermine content? As it happens, content is much on my mind. The annual R4 commissioning round is in progress. I've become the Philip Treacy of thinking hats. Straw, wool, feathers and flowers, you name it, I construct it. Post-it notes scrawled with random thoughts, are stuck around the house. So much so I've ordered ten new pads. From Viking Direct. Who sent customers a stonking money-off offer. But forgot to tell staff. Another hour wasted. Sorting it out. Because, where I would once have let the mistake go, I am now founder of the Whine and Cheese Clubs of Great Britain. And as such, was duty bound to follow the issue through. And complain. And get it sorted. But I will bore you with that, another time;-)

A knife edge few days. Waiting to see if the loan got okayed. The kids and I spent the weekend on the Macs. Googling new homes. Kentish Town was the compromise location. Which is a bit like leaving Toad Hall to live on the riverbank with Rat. Through it all, spirits have been high. Finally tonight, I got the call. 6.30. The money's coming:-) A glorious relief as it buys six months grace. And yet so anti-climactic. The war spirit has created a joyful stoicism chez nous. A stoicism that stretches to moments of madness. Like La Boheme at the Coliseum last night. Where the English libretto included classic lines. Such as I've been landed with a prat. We left in a state of distress. Wondering how much of opera is actually dross? If we could understand everything sung, would we all switch back to Dylan? Discuss. On the way home, we stopped at Tesco on Bedfordbury. As we approached the till, a cheery assistant insisted we try the personal check-out. Fifteen minutes later we'd finally processed a basket that took just five minutes to fill. On Saturday, a lovely evening with my former in-laws. Pizzas on Victoria Street. And catching up with gossip. Then a real treat. Billy Elliot. It was absolutely stonking. The use of vernacular was witty. It lifted the nondescript music to undeserved heights. Unlike the ENO. Where banality ruins the finest tunes ever written. The dancing was fantastic, too. We emerged feeling that things can only get better. And so it has proved to be:-)

Sunday night, Madam Butterfly. My first time. I don't particularly like the music. Apart from the arias. But I thought the spectacle might be fun. Glory be. I wept from the moment she arrived on set. Despite her being a tad bulky for a teenager... The woman in the next box howled loudly, thrashing around like a bull elephant with a hyena on its back. Emerging into the night where a golden Prince Albert sits in his eyrie on Kensington Gore, even my mum and the kids were wet eyed. The next night, dinner with a political posse near Millbank. One of their number had bought new shoes. Orange and buckled. They were passed around and admired like rare artifacts. I couldn't help wondering what their male counterparts would make of this. On Tuesday, I took my ma to 11 Downing Street. For a book launch. An anthology to which I've contributed. A Mother's Day special to raise funds for children's charities. The young Browns were there and the Chancellor popped by to see them. Quick as a ferret, my mother was at his side, proffering a hand. She then insisted I do the same. I refused. Inverted snobbery. Misreading the scene, Mrs Brown gently ushered Ma in her old man's direction. With great charm, he shook her hand. Again. "I think we've met already." She saw Tony on the patio. It made her day:-) Yesterday a shared birthday lunch in Islington. Suffused with joy my fellow celebratee and I ordered a huge platter of desserts. "I don't know why we ordered the meringues, I hate them," I said. She popped one in her mouth, "Me too."

A perfect night. Proof, at the Arts Theatre, followed by calamari salad and a mambo king - champagne and raspberry vodka in a sugar encrusted flute - at Asia de Cuba. Historic. And a sign that the past is behind me. Because the bar used to have special significance. But no longer does. It's both weird and sad that the past becomes the past so quickly... My ex husband, however, might challenge that statement. He's ruffled at being mentioned in a piece I wrote last week;-) For some reason tonight, the theatre was only half full. "It's because the play's about maths," said my companion. Who teaches it. And stage whispered at one point, "I'm so glad you got that joke, it's very mathematical." Actually, her reasoning doesn't add up. It's about life and love, set against a backdrop of numbers. And the kiss, tentative, no tongues, and on a step, is wonderfully erotic. Go see it. On the way out we saw the eclipse of the moon. Or a bit of it. Last night, dancing. At Dover Street. The first time in years. After our last visit, we swore we'd never return. It was impossible to move. And filled with besuited lechers. This time we made similar promises. Because the place was half empty. And lacking besuited lechers. I blame it on the truly dire band. Trying, and failing, to dance to their flat rendition of Knock on Wood, I took matters in hand. And approached a manager. "When does the karaoke finish?" I asked. "What karaoke?" "The bloke who's singing. Don't tell me he's a professional?" Well, it made me laugh:-o