From the Bunker

2007-07-05T08:48:00.000+01:00

The rising water table is leaving its mark on us. Several marks in fact. On our basement floor. And salts on the walls. Pretty soon we'll have the Prince of Wales floating past in a dinghy. Hey: perhaps things aren't that bad after all? Nonetheless, erring on the safe side, I have summoned Rentokil. Who'll inspect the damage on our return from hols. If we ever get there that is, given the panics at Terminal 4. The upside of the latest horrors is fewer overseas medics. Having struggled to both understand and be understood by people in whose hands we place our lives, this is a comfort. Common language and cultural understanding are imperative in dealings with the sick, it seems to me. Standard English covering colloquialisms and confusing social nicities ("I'm very well, thank you, Doctor,") should be compulsory for all NHS staff irrespective of provenance. I suggest a three month induction course that includes nights dancing at Tiger Tiger while drinking marathon cocktails. I defy anyone to hate the decadent lifestyle after that:-) Talking of which, I make no apologies for my excellent raspberry martini at One Aldwych yesterday. It put me in mellow mood. Which was just as well as I returned home to find the eldest on the doorstep. She'd been deliberately locked out by the youngest. Who was in the den, playing music very loudly so she didn't have to hear the bell. It is in the den that we have the wet floor. I have asked Rentokil to deal with her when they exterminate all the other horribleness;-)

2007-06-28T09:23:00.001+01:00

Square eyed from watching the changing of the guard at Downing Street yesterday, I wandered into the loo and was brought short by a hideous growth on my face. A giant herpe had taken root where, previously, there was just a series of chaps. By chaps, I mean dry cuts, rather than Robin Cook's cowboy accessories or gratification in male form. My punishment for self-neglect! There was an upside, however. When, over lunch, my companion attempted to swipe some of my chocolate cheesecake, I slapped her hands: "Don't take the risk! I may have contaminated it with my spoon." On a national scale, contamination is now superseded by the promise of change. Wiping away a tear as Tony went, I reminded myself of the many good things he's done in his time. Alas, they reduce to nothing when placed alongside Iraq, a bit like one of my gravies which always start off well, pungent and voluminous, but from the second I add cornflower, start to deteriorate so that, within seconds, all that is visible is a sad gloop at the bottom of the pan. It must be said that I also cried when Mrs Thatcher went, and I couldn't stand her till that moment either. Today, lunch in the Salusbury Diner with a local mate. The last time we broke bread together, we ended up having such a row that our fellow diners were frozen into attitudes of petrified excitement. This time, she's paying, so the dice are in her favour. To help things along, I shall disguise my disfigurement with the judicious application of slap.

2007-06-22T09:46:00.000+01:00

Last night, teetering on tiny kitten heels, three of us left a discussion on the work-life balance, determined to set the scales in favour of life. "I know a great bar," boomed our group leader. "The only problem is, it's a five minute walk." At this, I turned pale: "Perhaps we should get a cab?" "Yes, let's," said our other friend, "I'll pay." Disembarking at an hotel in St James, we found a bar so full and noisy I was able to groan aloud as my aching feet marched its length. Settling for a more sedate part of the establishment, we started working our way through the cocktail list. During a lull, the gay Canadian barman sidled up. "I have a real treat for you ladies. It's my own creation: What a woman wants. My clients say it's better than sex." Did any of us have a long enough memory to make the comparison? It mattered not. We ordered three glasses immediately. "I don't suppose," I said hopefully, warming to the theme of substitutions, "You could supply chocolate too?" Ten minutes later a sublime concoction that included Baileys, Frangelico and cream, arrived at the table, along with a bar of Toblerone. The girls watched suspiciously as, slipping it from the box, I carefully ran my fingers across the foil: "You're taking this too far." But I was merely counting the triangles. Four each. Back outside as dusk finally fell, I made the most of our longest day by enjoying it from the back of a taxi home. Sometimes the simplest of moments are the most sublime:-)

2007-06-15T09:41:00.000+01:00

On Tuesday my Big Apple mate arrived. She has won her fight for US citizenship despite the intervention of her octogenarian husband. Who insisted on joining her for the interview. Having taken forty minutes to process across the hangar-like waiting room on his Zimmer, he shouted at the official: "I have come to see my wife's oppressors!" A showstopper by any standards, and sufficient to have him barred from proceedings... Fortunately my pal can name quite a few presidents and knows who wrote the Star Spangled Banner, so she's in. On Wednesday the house painter, Ulysses, turned up at five. "I thought you were starting this morning?" I said, noting the only tool in his hands was a roll-up. "I'm busy," he said, wearily, "But I promise to start on the 25th." Again he refused my offer of scaffolding, assuring me his ladder stretches three storeys. "That's all very well, but I don't want to risk a dead man in my garden," I said crossly. "I can't die," he assured me, "I have two small children to keep." Clearly Zeus is acting as his oppo. Yesterday, a seminar at The Oval. On the pitch, men rolled balls in the sunshine. Entombed in the vast, low-ceilinged rooms of the conference centre, I yearned to feel that same air on my face; to hear their banter, and the occasional thwack... Lots of fresh air this weekend, thank goodness. We're off to the Cotswolds:-)

2007-06-10T14:19:00.001+01:00

Yesterday, my first new date in four years. Lunch at the Wolseley. I knew I'd scored a hit when he ordered the oysters. This man is feeling fruity, I thought, and being of a certain age, any help is welcome. This perception was borne out when, resting in Green Park between outings, he lunged. And very nice it was too. Though odd. Because at Writers' Group on Friday, we'd discussed the first kiss. The almost painful excitement of will-he-won't-he, and the electric charge as heads knock together and mouths meet. Add to that mix the fear, from lack of practice, that you'll end up with your tongue in their nostril or dislodging a bit of gnarled brandy snap that's invisibly lodged in your newly flossed teeth, and what you have is an almighty adrenaline high. But there was none of it. It felt as if I'd been kissing the man all my life. Is that good or bad? And were the nose-numbing Bloody Marys to blame? Afterwards we went to Chelsea for an evening of popular classics at Cadogan Hall. Here, we held hands and each took it in turns to nod off as the room was overheating, the music was mellow, and there's sod all else to do when you're at a concert really, unless the violinist is so hot that you can't take your eyes off his finger movements. A short dinner and a second snog followed. Will there, I wonder, be a second date? Walking home, I ran into the owner of our local nightclub who's recently had a health scare. "Everything's fine," he said, "But it sent me into a spin, thinking of all the things I should have done and wanted to do. Then I realised I had done them, or was planning to." I gave him a hug, glad he's better, and glad that he, like me, has no regrets, even if, occasionally, he, like me, has made a total tit of himself;-)

2007-06-07T13:29:00.000+01:00

More detail then, to keep the flow going... Tonight, a birthday party at the Commons. I am ready-primped in anticipation, but the overcast skies and a lunchtime pizza with my tragedian eldest, who at this minute is answering GCSE questions on new poets, has temporarily stemmed my enthusiasm. Because I'm over-full and middle-of-the-day sleepy. It was easier to 'get in the mood' when young. In those days, friends got ready together. We passed round the vodka, tried on each other's clothes, danced to Sunday Girl and told jokes while comparing lipsticks. Now we lock ourselves away, grappling with skin tighteners, wrinkle fillers, magic shading and stomach suppressants, emerging like Dorianna Grays to listen to The Archers before hitting the town. My particular problem today has been scrubbing red shoe polish off my arms. It's a long story. To do with a handbag I bought off eBay. One of two. Signing for the parcel, my eldest said crossly, "Why is it that whenever we're broke, you throw money away? We've had a delivery every day for a fortnight." I explained the principle of reverse psychology to her. "It's like being on a diet," I said. "The more you tell yourself you can't have food, the more likely you are to gorge on any old rubbish that comes along." She looked at me in horror: "Is that why you've not pushed me over revision? In case I stop revising? Is it reverse psychology?" I nodded proudly. "Oh no!" she howled. "I thought you didn't care. And I haven't done any..." I await her results with trepidation.

2007-06-05T17:36:00.000+01:00

Today I had a conversation with one of my dearest friends which, I think, explains the silences here of late. We were discussing her latest putative peccadillo, a builder in the city who may or may not put out. As they are both married, this is a subject that must be danced around carefully, like a handbag on the disco floor. Halfway through her dissection of his problematic marriage - his wife doesn't understand him - I announced that I was bored. "I do not care," I said, "For this uninteresting detail." "It's not uninteresting," she replied, sharply, "It's just that you've reached a stage in life where you've heard everything before and news no longer feels new." Bloody hell: how sad is that? It set me thinking. When I was a young reporter, every story however small, excited me, be it a golden wedding or the woman in Savage Gardens who was accidentally boarded into her own home by the council. Then came the day when even tragedy lost its impact. Zeebrugge, Lockerbie, Hungerford - the detail changes, as does the basis of the emotions and the information that follow - but the story is broadly the same. As I listened to my mate's tale of misapprehension and misadventure; watching the blundering lorries of middle-aged sexuality, one pink, one blue, rushing headlong at each other on the same carriageway with the drivers' feet hard down on the accelerator pedal, I'd suddenly hit the 'off' switch. I'd lost interest in the detail... This is not good for a writer. I must push myself back into the heart of everyday minutiae. The question is, how?

2007-05-16T22:11:00.000+01:00

The machinations around refinancing continue and tomorrow I expect good news: a remortgage that pays off all current lending and provides an income for the next couple of years. The state of inertia that overcomes me when we hit a wall, which is every few months, will pass. I will be galvanised into playing the long game instead of looking constantly, and rarely with success, for short term commissions to shore things up. That's the plan anyway:-) In the middle of all the hand wringing, I went off to see Landscape with Weapon at the National. Within half an hour, I was searching for a weapon. To bludgeon the script. Though the writer had done a pretty good job of that on his own. What is it about modern dramatists, that they think vaguely intelligent dinner party conversations can be passed off as high art on a stage? Last week, at The Tricycle, Called to Account, the mock trial of Tony Blair, was similarly lacking in either insight or intellectual nouse. Perhaps it's that we're starved of example these days? Where are the great orators, the men and women who could savage a subject but still leave you on a high, because they finished by progressing an idea, ideal or ideology? These days, parroting has taken the place of debate, and nobody's willing to take an absolute position because, with certainty comes responsibility - you have to explain your position, and actually, most people can't. No wonder I stick to bog standard fiction. I sent my agent the first tranche yesterday. Watch this space:-o

2007-05-04T11:17:00.000+01:00

It's been a quiet few weeks on the page. Including this one. I remarked on this at the Writer's Group meeting yesterday. We were moving from sobriety to squiffiness over a late morning snifter. "This whole month has been lost in an alcoholic blur," I said sadly into my paltry thousand words. It's because I'm on an entertaining jag. So much so, the progeny have complained. "We haven't had dinner on our own for a month," the eldest grumbled, midweek. "How am I supposed to get my revision done?" It's because I've got NBF - New Best Friend - itis. It happens every few years. I'll meet, in quick succession, a handful of women who are utterly irresistible, and initiate a courtship process with each and every one of them. This requires an awful lot of eating, drinking and being merry. This year's harvest started with professional networking. No work, but three new friends, one of whom is a social tour de force. Then I started writing again. And found two more new friends. Those with whom I got squiffy yesterday. And of course, friends spawn friends. Suddenly invitations are flying in all directions and every spare minute is filled:-o Each morning, I stagger into action, short of sleep, or in an alcohol induced haze. But now the courtships are over. The relationships established;-) After the Bank Holiday, some will go on to be longterm and nourishing. Others, quick fixes where each side found something in the other to temporarily lift the soul. Either way, it's a good feeling:-)

2007-04-08T22:45:00.000+01:00

I'm thinking of giving up entertaining. I no longer get the hit. Today, 16 for lunch. Eleven adults at the table. Five children in the kitchen. One of my oldest friends provided chocolate fondue after the cheese. The meal went on and on. We played silly party games. In between, the kids went to the park, returned, joined us for a round of guessing and then played Hide and Seek. The wine flowed so well we had to sent a foraging party to Thresher. Though that was mainly because I keep so little white in stock. It was a fantastic day. And yet, having just finished clearing up, I still haven't had that adrenaline moment. The hit. Indeed, now I think about it, it's happening less and less. On Friday a fabulous lunch in Camberwell. In the spring sunshine we ate al fresco with an eccentric mix of people from 8 to 80. There were a lot of stories around the table. One guest, a young man, had been abandoned as a baby. And rescued by Mother Theresa. It was love at first sight for my girls. Two other children there had recently lost their mother. To cancer. They sat, open, smiling, friendly. A solid team led by a gentle father. The politically active octogenarian in the group was of a dying generation. Those who escaped Nazi Germany. Having enjoyed the fastest seder (Passover meal) in history, earlier in the week, he was a reminder of how precious life is. There were even two single adult men of a certain age. The hostess gets ten out of ten for that one;-) And yet, no hit there either... Is this, I wonder, a sign of middle age?

2007-04-01T12:44:00.000+01:00

Last night, politics in microcosm. Private vs state, Jew vs Muslim, old Labour vs new Tory. Ånd only seven people! Inevitably there was discord. Though discord hedged with social nicities. By the end of the evening we'd broken into factions. With me somewhere in the middle. Shovelling down chocolate fridge cake. And Spanish wine. A bad move. This morning I couldn't walk a straight line. Riojas always leave an after-effect. It must be the tannins. Or something. In this zig-zagging state, I was whisked off for bacon butties by my godson. Who, as ever, distinguished himself by having two breakfasts. We discussed the hostages in Iraq and my efforts as a facilitator earlier this week. He laughed out loud when I described how the delegates, who were supposed to provide lively debate, had all agreed with each other. Within five minutes of kick-off. Forcing me to spend the next 55 irritating them into argument. And how the earpiece they'd unexpectedly provided kept flying from my ear like a caffeine fuelled bat. Afterwards we picked up the girls. Who've been with their paternal grandparents this weekend. Coming home, the youngest, apropos nothing, said, "I really miss X, Mummy. I wish you'd never split up." "Me too," said the eldest. "I've been thinking about him all weekend." The spirit of nostalgia is clearly catching. "Why do you think we're suddenly musing like this?" I asked them. The eldest said, "Because it's spring." Ah yes, spring is sprung, the grass is ris, I wonder where the boirdies is?

2007-03-31T17:20:00.000+01:00

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;-)

2007-03-27T11:54:00.000+01:00

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;-)

2007-03-13T23:08:00.000Z

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:-)

2007-03-08T11:32:00.000Z

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."

2007-03-04T00:07:00.000Z

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

2007-02-28T16:18:00.000Z

This morning, a work call. "Could you write a piece on the loss of innocence?" This was, it turned out, a reference to Daniel Radcliffe in the buff. And the effect this might have had on my children. Who did indeed express outrage - eeewwwwwww - at snaps of his boyish nakedness. In that sense, it's been a tough few days for my youngest. I took her to Faust on Friday. In a warehouse in Wapping. Wearing masks, we wandered aimlessly in the dark. Through five floors of eerily decked rooms. Around us, dramatic action broke out intermittently. Then came the crescendo. Faust, stripped bare. My youngest jabbed my shoulder. "Why are we watching this?" "Hang on a sec," I said. It was the closest I'd been to a naked man in eons;-) On Sunday, lunch with my favourite environmentalists. Conversation traversed the globe - Antarctica, the Galapagos, Tahiti and the Amazon. And kept returning to matters entomological. Stories of rats crunching on cockroaches as sewers burst in eastern climes. And flies that fry your eyes. Forget the jungle holiday, I muttered, chewing on pork with apricots. Which brings me to my tum. It is finally better. But larger than ever. Because I've been gorging. In the mistaken hope the bug would dispatch it all. Yesterday in town, a serious lunch. Two fish courses. Across the table, a grandee pontificated about "hewers of wood and drawers of water". Our subject was vocational education. How to get it on an equal footing with academic achievement. I felt his references were less than helpful:-(

2007-02-20T18:55:00.000Z

A blogging deja vu. I should be at the Coliseum right now. But due to... etc. And it's entirely my fault! Because I went to lunch at The Cinnamon Club. Where the prix fixe lunch is utterly sensational. And the Cinnamon Bellinis! To die for:-) Throw in a good gossip and... I can't complain. I was warned. "No spice for a month," the doctor said yesterday, "It causes flare ups." So muggins here visits London's finest Indian restaurant... The kids are currently at Marriage of Figaro with my ma:-( And yet, a glorious day... This morning I went to Central Office. Whatever I was expecting, I didn't find it. At one point over coffees, a person of exceptional size mooched by. I got the giggles. My hostess was a woman whose research methodology is taking feminist thinking into whole new policy areas. She looked nonplussed. "I'm sorry," I said. "It's just that all human kind is in evidence here." It was like the Wookie Bar in Star Wars. Afterwards, I chatted on the doorstep with a young Asian I'd passed earlier. "We're really going to change things," he said. At that moment, my lunch guest tripped by. "I thought I was late!" We had a jolly couple of hours before she dashed to a meeting. And I got talking with two adjacent Americans. They were discussing the Taj Mahal. "We're put off visiting because it's a tourist trap." I let this go. They were nowhere near it, anyway. And were Hillary supporters. "I hope she gets in," I said. "She did a sterling job last time."

2007-02-19T22:12:00.000Z

I should be in the Richard Steele tonight. Listening to my favourite trumpeter. But, laid low by aches and extended flatulence I remain indoors. Tending the progeny. Who yesterday starred in a Sunday newspaper. When their father's tale of Himalayan derring-do was finally published. Generally I don't do sour. Though I do of course stretch to ironic. And waspish. But there was a line in his tale that stuck in my throat. When the three cooks who'd supplied fresh meals throughout their great endurance, made them a cake. Iced with the historic words 'we are family'. Que? I rather think it's me who provides the family. Day in and day out. It's him that provides the light relief. And the second family. Oh all right. He's clearly a good father. But. If I had false teeth I'd have swallowed them in rage. Jealousy. Bad grace. And sadness, that I don't stretch to that sort of jolly... Yet. Though I'm working on giving up the Martini habit;-) As it happens, swallowing teeth is a possible at the moment. Because they're going to rot. From the bloody acid my tummy's throwing up. I went to the doctor today. It's a bug apparently. That's why I'm bloated and bent in two. A contortion that could win me work with the Cirque du Soleil. Thankfully cocodamol and high octane bile busting drugs are already masking the discomfort. So I'll be fit for purpose tomorrow. Meeting Conservative Women. Yes, you've read right. Research. Over tea in Victoria Street. How weird is that?

2007-02-16T09:37:00.000Z

Sitting on the bog at 4am, I wondered how it is that my mates get tummy bugs and go down a size, and I get a bug and bloat like a dead whale. It started earlier in the week. A low level ache. By Valentine's night it was an ache and a swelling. "I look like the head's engaged," I warned my date for the evening. "Do you want to cancel?" she asked. I nearly choked. Alone on Valentines? Social death!! In the absence of romance, good conversation will do;-) My partner in crime was a scarily smart lobbyist. I met her and a financier friend for a drink in St James. I was late. Because I couldn't do up my trousers. My belly was tight as a drum. No give. Even when I lay on the floor:-o Flirting was off the menu. Though later, I consumed sushi. And felt immediately worse. Last night, out with the cocktail crowd and my Irish guest. To The Lyric, Hammersmith. For a dreadful production of The Ramayana. "I thought you'd enjoy it," said the outing organiser. "After all, you did set a novel around it." "D'you know," I replied, "I was trying to remember the story on the way here and it was only as I parked that I made the connection." Silence. I'm not sure who felt more stupid. Certainly I was more stupid. Anyway it was awful. And my belly was hurting again. So four of us left at the interval. And went to a Bulgarian bistro on King Street. Where the other two joined us later. By that time I was doubled up with tummy pain. So I bought a bottle of Milk of Magnesia. From the next door shop. And drank the lot. You know the rest.

2007-02-13T19:40:00.000Z

Last night, dinner with a beautiful photographer of my acquaintance. It was the first time in nine years we'd dined alone. Despite many social visits to each other's homes with children in tow. She started to unfold her complex private life. For which, read love life. By the fish stew, I was so confused by the reality, the possibilities, and the people in the wings just-in-case, that I came home grateful to be solitary. Correction: relatively solitary. My NYC pal's still around, though she booked out for a few days this morning. It was so lovely being alone, I stayed in pyjamas till five. This window of content, alas, soon closes. On Thursday, a friend from Ireland arrives. I love my mates, but why half term which is precious me-time? It's like the Hot Sheet Motel. Before yesterday's dinner, I had tea in town. With an elegant Russian. A geisha expert. She'd invited me to the Ritz. But on arrival, I was barred. "Sorry Madam, no jeans allowed." How quaint;-) We ended up in the Fountain Restaurant at Fortnum's. Which I'd read had been revamped. If so, the change is miniscule. It still looks like a bad stage set from the 1970s. Alison Steadman took the table next to us. If she'd gone into role as Beverly from Abigail's Party, not one eyebrow would have activated. The punters were strangely huge. My hostess, inevitably svelte but not underweight, looked a size zero in comparison. And I, just pleasantly plump:-) Tonight I realised I hadn't sent my children Valentines. Because they're not here:-( Will they remember, I wonder?

2007-02-11T00:29:00.000Z

Last night, the Ooh Laa Laa Bar. Where the drinks are as bad as the spelling. And the food even worse. Halfway through my first Martini, my mate passed me her iPod. Snaps of a party in the Big Apple. Her husband's 80th. Let me tell you, there is nothing more scary than stills of a toothless octogenarian. With his hand inside the thong of a Naomi Campbell lookalike. "He loves African Americans," explained my mate airily, "So I got him a stripper." He doesn't, of course, have stiffies. But it still feels morally unsound:-o My mate is thirty years her spouse's junior. A latter-day Anna Nicole Smith. She, poor sap, died last week. Still fighting over her husband's will. He was a nonagenarian billionaire. She, his 26-year-old bride. "The great thing about my old man," said my pal, "is I get his crip sticker. I can park anywhere in Manhattan." Earlier I'd attended my first writer's club meeting. In the kitchen. Three of us each reading a thousand words from our new novels. I hate self help groups. But it really made a difference. I've been restructuring ever since. Tonight, the Oxo Tower. We waited three hours for a table. By which time my rather straight companion, was under it. They do stonkingly good champagne cocktails. She's invited me to spend a week in Palestine. "We'll do some fact finding." Some facts, I'd posit, are better researched by experts. On the other hand, it's good to be out in the sun;-)

2007-02-08T12:10:00.000Z

One snowfall and western civilisation as we know it, slides to a halt. I've had to cancel a promising lunch because the kids are home. One of the schools is shut. The other out of reach. Because the Jubilee Line is AWOL. Yet a friend who landed at Heathrow at seven, was mini-cabbed here by 9.30. Typically it's now melting. As the pic shows:-o Last night the eldest and I went to the theatre. Waves at the Cottesloe. It was one of the most extraordinary productions I've seen. The eight piece ensemble used sound and film in a way that took your breath. The narrator was straight from the 1930s. It was like having Woolf on stage. On a par with The Pillowman for off-the-wall brilliance. As the lights came on, I got both a hug and a kiss. "That was fantastic, Mum. Thank you." Blimey: what a pay off:-) Earlier I'd spoken with a practitioner of Eastern arts. A woman who promises to realign the sensual and the feminine within us. Within us women, that is. I could certainly do with help:-o Meanwhile letters have been flying on my biogs idea. CEOs with stories, please apply here;-) All in all, it's been a good week. My New York pal, formerly of the broken toes, is back in town. I forecast lively nights ahead! Especially as, tomorrow, the girls go skiing with their father. Earlier this year there was talk that the alps were a snow-free zone. I suppose, if worst comes to worst, they could winter holiday in Stoke:-o

2007-02-05T09:03:00.000Z

Yesterday I met four adults with viral conjunctivitis. It struck me then that my blocked tearduct is a variation of the same. I googled up information. It lasts for weeks! How horrible is that? Two of the harbingers of doom are new friends. We popped by their house. On the way home from lunching at my mum's. Cashew nut curry. Deee-licious. The house was lovely. Galleryesque. And our hostess was pie-eyed. After a lunch party. She took me into her confidence. "My husband isn't just an arsehole, he's a c**t." That got my attention I can tell you. I occasionally had foul thoughts about my ex. But never enough to utter them aloud. Yet so many women whose marriages remain sound in middle age, spout thus. Is it necessary to hate as well as love in order to be happy? Discuss. On Friday night, the youngest and I went to the opera. Apollo and Hyacinth. Written by Mozart. Aged 11. And performed by schoolgirls at the methodist church in Hinde Street. Utterly fab. The eldest, meanwhile, was at a 16th birthday party. In a Hampstead restaurant. Hired by three of her Asian classmates. I picked her up at half eleven. With two of her friends who were sleeping over. "It was brilliant!" They'd all stuffed their faces, danced, taken pics, and flirted with some scuzzy boys. Despite the only drinks being fruit juice or milkshakes. It made me think of Big Brother and the Shilpa effect. There's a lot to be said for an abstemious lifestyle.

2007-02-02T08:43:00.000Z

Despite knowing better, I still asume we all live variations of the same life. My life. I was outraged, then, when someone called me twenty minutes ago. To pick my brain. In the middle of the PM's interview on Today. My caller fashions herself as a high-level mover and shaker. Nil points! That said, it was a dull exchange. The interview, that is. The PM gave nothing away. Humphreys may as well have asked, "Prime Minister, do you take snuff?" Each morning this week, they've played a trail on the show. For a programme on noise. Each time, I stop and listen. "Can you hear the low level sounds we're playing?" No. I can't! But my eldest always does. As a result I've been worrying that I'm deaf. Last night, a TV company for which I once, accidentally, presented a sex series, held it's twentieth birthday party. In a club called Sound. Within seconds of arriving, I couldn't hear anything at all. Except the band. People spoke to me. I was totally lost. I just nodded and made what I thought were appropriate faces. I honestly have no idea what anyone said. Hitting the sack at 2am, I was further deafened. By the ringing in my ears. Horror. Then, this morning, the kitchen smelled of fish. Horror upon horror! The kids came down. "Ewwww.... what's that stink?" After they'd gone, I discovered a melon rotting and leaking behind the breadbin. And then Tony came on. You know the rest;-)

2007-01-31T10:21:00.000Z

The problem with blogging, is one sets a standard. And sometimes it's hard to maintain. In the case of puspie, it's a voyage around metropolitan life. But life's been dull as ditchwater this past month. I've been writing. And continue to do so. And I've had two commissions. Which is great. But socially, I've been a homebird. Hence the intermittent entries. On Saturday, I made chicken and leek pie for twelve. It was a fab evening, but dry. Because four of the twelve were lawyers. I do find legal people, particularly those at the bar, so up themselves. In the nicest sense, of course;-) There's no room for a bit of slapstick or playful banter. I wonder if the focusing on small-print makes even small-talk appear complex? So the lightest of remarks becomes loaded with meaning? That said, the last guest left at four. After I'd done an extra-curricular three hours as agony aunt. "Your problem is intimacy," I told her. "You're scared of it." Her face lit up. "That's it! What should I do?" "Shag him," I replied. The previous night, I'd gone out with my godson and his IBM cronies. Dull dull dull. Even when drunk. Worse than lawyers! I slipped off early for some bevvies with a young Aussie of my acquaintance. And rolled home at two. A lot of late nights. And still no gossip. This evening, I'm off to a women-in-public-policy-making networking event. Which promises to be lively. Thankfully, the diary is far more interesting in Feb. Normal blogging resumes:-)

2007-01-22T23:26:00.000Z

A debonair colleague once told me, "Your arse looks like two boiled eggs in a navvy's hanky." A stone later, an Australian colleague elaborated. "When you walk, it's like two helium balloons in the last throes of making love." As I grew, it grew with me. Were I six shades darker I could, for much of my life, have been a Nigerian. With middle age, the stuffing resettled on my midriff. The jackfruit is now a pancake. Which is why I'm in serious discomfort. After bouncing down the stairs this morning. Boing boing boing. No padding! And such a large surface:-( Ouch! It was my own fault. For days I've nursed a blocked tearduct. Random tears slalom down my nose. And onto my chin. It happened mid-interview on CNN. "Maybe one day you'll weep blood like the villain in the new Bond film?" my youngest said hopefully. Anyway, because of the weeping eye, I missed the step. So you find me on the edge of my seat. Earlier tonight, my Godson came round. And deposited three tyres in my garden. "Those bastards at BMW charged me £600 to replace them," he growled. "I'll get them checked this weekend. If they're all right, I'm going to sue." "And if they're not?" I ventured, foreseeing years of rotting rubber in the yard. No answer:-o That said, after a bad birth, don't women sit on inflatable rings? I wonder if a low profile Michelin can do the trick for my sore down-there?

2007-01-18T10:20:00.000Z

Goodness, barely morning and so much done already. The first payment of the year has been agreed. A proposal for a website, written and dispatched. The house is spotless, despite the char coming tomorrow. The washing is on, the ironing scheduled, and I'm prowling the basement, waiting for my agent to call. Because I sent him the first 13,000 words yesterday. Part One of the new tome. Another four months and it could be done. Unless he hates it. Then it's back to square one. If this wasn't tense-making enough, last night I made the mistake of watching Big Brother. After an hour of Jade's bilious and chaotic outpourings, I was so tense my jaw had locked. I don't think she's a racist. She's just woefully ignorant. She has no parameters. Given her background with an addict for a mother, that's hardly surprising. It's extraordinary she's turned her life around at all. But money only confers comfort. It can't make up for a lost education, childhood neglect and social isolation. Jade may be rich, but she remains troubled and out of control. Because a hundred per cent improvement on zero is still zero. Shilpa will go on to greater glory and riches. As she deserves to. Jade, poor cow, has unwittingly been hoist by her own petard. That's one pictured alongside, in case you were wondering;-)

2007-01-14T09:01:00.000Z

Last night a thespian party. "I love actors, don't you?" trilled my friend. To whom I was an adjunct for the evening. "I'm not sure," I mumbled. "I sort of think they're lazy buggers." What I didn't add was, "A bit like writers." The house had a name, rather than a number. I noted the postcode and wondered where such grandeur might be hidden. In the street of small terraced cottages, we came unstuck. Ah! Theatrical irony. The house was really number two. Inside, bedlam. More people than space. The tiny front room was spliff heaven. In the kitchen, the drinks area was blocked by bodies. I shoved my contributions under a table. "This is like being 16 again." My mate had champagne. We went into the garden, drank it and left. I was home by eleven. Earlier I'd driven to Huntingdon. To pick up some chairs I bought off eBay. From Sexyladyantiques... On a windblown estate of box-like houses, I knocked at number 23. Much activity behind the glass door. I spotted two small children, two cats, and a dog. Finally, Sexylady opened up. Physically and aurally, she was the Cambridgeshire foil to Jimmy Cliterhoe. "Excuse the mess," she said, "We're moving." The tiny front room was like the killing fields. I had to step over toys, clothes, junk and bodies. Behind, a much larger room was stripped bare and filled with old furniture. The business:-o I collected my wares hastily, and left. "We're moving to a mobile home," she told me. "While we self-build a farmhouse." There were many responses that came to mind. But I stuck to "Good luck."

2007-01-11T09:16:00.000Z

There is a fine line between community spirit and busybodying. I think I may have crossed it this morning. When I spotted a car with its lights on. Which belongs to the family across the road. I'd better tell them, I thought. And went to ring on the bell. At which point the man of the house emerged. From the car... I wasn't wearing my specs. And he is as grey as the Audi's sleek exterior. So I hadn't seen him. Purple with embarrassment I started to burble. He held up a hand to silence me, pointing to a headset. Into which, I now saw, he was mumbling urgently. I turned to leave. He motioned me to stay. Clearly anticipating an emergency. Finally he said, "I'm so sorry. It's a busy dealing day. We're selling madly. What's the matter?" "You've left your lights on," I said. Embarrassed? No shit, Sherlock. It made me wonder about the aforesaid line. This past week I've been a bit of a local heroine. After my complaints about incontinence pants were aired in the local rag. On the other hand, half the street's avoiding me. In case I decide to air their personal problems too. I think it's an age issue. The line, I mean. When you're young and you care about your community, you're a good neighbour. When you're middle-aged, the same actions mark you as a busybody. When you're old, you're perceived to be a nimby. It's a hard call. I shall think twice in future, before making helpful advances...

2007-01-04T19:28:00.000Z

I'm writing again. For myself, I mean. It started after the historic lunch at Hakkasan. The following week, I breakfasted with an agent. "Having fallen off the big horse," he said, "it's time to return to the saddle." "I've already polished my stirrups," I replied. But it was Christmas. And I had a lurgy. So the writing got forgotten. Then yesterday, I pulled up the file on screen. And realised it worked. By end of play today, the word count had doubled. Ooer Missis. Meantime, the youngest is covered in indelible red spots. From my 24 hour lipstick. Which she used as make up. For a film she's making in the back room. And the eldest is elbow deep in mocks. "I used some great words in GCSE English," she trilled. "Atrabilious, sophomoric and rebarbative. Do you know them?" I don't, but I'm guessing at least one is appropriate to my relationship with our local hospital. About, and to, which I recently complained. After finding my elderly neighbour sitting in dirty incontinence pants. Unchanged for at least two hours. Today the local paper ran the story. So I'm keeping my head down. That said, my head was the best part. "Nice picture, Mum," said the youngest. "You look ten years younger."

2007-01-02T10:54:00.000Z

Another glorious morning in the great metropolis. The line in the sand has been drawn, and 2006 consigned to the recycling pile of old memories. Last night in bed, I wrote a list of improving goals. Health, harmony and focus. These are my new year buzzwords:-) Alas, bed featured large over the hols. Suffering from a head cold, I slept through them. Except on New Year's Eve. When I lunched with my ma. In the evening, I painted on a semblance of life. And stepped into the night like a geisha. Or, to be more precise, a boxer in drag. My hair collapsed in the rain. I arrived at a soiree in a club on Portman Square, bedraggled and rheumy eyed. And found the hostess had drummed up a bloke for me. A Daniel Craig lookalike. With a Torbay accent. Who was charming and funny. All year I've waited for such a moment. And it happens on a night only nasal dilation is possible. Flipping heck, I thought, sipping a raspberry martini out of politeness, what kind of portent is this for 2007? It was a relief to return home. I won two games of Anagrammatic and retired to bed with a double Lemsip. Yesterday was no better. But! This morning I woke and my head is clear. Where I've struggled to leave the bed, today I leapt from it. And ran downstairs. My eyes are bright. My spirits high. Today is the first day of the rest of my life! Happy New Year to you all. It's looking good;-)

2006-12-30T02:56:00.000Z

The last entertaining of the season is done. Alas, as soon as the bottles were opened, the drink went straight to my head. So I really can't tell if it was a good do or a bad. The fish pie was too dry, that's for sure. But as the last guests left forty minutes ago, they were full of compliments:-) Filling the dishwasher, my own cheer fizzled out. All day I've had a sore throat. And been sneezing. I fear a lurgy is lurking. As they departed for Oxford, the kids were sneezy too. It must have been all the air kissing at Christmas. On the actual day, we had a no-show. Instead, the missing guest sent two cryptic texts. Claiming to have hit problems in Barnet. Despite living in Brixton... And not a word since! The dog who turned up uninvited was a poor conversational substitute:-o It was strange too, to have the festive bird arrive ready cooked. With a family of four from Camden Town. Who'd taken it upon themselves to supply and roast it. All morning I'd missed the rich aroma of yuletide flesh rising through the house. "It makes the day," I whined. We won't be job-sharing the jollies again:-o On Boxing Day, lunch with my friend H. It was a stonking meal and we all had fun despite her wonderful mother who this time last year was smoking, drinking whisky and playing charades, now being wheelchair-bound. The old lady winced with pain as her daughter wrapped her up to go home at the end of the day. "This is my last Christmas," she said without emotion. "I hope so, Mummy," said H, sadly.

2006-12-23T10:48:00.001Z

At last, a Best Christmas Album Ever, that really is. David Bowie and Johnny Mathis booming through the house on a Saturday morning. Bliss. This afternoon, The Enchanted Pig at the Young Vic. With these small joys are the season's blessings given. On Thursday night, the Christmas spirit kicked in. At The Berkeley with the cocktail posse. Given the prices and location, the fare was unforgivably dull. Vodka mixed with cucumber and iced tea. After a couple of humdingingly ghastly glasses of gloop, I opted for a smoothie with a large shot. One of the cocktailers is divorcing. She arrived forty pounds lighter, looking like Barbie. Meanwhile, a tall, portly woman was being sick in the corner. Her group was quickly and politely ejected. "That woman could have pulled," said one of our new companions. "There was a man who kept saying he wanted to touch her. He asked to buy them all champagne, but she was so drunk, she ignored him." Barbie and I exchanged puzzled looks. "Maybe she didn't like him?" I said. "But champagne! He was so rich," oozed our companion. "That's no reason to accept," said Barbie. Different schools of thought, clearly:-o Yesterday, a social in Willesden had us enjoying our first mulled wine of the season. Schools were on the agenda there, too. Lots of competitive undercurrents running through innocuous smalltalk about teenagers and exams. "I'm starting to feel it's Christmas," the youngest said. I nodded. "Me too.":-)

2006-12-19T16:31:00.000Z

Christmas is coming. The goose is getting fat. But enough of me. Finally on Friday we bought a tree. "It feels fake," my eldest said, hanging baubles. "It's not the tree that's fake," I said, "It's us." Despite playing White Christmas on a loop, we can't get the mood right. On Saturday, Rodin at the Royal Academy. I was drawn to a sculpture of an old woman. She who was once the helmet maker's beautiful wife. I burst into tears. It's been a long year:-o That night the X Factor Final. Feigning illness I skipped cocktails in Wandsworth to curl up alone with prosecco and chocolate. Four hours of Simon Cowell. Joy;-) News spread. By the second half of the doings, I had three companions. We cheered, ranted and got pissed. What uplift when Leona won! Sunday night was similarly hijacked. The girls were freshly returned from Oxford when a local newcomer dropped by. Bringing with her a teenage son. Hormone levels immediately surged chez nous. By the end of the night the eldest had a gig with his band. The goodbyes, in the early hours, were genuinely warm... Last night, my ex ma-in-law came for tea. And gave me my second poinsettia of the season. Why? Later we were joined by a prize bitch. And her owner. Who arrived in a nineteen-twenties feather headdress. Which she gifted to my youngest. "Don't let her ruin it," she whispered, "It's solid silver and cost a hundred quid." I must remember to hide it when the cleaner's doing the dusting;-)

2006-12-14T09:35:00.000Z

Yesterday I met a professional storyteller for breakfast. At the Serpentine Lido. Which, funnily enough, forms the backdrop for my own story. As a child, Hyde Park was my garden. With my best friend, Marieca, I picnicked in the sand on Rotten Row while ponies cantered past. At the police stables, Riecy made a career decision. "When I grow up, I'm going to be a mounted policewoman." We'd gossip for hours on the steps of the Albert Memorial. And chase around the museum. Which is now the gallery. Speakers Corner, the Italian gardens, Peter Pan... Happy days. One winter morning, I tested the ice on the Serpentine. And lost my welly as it gave way. Looking out across that same water yesterday, I felt great sadness. My girls have visited the Himalayas, Sri Lanka, and every part of Europe. But all they know of London's parks are the playgrounds. When they want to disappear, they enter My Space. Where is the constancy?:-o Last night I was back at the Lower Ground Bar. For Comedy Night. After Googling the painter whose Norfolk scene I've bought. And discovering her namesake was topping the bill there. After his passably amusing set, I excitedly inquired if they were related. He shrugged, "Maybe she's married to a cousin?" No happy ending there then! But Marieca had one. She really did join the Met. Though she gave up on horses. When a car ran us over on a zebra crossing. But that's another story;-)

2006-12-11T22:12:00.000Z

Today has been a strange amalgam of total indolence and ferocious industry. The whole interspersed with manic bouts of carbohydrate consumption. In between sending off CVs, investigating social inclusion grants and exchanging pleasantries with commissioning editors, I've been stretched out corpulently like the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland, watching the rain, listening to the creak of floorboards, and wondering where the hours go... This morning I fell out with the postman. Who shoved a failed delivery note through my door. While I was just yards away. In the kitchen. He then hotfooted it. "I rang and knocked but there was no answer," he lied when I confronted him. Thirty seconds later. At his car. My bare feet were cold and rain was seeping up the legs of my jeans. I left it. Later, the woman across the road called. "I heard about your row with the postman," she said. "Will you complain about him? I have." Postie wars at Christmas. What great timing! Yesterday I went for drinks next door. To the brilliant dollybird with the Osborne and Little wallpaper. I arrived in full war paint. Imagining cocktails with the city crowd. And found a floor littered with babies. And the chairs filled with sleeping thirty-somethings. Can one apply for ASBOs on the basis that one's neighbours are too bloody boring? Come back Kylie and Jason, all is forgiven...

2006-12-09T17:01:00.000Z

Out on the town, we become intertwined with a group of celebrating produce providers. Fruit and veg, that sort of thing. "What kind of company are you?" inquires the MD, sitting alongside for a little flirt. I demur. "We're not a company. We're the Menopausal Posse from northwest London." His eyes fire up. "That's great!" he bellows. "We can't get any of you pregnant!" News spreads like wildfire. Our table in a Spitalfields tapas bar takes on a peculiarly festive air. Produce providers creep up and posit themselves among us. One elderly man keeps kissing my hand. "Don't take this the wrong way," he says, "But I used to fantasise about you when I was a kid." Bloody hell, I think. If he's younger than me, what do I look like? Nonplussed, I turn to the boss. "Give this man a rise," I say, "He's just made my night." The boss gives me a nudge and winks. "I think you've given him quite a few rises already." At eleven, the posse is decanted into the cold night air. Six go home. Six set out in search of a dancefloor. The streets are heaving. Young people queueing round the block at club entrances. "I feel old and my feet hurt," says the glass-half-empty Possette. "Oh do shut up," we all shout. We end up in the old Trumans Brewery. Zoned out to trance music. It's not ideal... Back in the people carrier, we consume a box of Celebrations. And get lost for an hour. Trying to drop one of our group at her car. "I wish I could remember where I parked," she wails. She's a lawyer. "I hope your memory's better on the smallprint," I say.

2006-12-06T22:51:00.000Z

Rolling out of Hakkasan, I couldn't help but notice the looks I was receiving. Uplifted by a Black Forest Martini and two hours of glorious gossip, I made the most of the attention. Aha, thought I, this low cut shirt clearly does it for the boys! It was only on the tube home that I looked down. And found large globs of dim sum. Dried in artex folds on my chest... It was a bad day in terms of exposure. On the way to to the restaurant I'd stopped and shopped at Boots. As the chap behind the counter zapped the Mum Rollette, I grabbed it from his hand. "I forgot to put any on," I said. And promptly reached inside my shirt to remedy the situation. He was purple with anxiety;-) Tonight the progeny and I added another duff theatrical experience to the list of shame. Caroline or Change, at the National. We were a bit confused by the storyline. Which was anorexic. And refusing all medical help. As for the music, my youngest summed it up: "a continuous reprise." And it was. Like the first paragraph of a novel being constantly, and randomly, reposited throughout a narrative so all context is lost and content compromised. Over lunch we'd talked writing. My companion suggested a return to fiction. It's tempting. But I'm still blocked by a mix of pique, rejection fatigue, and an imperative to earn fast bucks. I told her about my various money-making schemes. "I'm like Sybil," I said. "I have nine different voices all telling me to do different things." Her expression suggested I'm running out of excuses. Ooer. Perhaps I am?

2006-12-04T14:28:00.000Z

This morning in the Post Office an old lady flipped. She started with some standard racist fare about parasitic entities. Bile aimed at a passing East European. Whom she wrongly accused of queue jumping. She then moved to a general assault on Allah and Krishna. For the delectation of the Asians who run the place. I was about to step in when the black guy queueing between us raised a warning eyebrow. I read into this, that she was nuts. Sure enough, she got to the highpoint of her oration. A tirade on 'machineoids'. Her vocabulary was astonishing. Complex adjectives flew from her mouth - colourful, hate-filled, staggeringly broad. And yet, when her turn came, she was as meek as a lamb. "Does she always do that?" I asked the counter clerk. He nodded. "It was good entertainment," I said. He looked at me bleakly. Once is funny. Every week is soul-destroying. At the corner, I ran into an old mate. Talking with one of my neighbours. We had a jolly ding-dong about literacy before she rushed off. The neighbour then made me tea. After six years of mere hellos! We discussed kids. My expert subject after a toddler's party on Saturday. And Sunday lunch with five 3 to 15-year-olds who went off and played very noisy hide and seek while the adults scoffed. "We wanted more than one, but I've lost so many," she said sadly. It was a relief to return home and close the door on the world:-o

2006-12-01T08:37:00.000Z

Yesterday, a coup de foudre. While negotiating bedpans and leaking bandages. In the morning, I visited my nonagenarian friend. The one who had the stroke. She keeps up the whisky and cigars but, alas, has given up work. Her home is filled with hoists and ramps and the paraphernalia of deterioration. The beaming Philippina who looks after her is noticeably rough in her handling. "I prefer men," sighed the hostess. "They're so much more gentle." I put out the Scrabble. The game never started... Returning home, I checked on the progress of my eBay dealings. Then set off for the Royal Free. Where my 87-year-old neighbour was seeping into his bedlinen. From the groin. He yanked up his nightie, exposing a suppurating wound. "It took four hours, and it was hell." The Muslim man in the next bed prays in the middle of the night. "There's a lot of calling out," my neighbour said. "He wakes us all up." On the way out I stopped again at a painting displayed in the entrance. A simple oil, supposedly of the lowlands. Norfolk Summer. It was quite lovely. I've nowhere to put it I thought, stepping out into winter sunshine. It was a beautiful afternoon. Suddenly I was suffused with certainty. I went back. And bought the painting. Which I'll collect in January. I can see it in my mind's eye even now. Joy! As for the cost: eBay will finance it. One must always follow instinct in matters of the heart;-)

2006-11-28T23:58:00.000Z

For the second time in four days I found myself having a long and argumentative lunch. On Saturday it was climate change. Today it was comprehensive schooling. The punters in the Wet Fish Cafe looked on aghast as my pal and I turned purple with rage over pumpkin tortillas. We were reconciled by the polenta cake. But that was three hours later. Returning to the midden I banged off some emails before the progeny got home. We played Scrabble. Then my ma turned up and I was off for my second outing of the day. Asian fusion shorteats and martinis. At the swanky new diner down the road. The drinks were a triumph. I shall go there again:-) Afterwards my mate and I went to the Lower Ground Bar to hear a new trumpeter called Steve Fishwick. We'd been inivited by one of his fans. Who we found in a drug induced state, sitting with a celebrated academic and his bird. A woman I knew from eons ago. And would have crossed continents to avoid. Though I didn't actually recognise her. Until she hugged me as an old friend. Perhaps I hold grudges too long? There's something romantically retro about jazz nights. The red light strobing through the smoke haze, the cramped tables, the nodding heads... It was all so moody; so mellow. We could have been in New York or Bangalore. Though it would have been impossible, of course, to walk home in five minutes from either of those locations;-)

2006-11-27T09:20:00.000Z

Saturday morning, the phone rang. "Hello Gorgeous, I've lost roof tiles and I'm flooding. I won't be there for lunch." I made soothing noises. And told my eldest she'd have to make up numbers at my lunch do. We set the table for eight. Given the Noah-like rains, everyone was running late. I upset the first arrivals with my tale of the kilted comedian's theatrical death. I thought they'd laugh. It happens to us all, doesn't it? But he's their mate. You'd have thought someone had... died. Then I upset both them and the second arrivals. By defending a reviled rightwing meeja harpie. Who's my mate. "How can you bear her?" one asked. And literally shrank from me. Things were not going well. Pouring vino recklessly I prayed the final guests would soon turn up. The phone rang. It was the male of the missing party. "I'm making a treacle tart for tonight, so don't defrost one of your standbys." "Tonight?" I bellowed. "It's lunch!" Silence. Holding my emotions in check, I decided to make the best of a bad lot. Roast lamb with lots of argument about and around global warming. On which one of the guests is a world expert. They'll soon bore of this, I thought. And then I can go out. Hurrah: it's Saturday! But they didn't bore. And the last two stayed till eleven. So the only place I went was bed:-o

2006-11-23T08:59:00.000Z

Last night, a charity auction. I picked up the pal with the tickets. "You'll spot my cleavage before the car," I warned. "You'll see mine blocking the office window," she responded. Like a pair of turkeys being fattened for Christmas we drove into town. Every space around the venue was diplomatic badges only. So we dumped the car by the Savoy. And got a cab. On arrival, we were greeted by the papparazzi. Who, it turned out, were stalking Liz Hurley. She passed like a wraith: so pale, her features are bleached out. The boyfriend, however, is scrumptious... Two glasses of champagne and smalltalk with a billionaire lifted our spirits as we headed into dinner. Hours of it. And a worthy film. And a kilted Sikh MC who died a thousand comic deaths. Which was embarrassing. Because I know him. And can't wait to tell his mates;-) The auction was pretty impressive. But it didn't impress my friend. "When we did our hedge fund dinner, they were bidding in leaps of twenty thousand," she said. Which is how her excellent cause netted a million in half an hour. Last night's event was modest in comparison. The audience only boasted bankers. So the bids went up in mere 500s. Which isn't to say they didn't do well... Afterwards we bought raffle tickets and enjoyed thirty glorious minutes of Rory Bremner live on stage before walking the half mile to the car. In high heels. And pouring rain. I coughed all night:-(

2006-11-20T23:07:00.000Z

Having bought concert tickets for 2/6 on ebay, I have sold on half my wardrobe for the price of a Starbucks frappuccino and a chicken with honey mustard wrap. That's what you call karma;-) The problem is, how to send posh jackets in the post? Tonight I devised a Blue Peter type solution involving black bin bags, but there's something peculiarly non-U about the effect. I may have to use a foreign post office tomorrow. So I don't get strange looks. Talking of strange looks, yesterday in The Wet Fish Cafe, I ran into an old schoolfriend. One not seen in years. She looked terrible. Drink, I'd guess. But I didn't have my glasses to hand for closer inspection. Alas, we were both with mates, so I didn't pass on my latest gossip. Which concerned a mutual friend. Who I unearthed on Friday. On the networking website. It's all happening there! I'd spotted a man with a very distinct surname lurking in a sidebar. So I sent a note. Saying a girl with the same moniker had gone to my school. "She's not your sister, is she?" I chanced. Blow me down, he replied at once. "As it happens, she is," he said, "She's changed her name and runs The London School of Striptease." I looked at the site. Burlesque, pole, and plain old erotic - she teaches the lot. What joy! That said, I didn't have my glasses to hand for closer inspection...

2006-11-16T12:05:00.000Z

For the past two days I've done sweet FA. My only client is delighted with her manuscript. And we meet to thrash out detail tomorrow. On Monday, I'll be back back in panic mode. For the moment, I'm chilled. Last night the run of theatrical bad luck ended. With Deadeye at the Soho Theatre. Some of the casting was odd. But some just perfect. One man said of the male lead, "He was like a piece of music playing out in front of me." Fantastic:-) Earlier, I'd attended the launch reception. None of the sponsors of the piece, part of a two week festival, bothered to show. How wonderful to be so rich, you can hand over thousands and not care how it's spent! I decided, there, that one reception a week is enough. So today I've sent an apology to Children in Need. To say I'm too ill to attend tomorrow night's jolly. Lots of hammy stars glowing from easy karmic kudos. I took the kids to the actual show two years ago. Cher and Rod Stewart both sang. "These are musical icons," I whispered. They nodded politely. Then, a wizened orange man called David Dickinson, walked on. I'd never heard of him. The girls went crazy! They are compulsive watchers of Bargain Hunt repeats... This year, the invite was party only. And it falls on our weekend together. So we'll make a donation and head out for Borat and a curry instead. This evening I'm attending a talk by the turbanned warrior queen from a previous blog. The one who transforms the lives of kids at the sharp end. It seems to me that there's no logic in my supporting other children unless my conscience is clear about my own...

2006-11-14T00:03:00.000Z

Tonight my eldest said, "What I love about our family, is there's always something weird happening." She was referring to a call I'd received. Just before a handful of mates arrived for dinner. Two of them announcing the date for their civil ceremony. Midsummer's Day. Bless:-) I was glazing the chicken and leek pie when the phone went. It was my stepmother. Calling from Germany. Across three decades. To apologise for ruining my life. "You didn't," I said. That's weird, right? Regular readers of this blog will guess that the call was initiated by the discovery of my half-brother a few weeks back. On a networking website. His mother wanted me and the kids, and my mother, to visit her. I couldn't talk for long. Because people were at the door. But I was charmed. In between courses, I called my ma. "If she's invited us, let's go," she said. "Are you sure?" I asked. "It wasn't her fault," she replied, "He lied to her as well as to us." My stepmother had suggested we visited later this month. But it's the run up to crimble... Later? Why not? Things happen for a reason, don't they? She knew about my life. Had read my articles, my books, my website... "My husband," she said, "He kept things inside him. This would not have been possible when he was alive." She's right. Because I wouldn't have gone.

2006-11-12T23:43:00.001Z

About twenty years ago, I got chucked out of the press box at a Bruce Springsteen concert. For shouting "Show us your willie, Bruce." Which upset the great and the good who were enjoying free hospitality. Tonight we all got to let our hair down. "I sort of feel cheated," said one of our number as we headed home. "It's like having the most sublime night of intimate lovemaking, and then realising he did it last night with someone else and got the same amount of pleasure. How can he prefer any other audience or any other performance to tonights?" The audience was a mix of blokes bellowing his name so it sounded like rounds of boos. Which was very confusing. And women - like me - on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Three hours of yelping everytime he looked in our direction... I was actually jumping up and down, shouting "Pick me, pick me!" Despite being twenty feet up the side. Three hours of hot tunes. Three hours of non-stop bouncing. Three hours of excessive dilation. A lot of seats will need wiping down, I can tell you;-)

2006-11-12T00:39:00.001Z

On Friday night, for the third week on the trot, I walked out of a theatre at the interval. This time I'd gone to see The Alchemist. With my broken-toed mate. Who returned to NYC this morning. I wanted to give her a really good night out. To make up for the injury. Which happened when our dodgy shower head fell onto her feet. Ten minutes in, I was fighting revulsion. The acting was great. But one of the leads had a saliva problem. He didn't speak, he sprayed. When he shouted, big gobs of spit literally fell to the floor. I was pinned back in my seat for fear of stray winds. At halftime I ran for the foyer. With Hopalong in hot pursuit. "I've had enough," I said, "Haven't you?" In pouring rain we repaired to the Oxo tower where raspberry and white-peach bellinis restored our health. And then we had a slap-up supper. Which just about, I think, counted as atonement;-) Tonight, I saw The Queen. The film, that is. The Diana bits were really sad. I've always thought my misery at the time was down to mass hysteria, but clearly I just have a heart that's touched by the trivial:-o Sunday night, it's Bruce at Wembley. I placed two joke bids on ebay for really good tickets. And got both sets! This week's people carrier to the hallowed halls of fame, will be a spark-free zone. Though I suspect there may be a surfeit of denim...

2006-11-08T08:29:00.000Z

Up with the lark. After a night tossing and turning. It was the dodgy Yemeni meal last night. In a Paddington backstreet. With the ex and the progeny. After simultaneous parent's evenings had confirmed we distilled pure brilliance together. As he paid, I said, as I often do, "You were the best husband, and you're the best ex-husband." And I made a mental note not to complain that a member of his new dynasty has drawn on my sitting room wall. Indeed, I keep seeing fingermarks and scrapes everywhere. It must be the light at this time of year. Or maybe it's that I'm squinting all the time. From two weeks at the Mac. And I can't yet give up the ghost. One chapter remains. And then the checking. And tidying. No rewrites, though. That's up to the person whose name's on the book jacket;-) Talking jackets... On Sunday night I was hiding in the back of the people-carrier to Wembley, when one of my mates called. "You're seeing Cliff Richard?" she shouted, agog. "I hope you've got rubber soles!" Surely, I thought, she's confusing her bands? Rubber soles? "From all the synthetic fibres! When the women run for the stage, they're sparking..." My companions in the car were certainly sparking. Though ironically so. I think. During one of Cliff's particularly ghastly homilies followed by a song called Soldier in the Field of Love, one of them texted me across the row: Are you a soldier in the field of love? My laugh echoed around the arena. Power to all our friends...

2006-11-05T13:46:00.000Z

Last night I took the youngest to a show called Till the Fat Lady Sings. As soon as she did sing, we knew it was all over. In the interval I suggested doing a runner. "If I put my foot down, we'll make the end of X Factor Extra," I said. In our household, this is an inducement on a par with the introduction of Christine Keeler to John Profumo. We drove home in a state of relieved hysteria. The show put every X Factor comment into context. The singer was a one-trick pony, like Ray. Even her Beatles numbers were sung as opera. She was ungainly and dead behind the eyes, like Dionne. She was dull, like the MacDonald Brothers. Who yet again defied all notions of fairness and decency to stay in the competition. How can we combat black-white racism when white-white racism is endemic on this island? We should boycott Scotland! Returning home we discovered the delightful Ashley was out. "I think," my youngest said, "That though he's the best singer, he isn't meeting his own potential. That's why he didn't get the votes." I've always told the kids that it's not their brilliance that will bring success, but the level of their ambition. Delighted with her presience, I gave her what was left of the Halloween sweeties;-)

2006-11-04T08:45:00.000Z

Another week, another blur. I cannot account for the time. Somewhere in London is a wormhole. That must be how, last night, I found myself back in the 1970s. It started with farce. Literally. Donkey's Years at the Comedy theatre. Only one set of trousers was dropped. But there was a lot of door action. I tittered my way through. Afterwards my companion and I sauntered along to Chez Victor. On entering, I sensed all was not well. It was the Chianti bottles... The menu came. Avocado with prawns, chicken Kiev, mozarella and tomato. "It's very seventies," said my mate. "It's very Italian," said I. The obligatory flirting waiter arrived. "This is supposed to be a French restaurant." I said. He winked. "We are mixed French and Italian, and I am recommending to you the Italian carrots." After a night of farce, I was on euphmism watch. I considered his carrots, which were more baby than bunch, and declined. Just then I spotted scampi on the menu. And zabaglione. And decided there are some traditions worth revisiting. My mate, who had chosen the venue because she wished to share a louche story with me and felt the nearby Chinese cafes were not conducive to secrets-sharing, started to relax. "I feel like we'll go outside and everyone will be in velvet jackets," she said, blowing a smoke circle. At that moment my mobile went. It was a former schoolgate mum. "I've got tickets for Cliff Richard next Sunday night and one of them has your name on it," she said. It's at moments like this I wish for Marty McFly and a safe passage Back to the Future...

2006-10-30T08:26:00.001Z

Yesterday I lunched in Hampstead. With one of my mates. From teenage to ice age, we binged, bonked and buccaneered together. But somewhere along the line our interests diverged. We just don't get each other any more. I'm in the limbo between mee-ja and mum. My days change according to demands and need. She's an IT wizard. She plans everything from her Cornflakes to where she'll be at five on Friday. She despairs that I'm gung-ho and opinionated. And thinks me a profligate hothead. I'm depressed by her piety and obsessive need for order. I see her life as a flow diagram. Yet I love her dearly. And she loves me. And there's the rub. We're like sisters. Which brings me to Christmas. For 15 years she and her man have come to us. This year, I want to end the arrangement. I suspect she does too. The problem is, how do we effect the break without umbrage or embarrassment? What makes it especially difficult is that my kids and my mum say I'm wrong. We are family, they say... After yesterday's lunch I met the posse for tea. "For goodness sake," one of them snapped, "It's not as if they'll be the only people there." True. Indeed, last year we increased numbers by three just an hour before carving the turkey. But... Oh God. I'm going to send her an email and see what she wants....

2006-10-29T06:51:00.000Z

On Friday night I took the kids to the opera. La Traviata at the Coliseum. Dreadful. The leads were flat and couldn't act. The libretto is up against Borak for comedy script of the year. The set was pure IKEA. But we had fun. So much so that the girls suggested selling the house, buying a small place in Islington, and using the leftovers to get seats in the stalls for future productions... Funnily enough, I was in Islington yesterday. To see Tom and Viv at The Almeida. I stopped at every estate agent's window on Upper Street... Tom and Viv: weird genius and nutty muse. Who gives a monkeys? We escaped at half time and went in search of: a) martinis (me) b) seats (the mate with two broken toes) and c) blokes (the friend who's been on heat all month). By the time we'd found a bar on the Green offering all three components, I was on heat too. She's clearly at the infectious stage. Over dinner we got hit on by an entire family, led by the 23-year-old son. It culminated with the mum, as film-star gorgeous as her boy, joining our table. Wrong result! Afterwards, we tried to recall relationships begun from bar or club encounters. Zero. The odd snog, yes. Relationships? No. Heat girl said it was so bad, she was trying Guardian ads. This could be a winner. Many years ago one of my older mates ran an ad with the strapline: 'Pick on someone your own age' It worked. They're still together;-)

2006-10-22T23:43:00.000+01:00

Another day, another embrace. With another large woman of good heart. At Brixton Academy. It was a high security night. The youngest and I queued ten minutes around the block to get in. We were boxed into boys and girls. As we entered the foyer, a security woman started singing. A song with my name. From Barefoot in the Park. When Robert Redford's stuck on the roof. And needs Jane Fonda to open the skylight. Tonight's delivery was more Chaka Khan than Hollywood. And she carried on singing while giving my pockets a once over. "You always make me smile" she said, ushering me in, "Enjoy the show." She was so joyous, I hugged her. My youngest was a bit put out. "Who was that?" "I haven't a clue," I said, "But she did the same two years back, when I came here with your sister. She deserves a hug." The ensuing concert was a fitting end to a day of aural torture. Earlier my ma and I had spent five hours in the car getting to and from darkest Surrey. It should have been three. But we got lost in the middle. And it was raining. And all the time there was a terrible whining beneath us. Either the fan belt's gone, or the exhaust's bust. The bad news is, it requires attention. And it's MOT time. I wonder where I can purchase a monkey to dance while I busk on my organ? Tonight's band, Panic at the Disco, put on a well choreographed show. But drowned in their own feedback. They had the reverse problem. A surfeit of monkeys but their organs went phut:-(

2006-10-21T11:37:00.000+01:00

They say you're only as good as your last show. So today, I'm seriously good:-) Hurrah! On the way back from the Beeb, I passed a large and very colourful turbanned woman in a voluminous handkerchief skirt. She was getting out of a cab. By Waitrose. I wound down my window. "Are you K?" I shouted. She looked around, surprised. "Yes." "Stay there!" I said, pulling onto the double yellows. Leaping out of the car I embraced her with great vigour. It's fair to say that if she could've run, she probably would. "You helped me. Three years ago when one of my girls was having a difficult time," I told her. I reminded her of that night. She'd heard my tale of woe from a mutual friend. And, despite running one of the country's biggest, most dangerous, and overburdened youth projects, dealing with kids whose lives are blighted from birth, she picked up the phone and talked me through my chattering-class crisis. I'm not sure if she remembered the detail. But I do. And she deserved that positive Saturday morning hug:-) Plus, I volunteered to run language workshops for her clients. And she seemed keen. Karma in action! Returning home, I caught up on news of my Ma's twisted knee. "Perhaps you should rest it this weekend?" I said hopefully. She refused. Which means we'll be off to a Ruby Wedding lunch tomorrow. A family do. In Cheam. Beam me up, Mr Scott...

2006-10-18T16:20:00.000+01:00

As I blog, a new friend of my youngest is in the house. "Oh!" she cried, walking into my office: "a leopard printed lion! How fantastic." I turned to see if she was being funny. She wasn't. "Oh I'm so stupid," she said when the penny dropped. "Leopard print's in fashion at the moment so I didn't think it was actually a leopard." She asked to inspect our shoes. Ancient footwear. "I love Timberlands. And Shellys!" To divert attention, I asked what she'd like to eat. "Salmonella," she replied. My daughter corpsed. "You mean salmon?" I asked. "No. Salmonella." I had to show her the difference on Google. "Oh," she said sadly. "That's why everyone laughs at me:-(" Moving swiftly on: yesterday I did creative writing with teenagers in Tooting. List your dreams, I said. One girl wrote "To be a doctor." Another: "To be an architect." That's an ambition, I said. You'll clearly both pull it off. Think up a dream - something that's much harder or even impossible but makes you feel good. Like curing all illness, or building an underwater city... I dream of marrying Johnny Depp, I added helpfully. No response. The boys however, came up with cracking scenarios - they were going to be galactic footballers, to mechanise the moon and stars, and one little lad wanted a school made entirely of self replicating sweets. Is that why men still dominate the big picture, while women are at the coalface as social engineers?

2006-10-16T08:51:00.000+01:00

Better judgement is an interesting notion. We always go against it. Why? A month after the 'who should pay first date' debate, I had another outing with the same man. Flowers and brunch in Hoxton. We discussed first date scenario. And agreed to differ. He's very right-on. Everything is 50:50, everytime. In case someone ends up ten quid out of pocket long-term, I suppose. As an enthusiastic giver, and very happy recepient, it got me thinking. As my childless friends get older, they spend huge amounts on themselves. But always qualify what they spend on others. Whether it's a plumber or a parent, they seek a return on investment, either personal or material. On the other hand, friends with children - or with nurturing jobs like teaching - continue to be generous. For the pure joy of exercising the facility. It's like they become all-round parents, and the childfree regress to adolesence: what's in it for me?/why should I?/who said so? This youthful self-obsession is charming in early maturity. In middle age, it's crass. And the root of the old stereotype: sour spinsters and curmudgeonly bachelors. Of course I'm generalising. But going through my Rolodex last night, it worked as a broad rule of thumb. Which brings me back to better judgement. As my lunch companion fixed a crook-lock on the steering wheel of his common or garden hatchback, I saw the cardi and slippers in my mind's eye. But instead of running off screaming, I laughed:-(

2006-10-15T07:45:00.000+01:00

Yesterday I did some radio. It'll be like falling off a log, I thought. But as the moment came closer, I started to fret. I'd speak too fast. Worse, I'd dry. Two of the interviewees were hitting eighty. One of them ill. And in a studio oop north. The third, we'd established, was a reluctant talker. In my drawer were four valium. Left over from the Stanstead episode in August. Why not take them I thought? They kill the nerves when I'm flying... A mistake. Listening later to the abortive verbal mess that constituted a prime time half hour, a bull in a china shop came to mind. There were so many 'sort-of's, it could have been a half hour special on sort-ofs. "You didn't sound like yourself," my mum said politely during a Nokia post-mortem. I know! I wanted to shout. I was in a tranquillized haze! And I hadn't had any coffee! Over late night raspberry martinis, one of my mates was a little more precise. "You sounded irritated." I was too squiffy to care by then. Funnily enough, after I'd slunk out of studio, tail between legs, I went to a voice control seminar. "Your emotional connection is in your solar plexus," said the instructor. Ah, I thought, That's where I went wrong. I've been connecting all day through my arse...

2006-10-12T23:37:00.000+01:00

Tonight, I lost my keys. Again. The second time in as many weeks. This time I'd left them in a loo. At the Drill Hall. Thankfully the Hall was still open and I got them back. What a relief! Their recovery saved me returning home with a posse of strangely disorientated women. One malarial, one jet-lagged and one the designated driver. They'd insisted on coming back with me in my hour of need. A sort of sympathy sleepover. "We'll kip on the sofas," quoth they. It was a trifle surreal. Earlier we'd been celebrating news that two of our party are planning a civil marriage ceremony. Next summer. In the garden. There was an inspection of rings. One a semi-precious stone; the other a diamond so discreet one had to search for it. As it happens, one of my very dear friends is a diamond dealer. Pukka stuff from Antwerp. Her last sale was a flawless ten carat brilliant. "Wouldn't you like something bigger?" I asked. "It wouldn't suit my style," said the bride to be. True. I am so inept at understated chic - or even overstated chic for that matter - that I don't recognise it until it's pointed out:-( When I got engaged, in prehistoric times, I chose a twist. That way I got two stones;-) Funnily enough, one fell out a month before the end. As for the eternity ring - an Edwardian dazzler - it's somewhere on the A1. Where I chucked it the day we told the kids. And made it official. Cornershop were on the stereo. Brimful of Asha.

2006-10-11T22:13:00.000+01:00

Finally it's here. Ugly beyond measure. But then, the best designers aren't fighting for jobs with Miele, Hotpoint and Bosch, are they? Tomorrow it gets plumbed in. After that, no more mentions of Chinese laundries, wet-wipe smalls and Omo brightness. Order will be restored:-) I'm hoping for some harmony too, after three days of carping around the kitchen table. We're an all woman household. Pubescent, adolescent, and perimenopausal. Three weeks out of four, it's heaven here. Then the hormonal thundercloud hoves into view... Tonight we went for a walk after dinner. We were stodged out after our second home delivery this week. Because I've not been shopping. Half a mile in, the girls fell out. End of exercise. We returned home at double speed. Does that count as aerobic? When my youngest was seven my mother took her out in the car. As they returned home she said: "Granny, you have very long periods don't you - more than a week at a time?" My mother, nonplussed, confessed she'd not menstruated for a decade or two. "You're lying, Granny," my little one replied, knowingly. "Because Mummy can't park her car when she has a period either..."

2006-10-10T00:05:00.000+01:00

Beetroot stains are a bit of a mare when you haven't got a washing machine. A problem I should have considered before ordering my scoff tonight. But I was blinded by the light. Around Tower Bridge, that is. Which is backlit like a giant wedding cake. In the other direction, Canary Wharf winked lasciviously, a study in multi-watted phallic glory. This struck me as very odd. Because I'd pitched up at the Blue Print Cafe after a night of global warning. From the Deputy Mayor of London, no less. Further down the towpath, at the GLA's Thameside bubble, she'd told us that 75 per cent of the world's energy is used by cities. "And most cities sit on waterways." She was hosting a book launch. A valiant call to arms before melting ice-caps gobble up our low lying land masses. Including the bridge, bubble and phallus... The book is written by a mate who was sporting an Oxfam-chic striped jacket, Prince of Wales checked shirt, and a chequerboard tie. Thankfully nobody in the room was epileptic. And the book sold out. Dining with another dear friend, we gorged on the view. "I remember when you first brought me here to Butler's Wharf," I said. "It was a wilderness. You were sorting out the finances. To get the development finished. I always think of it as yours." He nodded glumly into his sea bream and radish: "So do I. It's just a bloody shame I don't collect the rents."

2006-10-06T00:32:00.000+01:00

It was one of those days. The wrong washing machine got delivered. So I spent two hours in the launderette. Which meant I was running late on my notes from Tuesday's meeting. I'd planned an evening at the theatre. Before collecting a child from Brixton Astoria where she was moshing to Babyshambles. But I didn't finish writing in time. So I pitched up instead at a Clapham wine bar. For dinner with new people. A long story. Suffice to say, the mocha and chilli martini was strangely fab. Over risotto, we discussed my half-brother. Who I've met once, thirty years ago. I'd long forgotten his existence. Then, this afternoon, I found my father's namesake on a networking site. I checked the profile. And found a strange hybrid. An anorexic with a Boris Karloff forehead. A cautious mouth; no horse-face grin. I showed my eldest. "At least you got the looks," she said. I sent a note. "Is it coincidence, or are we related?" A confirmation came by return. My half-brother is German born and bred. And he's still there. Our shared parent, whom I saw just twice after the age of four, is dead. I imagine we'll exchange one or two perfunctory notes before smalltalk dries. How strange then, that we share the most binding thing of all. DNA:-(

2006-10-04T18:20:00.000+01:00

Tomorrow the new washing machine arrives. So today I cleaned the utility room. All those sticky little jobs the cleaner avoids. Will the deliverymen notice? And would I have made the same effort if Argos was delivering and not John Lewis? Shame on me: I'm not sure:-o As I wiped and swept I was on the phone to my plumber. Who issued instructions on the dismantling of hoses. A man known for his parsimony, he threw in extra advice. "You've got to get those girls into cardies and woolly socks," he said. "Bills are going through the roof." As it happens, I've already had a stand-off with British Gas. Who recently demanded £260 a month on account. I rang them mid-seizure. "So sorry Madam," said the call-centre girl. "The correct monthly rate is only £104." Only! "They've got us over a barrel," my plumber ranted. As he's newly recovered from heart surgery, I didn't risk mentioning the leccy bill... Earlier, over a mocha in West Hampstead, I'd discussed poverty in Africa. With a man who's marketing a new charity. "Africa isn't a country, it's a continent," I said. "Where will you start? And if you aren't willing to challenge the core problems, what use is another set of sticking plasters for people who'll die anyway?" Years ago I read a book called Poverty and Famines by Amartya Sen. Who later won the Nobel Prize for economics. It changed my views on where and how to give, forever:-o

2006-10-03T21:02:00.000+01:00

"Mum would you rather have the best figure in the world and the worst face, or the worst figure in the world and the best face?" As both my face and figure border on Godzilla today, there's no contest. I'd rather be a mushroom:-( I spent most of the day in the kitchen. Stressing over structure with the woman whose colourful prose I am ghostwriting into sense. At one point she said kindly: "Don't worry. If you can hang on financially till March, you'll be back in the limelight." Somewhat taken aback, I asked what she meant. "My astrologer told me," she explained. "When I asked if you were the right person for the book. She told me things weren't great so you'd be free to help." Well thank you Eva Petulengro! Somewhere in Stoke, pontificating on my birthdate. Which, it turned out, had been misremembered... That said, I got paid upfront on the basis of perceived need. I've no complaints;-) Indeed, it was a welcome diversion after the excitements of a weekend near the seaside and a visit yesterday to my youngest's school. To complain about the terrible burn she suffered during National Coffee Day. "I had no idea," the Head said, blanching at the extent of the injury. "Oh dear, this is the sort of thing Starbucks gets sued for." No apology was, or has been, forthcoming. And that's all I desire. My incensed former husband, meanwhile, has forwarded pictures of the injury to his father. Who, unfortunately for the Head, happens to be a solicitor...

2006-09-29T16:23:00.000+01:00

A dreadful day so far. Rain, shopping, traffic jams. And a child injured and beyond my reach... I left the house at eight. And returned exhausted an hour ago. Joy! The most glorious flowers awaited me. A thank you from the woman with the novelty book. The one wanting to get on Richard & Judy. I turned the work down. But passed her jolly scribblings to some radio mates. Result:-) Meantime my youngest has been burnt by boiling tea on National Coffee Day. "It looks pretty awful," said the school nurse. "It's blistering. But she's gone back to class. I'll call again if there's a problem." I was on Regent Street at the time. Looking for Nike Air trainers. For my power-walking Ma. Who's 75 on Sunday. "If my daughter's burnt, shouldn't I come and get her?" I asked, somewhat bewildered. "There's nothing you can do," the nurse said. Sod me. What could the school have done? I am awaiting her return with trepidation... I'd started my day in Covent Garden. Getting the results from an online psychometric test. "It's a very unusual reading," said the young woman. "Really. A first." I felt the start of an inner glow. I leaned forward to savour the moment when my unique characteristics would be officially listed. She shook her head in disbelief: "To be honest, it's probably the most boring set of graphs I've ever seen.":-(

2006-09-28T20:35:00.000+01:00

Last night I went speed networking. Two events in as many days. Torture. I think my spirit of adventure may finally have been exorcised. One woman there spent her entire time sizing up the men. She tried her charms on the organiser - a man with 'married' tatooed across his deameanour. Having failed, she said loudly: "There's no point talking with you. You don't fancy me." "You don't have to fancy someone to shag them" he replied. I laughed fit to burst. Indeed, my mate and I'd been hysterical all evening. We'd each had 90 seconds for the elevator pitch. 90 seconds x 12 people. Living death. I talked everything but business. And decided that I'm opting out. There's no point pretending. I have a problem. I love spending. But hate earning. Where is the middle ground, here? Since 8am, I've been writing a report on Tuesday's meeting. I started it yesterday. A new press strategy, centres of excellence, changing emphasis midstream... I am blinded by my own science. It isn't even due till next week! Whereas the first chapter of the book I'm writing is due on Tuesday. And we're away all weekend. And I've not writ a word. Or ghostwrit, as the case is. Ooer, we're back to exorcism. What a shame one can't turn ectoplasm into gold:-o

2006-09-27T09:53:00.001+01:00

God Bless Starbucks. Not for their frapps, which are singlehandedly responsible for my ever thickening waste. Or for the wraps. Ditto. But for having possession of my keys. Which I left there last night. While sneaking a frapp and wrap. En route to what promised to be a turgid networking talk. And lived up to its promise. No booze! But the punters were fun. And there was a hostelry next door. So my loss didn't emerge until pub closing time. Which is long after coffee shop closing time... On the tube home, my anxieties were diverted by a young man who instructed me on the rudiments of systems mapping. My eldest, bless her, was up to let me in. Spare keys to hand, I called a cab to take me back to Liverpool Street. To reclaim the car. It was a sober ending to a sombre day. Earlier I'd counselled a friend whose boy, my shortest Godson, had broken down after 48 hours at uni and was being shipped home:-( Then the washing machine died in a frenzy of strange noises and burning smells. And I myself nearly died at the start of a strategy meeting with my mega-client. Having mounted an Eiffel Tower of steps with effortless ease, I broke out in the most horrendous sweat as soon as I sat down. I looked like Peter Sellers in that scene from the Pink Panther where his prosthetic nose starts to melt as he's playing the organ. The loss of keys after this ignominy, was small bananas... At least it's given me legitimate cause to return to Starbucks;-)

2006-09-23T13:41:00.000+01:00

Last night a dinner party chez nous. Late afternoon I get a call. "X and I aren't coming. We've split up. I'm sorry. It would be too awful to come alone." This is unfortunate. Because I've cooked chicken and leek pie in their honour. This despite pleas from others that I change my repetoire. "You make a fantastic pie," one guest trilled when I finally dished up. "But why do you have to make so many?" A second invited couple turned out to be at war, too. Though still together. She arrived, graciously apoplectic, 90 minutes ahead of him. Thankfully, I'd put them at different ends of the table. My consort for the evening was a gay friend who announced: "I'm fed up of sex, aren't you? All that endless stoking!" I'd never thought of sex in those terms before. "I think," I said, "that it's about politics. In the bedroom the woman is necessarily the receptor, and deferring to the man feels natural and right. When two men get together, they're equal in equipment and status. The act has more serious connotations." Oi vey! Meanwhile, two media luvvies were indulging in starbursts of venom against their perceived rivals. I watched as the poor man seated between them suffered aural pulverisation by harpies. His wife said admiringly: "Your children are very good. Do they always just leave you to it?" My children aren't particularly good, but they're smart. They'd elected for a separate feast, with a friend, in the kitchen. There were moments, it must be said, when I was tempted to join them;-)

2006-09-21T14:47:00.000+01:00

A glorious youth arrives at my door. To deliver my printing. "We've given you extra," he says proudly, "To make up for the delay." I'm charmed. 1000 letterhead. Fantastic! 1500 business cards. 1500? Hang about: I was being optimistic when I asked for three hundred... I'll use them as coasters, I think, pulling out the new writing paper eagerly. Holy moley... My heart stops. "Ummm, Colin, this paper's laid." His unmarked brow starts to furrow. "You asked for laid." I shake my head. "I changed my mind in your office, remember? I chose the weave." There is silence. He's brought riches to my door. And I'm throwing them in his face. Typical woman! We do a delicate dance around the finer points of laid and weave. Trivia too dull for even a pub quiz. "Will you be in trouble over this?" I ask. He nods: "Big trouble." I don't have the heart. "I'll take it then," I say. And write the cheque. "Do me a favour - can I have 200 weave at cost?" He shakes his head: "Better. I'll do them for free. I'll run them off when the printers go early tomorrow." Bless. As he drove away I suddenly remembered this week's story of the boy who lost his arm in the butcher's mincer. And wondered if the hapless youth actually knows how to operate an offset-litho machine. The paper looks rather good now the shock's worn off. I may call in the morning and tell him to forget it:-o

2006-09-20T20:35:00.000+01:00

It's rude to look a gift horse in the mouth, but... On Monday I got a call asking if I'd edit a manuscript. Within five minutes, the densest tome ever written appeared in my inbox. I printed off the first twenty pages. I'm still not past page three. It's not editing that's needed. It's a rewrite. And the pruning of 30,000 words... A second tome arrives in the post tomorrow. Written by a woman who wants to have it featured on Richard and Judy. As Ian McEwan has trouble getting onto R&J, I am somewhat bemused. I've got lots of book projects. I could pay you a retainer and you could help with them all, she emailed. The gift horse was looking distinctly Trojan. Let me read it before I comment, I replied, surlily, if there is such a word. The only words I'd welcome are those on my new letterhead. Which should have been printed today. But for a continuing problem with pantones... Unfulfilled, I skived off for lunch with an old mate and we put the world to rights over organic salad and caramel crunch cheesecake. "Designer letterhead and only one contract? Isn't that putting the cart before the horse?" she asked. "It's funny you should mention horses," I replied;-)

2006-09-17T17:28:00.000+01:00

Cafe society once meant the bright and beautiful who gathered on the Paris sidewalks to share an espresso. In my part of town, however, it's a reference to stressed out office workers dispossessed by their cookers. Scrambling for seats on uneven inner-city pavements, they throw off their Sunday flip flops and wolf French toast while choking on exhaust fumes. Today, I am fumed out. Breakfast coffees with a mate were followed by brunch with my eldest Godson. As ever, he went into overdrive. Eggs Benedict and then an overflowing bacon ciabatta. But only one latte. And one Coke. I inquired after his wife. "She's behaving herself," he said, tersely, "but she's just squeezed a plasma TV out of me." I considered his considerable girth. "Don't worry - I think you've still got a few in there." For tea I had polenta cake with someone who'd just had her first conjugals in three years. She couldn't walk a straight line: "I think I injured myself." I couldn't walk a straight line either, but that was more insult than injury. After a brilliant dinner in the burbs last night, I got stuck in traffic on the way home. An hour to move 800 yards along the North Circ. At 02.40am. Fume heaven! As I climbed into bed at half past four, I was snuffling like a truffle pig:-o

2006-09-16T07:39:00.001+01:00

Up too early for a weekend. I should be hastening to a Wealth and Power seminar. But opted out ten minutes ago. It wasn't a blind decision. The fun started last night. Four hours on the tiniest chair in a West London Ibis. Yet another all-singing all-dancing extravaganza. But this time the speaker was charismatic. And hammy. My favourite bit was the Christmas music as he spun out a homily about his childhood in the snow and his "ferocious curiosity". We had to list our goals. I found I didn't believe in any of mine. Am I fearful of making money? Clearly. I certainly don't want it as my focus. Earlier I'd been debating the hoary old question of who pays the bill. I'd lunched in town. And we'd gone dutch. The posse were 3:1 - the inviter pays. "Whether business or pleasure, that's the etiquette," stated the loudest possette. "It's an investment in the future." I too am of this mind. It removes uncertainty. If the invitee says "Thanks" and buggers off, you've lost them. If they say "Thanks. I'll get the next one," you've got a strike. The quietest possette wavered. "Men, particularly, are frightened to pay," she said. "In case the woman thinks it's patronising." Bloody hell - it's only money! Giving is a prelude to, and part of, bonding. An offering of oneself. To pay everytime is iniquitious. To pay when you're setting the stage - irrespective of gender - is a statement of intent.

2006-09-15T08:19:00.000+01:00

For the eleven years I was with my husband, I was sexually invisible. Two weeks after he'd left, I was walking along lost in thought when a car that had just passed me, reversed back. "Can you tell me the way to xxxxx" asked the man inside. I'd never heard of the place. "To be honest, it was just an excuse to talk to you," he said. "You're lovely. Can I give you a lift?" Gobsmacked, I dispatched him, but more of the same soon followed. Without being aware of it, I was signalling availability. Last night a dear friend hitting sixty, came for dinner. Her husband is longterm ill. In recent months it's started to chafe. And in that time, four men have made moves on her. "I don't understand it," she said. "Why now after twenty-five years of nothing?" As many former spouses can testify, one isn't always looking for change when the opportunity presents. But, almost certainly, they've been letting off a signal that attracts predators. "I'm so tempted to give in to one of them," my friend said. "But I feel so bad. What should I do?" In youth, the happy-ever-after ideal feels so easy. In middle-age the complexities within a relationship create webs of insecurity and deceit. "If I were you, I'd go with the flow," I said.

2006-09-13T10:00:00.000+01:00

It's a bad night when you have to send back a mango lassi. My companions in crime - a celebrity, a rock star's bodyguard, and a local government person - struggled womanfully on with their thick and frothy beverages as a dry and tasteless sev puri became the second target of my opprobrium. "Even the food here's crap." We'd pitched up at the curry caff in Soho after a piece of theatre that reminded us of Creature Comforts, but with Asians instead of Nick Park creations. No plasticine. We were so busy debating its merits that we'd missed all the warning signs on entering the gaff. Like a shortage of punters, noise, and plates greater than six inches in diameter. We were there because one of our party knew the owner. "He needs support," she said. Halfway through the meal it was clear why. But our order was in the bag by then. Earlier, I'd enjoyed two coffee meetings followed by a buffet lunch with power networkers. Profiteroles and business cards. It's difficult to judge a person's proficiency if there's no cause to test the practical applications of their service. Is it enough that you can laugh together? I must ask my mate how many laughs she's had with her restaurant owning pal. That may provide some indication;-)

2006-09-10T20:18:00.001+01:00

I have often wondered about people who have one 'type'. For example, if all Rod Stewart's girlfriends stood with their backs to him, could he honestly tell one from another? Today I lunched with a man who was the spit of my previous paramour. Slimmer, a bit younger, not as bullish, but... Last week at a science conference there was a discussion about superstition and how we associate characteristics with inanimate objects. People wouldn't, for example, touch serial-killer Fred West's cardigan because they felt it was somehow imbued with his evil. The same is true of animate objects. Especially when they trigger deja-vue. On that basis, it took a glass of wine for my fight-or-flight mechanism to reset over roast lamb and tatties. As it turned out, there were no spooky resonances in our conversation. But I felt it wise not to ask if he'd often broken bread with dark women sporting barrage balloons for buttocks:-o

2006-09-08T18:41:00.001+01:00

I've been thinking about household chores. Which are sexy and which not. Cleaning the toilet is clearly a zero. As is washing the floor. And making the beds. Which is why I have a char. Even when penniless. Two years ago she took a quarter of my gross earnings. My childfree, flat-living friends, sneer at the indulgence. "She's essential," I reply, "And I'm helping feed families across Brazil." But the one job I do myself is the ironing. For the last 48 hours I've been a one-woman Chinese laundry. Ten washloads since the girls got home. Piles of pressing. "That is so unsexy" said a mate to whom I described my day. Not true. Ironing is strangely erotic. It's all that steam. And the satisfactory smoothing out of creases... I know a woman who irons in her garden in the nude. It's seasonal, obviously. But she gives a whole new meaning to turning up the heat;-)

2006-09-06T00:04:00.000+01:00

Out with the cocktail crowd in Chiswick, a London burb full of mee-ja folk, I gingerly enter a pretentious private club newly spawned from a West End luvvies' haunt. The problem is, Chiswick luvvies are home with their families. So the place is filled with smart bridge and tunnel folk playing table football. I arrive after a workshop for board directors. "I've discovered I'm a theorist!" I announce to my bemused mates who, bizarrely, are lounging in slashed cocktail dresses and slinky kitten tops. "That means I only take action when I understand what it's for and why it's necessary." They're confused. I explain the other types: the pragmatists, activists and reflectors. "We have to know each other's MO, so everyone's learning needs are met by the board. It's about personal diversity." Even I can't pretend interest after this point... Taking collective comfort from drink, we indulge in a mixture of flirtinis, fruitinis and other bastardisations of the real thing: the perfect raspberry martini. Nothing touches the one at Smiths:-o As our brains slow, conversation becomes a foot-dragging meander around celebrity liposuction and increased sex drives during pregnancy. One of our party tells a story of a friend whose husband has announced he won't father her child but "doesn't mind her having one by someone else." There's silence. "He's clearly a mix between a reflector and a pragmatist," I say:-o

2006-09-03T14:27:00.000+01:00

For some weeks now, I've been sporting a mullet. Partly it's down to perimenopausal rage. Everytime I can't find chocolate, I lynch an inch. But it's also because our local salon became a nail bar. So I cut my hair myself. All summer I looked like an extra from Spinal Tap. This morning at The Wet Fish Cafe the coffee was flowing. But amongst the regular posse, our cups were empty. Boobs like tired piping bags. "I used to worry they'd drop to my waist," I yowled. "Now they barely take rib room!" One of our group sadly shovelled down her poached eggs: "Thanks for the mammaries." A mullet and no boobs - a lifetime of ambiguous femininity loomed before me. "I've got to pretty up!" I cried. First stop was the snipper at Brent Cross. Second stop the Hello Boys department at M&S. From drudge to siren for a mere £100! The progeny called. "We're going to the Taj Mahal tomorrow, Mum." "Enjoy youselves," I said distractedly, admiring the bounce in my hair and blouse. I tripped off for tea in Hendon. "Notice anything different?" The hostess examined me minutely: "Did you get that tooth whitening paste?" No. "Period bloat? Plucked brows? New earrings?" I did a twirl. Her face lit up. "I've got it: new jeans!"

2006-09-01T23:55:00.000+01:00

Emerging from a technicolor meal in Docklands - part of which is pictured here - I was confronted by the dizzy brightness of Canary Wharf. On the back of a disturbing magic mushroom experience - a Turkish meal that in some parts was toxic yellow and in others a pale brown concealed under a grey lumpen glop that looked like Dracula vomit - the skyscrapers of Mammon felt almost friendly. If beetroot turns your pee red, what does the spectrum of E numbers, masquerading innocently behind nursery colours, do to the more serious stuff that comes out? An interesting thought to sleep on on a Friday night;-)

2006-08-30T22:49:00.000+01:00

In a Central London hotel room I am communing with positive people. From the stage, a fitness expert leads us through an aerobic warm-up. Star jumps are tough on dodgy knees... Then it's down to the real business. Self-help through group ecstasy - the Billy Graham approach to success. Speakers arrive to a fanfare, extolling the virtues of self fulfilment and wealth. For Thatcher's generation, the one is unimaginable without the other. We're given free books. On how to become millionaires. A woman tells us she can turn us into butterflies. "Leave behind the corpses of your caterpillars. That is your past." I turn to my companion: "She means the chrysalis. The butterfly is the caterpillar." My mate nods distractedly. Inevitably, my mind wanders. Why should elephants have four knees? How long is a piece of string? Would the eccentric who turned down the Fields Medal also have refused a Gracie Fields medal? Finally, it's break time. And there's a competition! To win a whole weekend of self-improvement:-o Heading into the foyer, I celebrate the respite with apple and cucumber juice. My companion is of the happy-clappy persuasion. "I'd say," I venture, tentatively, "that there are better ways of spending a Wednesday night." She scans the room and nods. I have to run to keep up as she exits the building.

2006-08-28T23:19:00.000+01:00

A sunny Sunday in Suffolk. My friend's bitser, suitably primped, has been entered at the local dog show. She parades haphazardly with pedigree mutts who trot upright and stiff-legged like City gents. The judge checks her teeth. She bares them and growls. He feels her stomach. She barks. He goes to lift her. She runs away. My friend is not one to give up. Her pooch is entered in four further rounds. For the pairs section, the owner of a large dog of indeterminate origin is invited to partner them. The two mutts stand side-by-side like Arnold Schwarzenegger and Danny De Vito in Twins. "Did you not realise they had to be matching dogs?" I hiss, as a minging pair of Border Terriers grab the prize. She's nonplussed: "They didn't say." Finally, in the Family Dogs section, there's success. The judge, I suspect, has made a sympathy call. Over dinner we relive the highlights. This includes a timed hurdles over a line of haybales. "They said our little darling was almost a good as a lurcher," my friend reports proudly. Her poor pet, meanwhile, has passed out in the corner.

2006-08-25T17:37:00.000+01:00

Closing time at the Windsor Castle pub. Beneath a plate bearing a portrait of Princess Diana, my godson is in full flow: "I want to be naughty!" he bellows. With each round he has consumed a pint of Stella and a large JD with coke. "You know what I really fancy? Going to Sophisticats and doing drugs." I make polite inquiries. The former is a lapdancing club. And he has no immediate access to the latter. Taking my role seriously, I admonish him. "Then tell me what I can do that's bad," he demands, adding quickly: "I don't want to be unfaithful." I doubt he can hold his piece straight enough to hit the toilet bowl during his frequent loo breaks. The liklihood of his rising to a sexual challenge is unlikely at best, and suicidal at worst. I say nothing. But against my better judgement, I let him and his boring IT buddy, come back to mine. "I can't go home to that bitch just yet," my godson says. This is just as well. She's hung up on him twice... "Fuck her," he shouts. I wish you would, I think. It might shut her up. And you. Every fifteen minutes, he goes out for a fag break. And amuses himself sweeping the front window with the yard broom. We have a £10,000 bet on whether it's the original glass... At two, his mate leaves. At three, I call time on my godson. Finally, half an hour later, he lurches off into the dawn: "I need to find a pizza." And to think he was once a choir boy;-)

2006-08-22T13:46:00.000+01:00

I have this running joke. I'm a girl who needs 8000 calories a day to keep her figure. It's not quite true, but close. Last week in the wilds of East Anglia - or Angular as Jade Goody once said - the progeny and I were force-fed like pigs being fattened for market. Our hostess, an old friend, is loving and generous to a fault. But she's a control freak. Like Cathy Bates in Stephen King's 'Misery'. Her husband is so infantilised he wears short trousers. He's 62. We were similarly smothered; ferried around the lowlands, stoked up on cooked breakfasts and vast three course dinners. One day we escaped. "I'm taking the girls out for a break," I said. At the front door, we were presented with a picnic. The rolls were labelled with our names. Leaving Norfolk six pounds heavier, I said: "That's it. Family hold back." But we had two parties in the diary. And empty cupboards. So I kept ordering home deliveries. This morning at six, the girls left for Leh. We had breakfast before I dropped them at the Heathrow Express. Back in a silent house, I moped. At ten, I had a second breakfast. Then I worked my way through a box of chocolates called Seven Deadly Sins. One chocolate for each sin: sloth, pride, anger, lust, envy... greed and gluttony. I am exploding out of my trousers. Not so much muffin top as nightmare at the bakery. Worse. Just now, I ate two chocolate medallions belonging to my eldest. "Save them for me, Mum," she said, as she headed off to the mountains. What kind of woman have I become? My child is on her way to the other side of the world, and I ate her sweeties before she'd even crossed Turkey:-(

2006-08-14T10:34:00.000+01:00

On Friday we went to visit my aunt. Who runs an alternative centre in East Sussex. The courtyard of her house boasts a circular mosaic, thirty feet in diameter. It's the property's birth chart. The library houses thousands of books on world religions, spiritual guidance and new ways of being. One of the first things we did was stand in a circle and chant the Hindu om. "It sounds like a thousand voices, doesn't it?" she said. And it did. Many years ago I spent a weekend at the centre with UFO hunters. The highlight was a man who claimed to speak to aliens. As we sat there, he went into a trance. Making connections on several planes he passed on fantastically useful messages. For example: "It is cold here." The food was terrible too. This time round there was no cooking. "We're going out for lunch," said my aunt. Curry. In what appeared to be an Italian trattoria. Delicious. We then returned to her homestead for chocolate cake and strawberries. As we munched happily, she said, "I'm going to tell you a story." And quoted, word perfect, Tennyson's Lady Clare. We started off sniggering. By the end, the girls and I were spellbound. My aunt is 81. "She doesn't look any older than some of your friends," my eldest said on the way back. It is true. Maybe there's something to be said for communing with the gods in a rural idyll:-)

2006-08-09T12:45:00.000+01:00

Smelly, brown and beautiful, the girls are back in town. This morning I took them for their jabs. Their Pa is hoiking them off to the Himalayas shortly. The youngest went in first, and was being set up for typhoid and Hep A as the eldest and I hoved into view. Two injections were expertly administered. "Over in no time," the nurse mused, moving the youngest to the other side of the room as the eldest took her place. A strangely meandering woman who had spelt Delhi as in telly, she wandered off to top-up on serum. "Don't they look alike? I keep forgetting which is which." My daughters are certainly similar. But one is dark skinned and blue eyed. And the other light skinned and brown eyed. And four inches broader. And three years older... This didn't stop the nurse refilling her syringes, approaching the newly jabbed youngest, now in the opposite corner of the room, and jabbing her again. As we collapsed in hysterics, unable to believe what had happened, she said: "Oh dear. Well it's only the typhoid. She's doubly safe now."

2006-08-07T15:12:00.000+01:00

I missed the flight on Friday. Damn the M25:-o The next connection was at 06:00... The silver lining was the SInde commissioning a piece between my visits to Stanstead. The downside was my arrival at the chateau in a valium haze. I bolted down breakfast, disappeared into one of the 14 bedrooms, and slept till dinnertime. Horsehair mattresses! Fantastic! Around the fairylit outdoor dinner table were Swedes, Germans, an English ex-pat, and my hostess - Scottish-Lebanese from Sierra Leone. A number of the ensemble were, or had been, working in Afghanistan. The stories were hilarious. As were the tales of taming the crazed Dinka of Sudan, a trial most recently foist on my mate - a woman in whom they met their match... Halfway through the proceedings, she and her hubby disappeared. To an English neighbour's drinks party. They returned bewildered. "The women said there's a rule and I should have worn heels," she reported. "I told them I wear heels at work. When you're employing a thousand men, it helps to feel tall. At home, it's flatties only." Amused, we inquired how this information had gone down. The owner of the biggest pile for miles, shook her head in disbelief. "Not well. They'd clearly marked me down as a bushwoman with a rich husband."

2006-08-04T00:54:00.000+01:00

A new name, a new concept, and suddenly all the pieces are falling into place. I bought a DIY website this morning. And wrote myself a new cheque to freedom, happiness and, hopefully, riches;-) In the middle of this a mate in France emailed. "Are you coming over tomorrow?" I'd ignored her earlier invitation. Because I'm broke financing my reinvention. And I've been out every night since the kids' went. Cocktails don't come cheap. I checked Ryanair and emailed back. "The fares have quintupled. So sorry, Darling. I can't." I finished the website, did some ironing, and prepared to go on the razz. Again. A new email arrived. "We've booked you on the 14.55. Our treat." Seconds later the flight confirmation came through. Gadzooks! My last trip on Ryanair was a nightmare. I had a panic attack on boarding. I felt completely trapped. And couldn't escape because I was. By zillions of people fighting for seats. In the morning, I'm off to the doctor for valium... Wouldn't it be great to always travel first class? My exceedingly good and generous mate, is certainly of that bent. Six years ago she was a single mum in Kilburn. Today she has a multi-million pound business in Dubai and a holiday chateau. Which is where I'm bound. Respect! And a little ooh-la-la, I hope;-)

2006-08-02T23:17:00.000+01:00

Entering a Central London bar with my mate, I stopped in my tracks. Ahead of me was a hideously ugly woman. Hitting fifty with huge blonde and ginger hair extensions, she was the sort of old scrubber you'd find behind the bar at The Queen Vic. I clutched my companion's hand and hissed "That's xxxxx - you know, the one who ran off with your mate Caroline's husband." Edging our way around the emporium of delights we ordered drinks. "Hideous, isn't she?" I said, taking charge of a raspberry martini. "You wouldn't think he'd leave Caroline for someone like that." My mate shrugged. "It's her mouth," she said, sagely. "Those buck teeth. Men look at them and think about blow jobs." As I choked on this information, my mate used her champagne flute to demonstrate why men found looking down on buck teeth a turn on. She looked like Thumper wrestling a carrot from the ground. I have never considered the aphrodisiac qualities of a large overbite before. It's always struck me as rather precarious. How can one chew steak, for example? I finished my drink in one. To steady the nerves. Suddenly the object of our musings disappeared. "Gone to steal someone else's husband," I said. "Gone to scrub her knees," said my mate.

2006-07-27T23:56:00.000+01:00

A joyful evening in Covent Garden with a new mate is temporarily halted by a sudden view of her underarm fuzz. Regular readers will know that I had a similar encounter during a women's meeting a few weeks back when I was left nonplussed, not just by the abundance of hirsute pits on display, but by the care with which the tresses had been combed. Tonight's follicular glories were curly - like pubic hair impishly transplanted by Puck during a fallout with Titania. I nearly inhaled my crayfish in horror. Moments like these are confusing for a feminist. How does one balance the personal with the political? Perhaps this is how Tony Blair feels when he sends his children across town to better schools than are found in Westminster? I finished my meal with a sense of deep guilt. I'm sure she wasn't judging me, and I look like a butterball turkey. What right did I have to judge her for sporting... merkins?

2006-07-24T18:42:00.000+01:00

The kids are off to camp on Wednesday. In the meantime my office is their storeroom. The floor is littered with rucksacks, sleeping bags, tents, fleeces, billy cans, waterproofs, suncreams, walking boots and a huge pile of faux designer clothing. This belongs to my eldest. Who hones in on boys like a heat-seeking missile. She can't be seen traversing the Yorkshire cowpats actually looking like a camper. So half of Top Shop has been amassed. I have successfully vetoed the lined broderie anglais coat. But the white sneakers have sneaked through. This for a camp so basic, they pooh in a hand-dug lat. Emptying a large suitcase to accommodate her excess baggage, I came across some detritus from my own travels. Last year's abortive romancing in Laos. The Mekong is beautiful this time of year... Tomorrow we are dog-sitting. And my German sister-in-law, ex, arrives with two children in tow. Who are also going to camp. A woman with a heart of pure gold and a tongue of sharpened steel, she once bemoaned the lack of good daytime telly. "All they show is stupid war films, always making out the Germans are the baddies." Her Jewish husband nearly swallowed his spoon at this. His family, puce but ever gracious, moved the conversation swiftly on. Happy days:-)

2006-07-15T01:32:00.000+01:00

Out in County Kilburn we pitched up at Rob Newman's latest show. Clever, passionate and funny, he is so... not funny. There is cynicism inherent in everything he says. Of course there were laughs. Some were inspired. But he managed, nonetheless, to end on an absolute downer. As if it it's our fault that idealism is dead and you can't buy Fairtrade lager. Perhaps it is - but we're victims too! He gave us the history of the world told backwards. A wonderful conceit and perfect for punters with several degrees including ancient civilisations, world politics, military strategy, nuclear fission and orthopaedic surgery. The rest of us only got forty per cent of the jokes. And pretended, or slept, through the rest. Sitting near the front, I had a view straight up his nostrils. His channels are very narrow. Funnily enough, he once kissed me. Rather... moistly. In a corridor at Jongleurs, in Clapham. It was a long time ago:-( I was encumbered that evening with a drunk who painted well but held drink badly. There was no opportunity to further the promise of romance as I was searching out friends to help me hoist him in the car and dump him at his midden. The drunk that is, not Mr Newman. I'd fantasized that our eyes would meet during tonight's show and we'd both get palpitations, but if it happened, it must have been while I was dozing. And yes, I'm tired. One child has finished school. The other - a joyous 15 yesterday - is enjoying an end of year social whirl. This is their weekend with their father. I waved them out of the door - correction: pushed them out of the door - with some relief. It's been one of those weeks. Tomorrow I have promised myself a lie-in:-)

2006-07-11T22:49:00.000+01:00

Yesterday, I lunched with the schoolgate mums. One is a soprano and the other a plumber. Though the plumber is returning to IT. There was an ant in the salt and bits of clingfilm on my steak. The waitress noted both aberrations and shrugged. This morning I went to Waitrose. The last time I was there, I bumped a middle-aged man as he struggled a whining toddler into a trolley seat. Apologising, I helped him get her sorted. Meanwhile, a slightly larger child was kicking at his legs. "Have a good day," I said. He snarled. You could hear those kids whining all around the store. It was like living the Doppler effect. Daddy of course, was unfazed. I suppose, as the Mayor of London, he deals with far worse shit every day;-) But I digress. Today in the store, the service was surly beyond belief. And it was only half past eight! The cashier threw down my grapes. I could have sold them as Blue Nun nouveau. What's wrong with everybody? Every summer as we head for silly season, urban tensions increase. So much to do, so little time... Over puddings yesterday, we were discussing our own anxieties. The soprano's work is seasonal. The plumber gets more callouts for websites than toilets. And me - well, you know where I am in all this... Roll on August when a baffle board of calm falls on the great metropolis:-)

2006-07-09T22:47:00.000+01:00

We're twenty minutes into the World Cup final. The phone goes. "Hello, it's Cathy from Radio Five Live." I politely explain it's the sporting fixture of the... every four years. "Sorry. I'll keep it short," she says. "We're having an education debate at midnight. Can you talk about single-sex schooling?" "I'm happy to," I reply politely, "but can we discuss it after the game?" We're ten minutes into extra time. The phone goes. "Hello it's Cathy from Five Live." I stay calm: "Cathy, the game's into extra time." "I know," she says. "That's why we're running late. We're postponing the debate till later in the week. Is that all right?" As I struggled out a polite farewell, my youngest said: "You really wouldn't expect a sports station to be ringing people during a cup final, would you?" Precisely. Thankfully, I was able to assuage any residual frustration when Zidane chest-butted one of the pretty Italian blokes. The whole game was like that pitiful eighties single Torn Between Two Lovers. I was torn between a mainly black team representing a racist nation, or a bung-implicated team representing a fascist nation. In the run-up, I'd opted to support France. I thought victory might be a unifying force. But it was Italy I kept cheering. Because they're small and fierce and cute. And they were the dog's bollocks in extra time against Germany. Now, the household can return to its natural state of football apathy. Making, of course, the odd exception for Liverpool (me) and Arsenal (youngest):-)

2006-07-08T08:40:00.000+01:00

Writing a piece about my mum for a new anthology, I recalled how the tiny room in which we lived till I was thirteen, often held up to ten people at meal times. There was one armchair and a double bed. They'd perch around its edges or sit on the floor. My mum prepared feasts on a two ringed Belling cooker. We had jack shit, but what we had we shared. Our social life was one glorious whirl. Because our friends were the same. That support structure is still strong, forty years on. Earlier this week, my richest friend had a birthday dinner in Soho. For the first time I can remember, she paid. This was so out of character, the consensus was that she'd brokered a deal with the club owner. Not one guest believed she was doing it for the joy of giving. Because few people who can, do... What is it about money that it strips us of our internal lives? Our concerns change to the external. We cherish bank statements, the car, the holidays. The emphasis changes from giving to getting. It's easier to pay a happiness coach £100 an hour, than spend that amount generating happiness with others. My youngest is spending the weekend with an old mate: one of six kids in a small council flat. The dad, a postal worker, does nights so he can help after school. As she left, I handed over spending money. "Don't be silly," the mum said. "We're taking them to Margate tomorrow and doing a barbie on Sunday. She doesn't need money. We've got everything that's necessary." I watched them go enviously. Because they have:-)

2006-07-06T10:31:00.000+01:00

Tuesday afternoon, I addressed a corporate press office on the finer points of video production. They were young and eager, aware that their pedigree in this dark art was embarrassing at best and losing them revenue at worst. Things started well. Lots of smiles and busy scribbling. Then came the crunch question. "How would you describe your main product and what are its applications?" Not one of them could answer comprehensively. Lots of headlines, no context. While this isn't unusual - it's much easier to describe the functions of a tumble dryer or a Rich Tea biscuit than a corporate service - it's fairly vital if you're in charge of external communications and busily commissioning videos. In the middle of the discussion, their boss arrived. It was like a dark shadow had entered the room. Individual lights started going out. I explained that we were defining the product in terms of video representation. She argued every point. Her premise was that the nature of their service made even conventional competence in this area, impossible. She was smart. She argued from every angle. And then, inevitably, concluded in accordance with what was being suggested. We'd then continue happily for a few minutes and off she went again... Stoically, I fought off death from both frustration and heat stroke and emerged triumphant. By the time I headed back out into the sun, there was a raging discussion about their USP. Once that's sorted, the rest is simple - communicating properly is an art, not a science. In the meantime, I'm happy to keep going back and putting them on track;-)

2006-07-06T09:01:00.000+01:00

On Saturday night, after our ignominious departure from German shores - what a twat that doughball Rooney, is - and an uplifting episode of Dr Who - uplifting because Rose is at last on her way out - I set foot for Hoxton. Once a hotbed of NF activity, it is now an arty hub surrounded by ringroads and fit blokes who read The Guardian. I was hot to trot. But... on entering our comedy club of choice, my mate and I found the punters consisted of four large hen parties and three couples. The local boys were in the Dog and Duck weeping into their beers. The only single man was a blow up doll with an enormous penis. Right totem, wrong consistency. There was also a woman with inflated boobs that sat solidly in her lycra top like the Elgin Marbles. We disgraced ourselves by making laddish remarks about being smothered to death and deploying her as a scud missile. The first act was a former teacher who, having failed to raise the youth of our country to new highs, similarly failed with the over 25s. The second was a gay muslim GP intent on hitting all the discomfort buttons. He was so clever-clever you needed a degree to get half his jokes, but he was funny. Finally, a middle-aged Aussie with a Stratocaster took the stage. Within seconds she had stripped off to display her flab. In a room of women, this was the equivalent of baring one's soul. Alternately embarrassed and delighted, we were then reduced to hysterics by her Shirley Bassey skit. There are times when the absence of men is a deeply affirming experience:-)

2006-06-30T10:29:00.000+01:00

Yesterday I was invited to lunch at The Hilton. On a blind date. The banker I was meeting turned out to be a bovver boy. He had a number two haircut and was wearing a white shirt and black trousers. Banker? I'm guessing the rest of his uniform was in the cloakroom. We got the lift to the 28th floor. Food will help, I thought. On arrival, he guided me away from the restaurant and into the bar. Not a word was said. I ordered a sherry. And sat on my seat edge, ready to do a FloJo. I explained away my obvious discomfiture, saying the hotel's outrageous car park charges had given me palpitations. We made small talk. Suddenly, apropos nothing, he said loudly: "You're every man's nightmare. You're obsessive and demanding. In a relationship, I can see you'd be the taker." Nonplussed, I sought diversion. I told him humorously about the mum who'd joined Sugardaddie.com. "Why don't you do that?" he said. "You're obviously high maintenance." And there's the proof that everything is relative:-o When I ventured that I was a tad mature and heavy for the average zillionaire, he looked me up and down. "You could do it." I felt a lot lighter when I left him, that's for sure. Bizarrely, he disappeared down Park Lane, promising to give me some contacts at Merrill Lynch. "You know your stuff and they need the help," he said. I still don't know what to make of it:-o

2006-06-26T23:21:00.000+01:00

I asked my eldest, agog, why she had volunteered to spend a week with the army. She was nonplussed: "To meet boys, of course." Today, in pouring rain, I dropped her and a classmate off at the barracks. It's part of their work experience... The car was routinely searched. As I opened the boot, the squaddie's jaw dropped. Each girl had a case the size of the Rosetta Stone. Four nights; ten changes of clothes. Every night is party night in Aldershot... I went to the office to register them and swooned. There is something about men in uniform. It's primal. I experienced three coup de foudres in four minutes. Fickle heart! Leaving the girls to their grisly fate, I headed home smiling. I thought about the youngest. Who is off to Calais in the morning. Quelle horreur: I suddenly realised her passport was in Oxford. With her father:-o Which explains my tryst in the Holiday Inn car park by High Wycombe roundabout, an hour ago. It was like a scene from All the President's Men - two figures emerging from the shadows for the furtive handing over of documents and cash. Thirty Euros;-) Driving back, I stopped to buy the little one a BP packed lunch. And ended up buying a packed breakfast too. She leaves at six. A mother has to draw the line somewhere...

2006-06-24T11:11:00.000+01:00

My business partner has sent me an email: "You at a whiteboard with twelve people in the room, is like watching Freddie Mercury doing an intimate evening at Ronnie Scott's. You belong onstage at Wembley." What sauce! I can't see myself as the Billy Graham of language. I'd come out in hives if the punters started talking in tongues:-o Was it the Rev Sun Moon that ran harems and drove around his compound in a Rolls? That's more my sort of thing. Except I'm hideous in orange and I don't suit robes. What's a guru anyway? It's just a touchy-feely euphemism for consultant-on-a-soapbox. Hideously rich consultant-on-a-soapbox. One of my friends once took a soapbox at Hyde Park Corner. She was fighting the big birds' cause. It fell apart when she got heckled. "Why is dating a fat woman like owning a moped?" asked a wag. "Because they're both a good ride, but you don't want your mates to see you with one!" At this juncture we made our excuses and left, as they say in the News of the World. Funnily enough, a flyer came through the door recently, inviting us to some guru-fest at West Ham football ground. Maybe that's all it's good for since they lost the cup final;-) There's only one game we'll be watching this weekend. That's tomorrow at three. We've taken Paracetamol to cool our World Cup fevers. Today, far more girlie pursuits beckon. Brent Cross here we come:-)