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..."

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."

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:-(

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

"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...

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.":-(

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

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;-)

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;-)

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

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;-)

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

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.

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.

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;-)

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

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;-)

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

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!"

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;-)