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.

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.":-)

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;-)

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;-)

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...

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.

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?

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

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;-)

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;-)

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

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:-(

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...

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...

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.

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;-)

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...

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...

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;-)

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...