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;-)

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

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.

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;-)

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:-)

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?

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;-)

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."

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...

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."

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;-)

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;-)