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

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...

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:-)

Has it really been a week? I feel like the soldier returning from combat - wearied, scarred - scared, even - but bloody and victorious:-) It's been an epic time. Two workshops delivered, and my work partner wounded in battle. She says it's not for her. She can deal with NHS types, but not sharp men in sharp suits. I find the inquiry and presience of the city slicker exciting and challenging. She left our last gig emotionally ravaged. I want more; she's had enough. The problem is our different disciplines. And different outlooks. I'm building on journalistic skills. Creating rapport to ease the movement of information around an organisation, and to increase cooperation and productivity. Communication for me is about winning. She, on the other hand, is teaching variations on assertiveness. Which is about loss limitation. Standing up in this difficult world and being heard. The two are connected, but they're not the same. One is household goods. The other is bedlinen. Who's up for a half day workshop with a bolshy woman who gets you talking?;-) Aside from the business - and there's still the new website to be sorted - all is well in the dustbowl that is the London Borough of Camden. Sunshine, coffee, chocolate, and happy kids... Yesterday I took the abdominiser out of storage. It must be summer:-)

Last night I took my prettiest godson to Asia de Cuba. It's not often one is seen on the town with a fit 21-year-old. Even if he is wearing zirconia studs:-o We discussed God, who is looming large in his life at the moment. He's tried drugs, smoking and one night stands and found them wanting. He needed something to fill the gap... When his mum and I became friends we were a year younger than he is now. We were building our chosen careers. We'd both left home. She'd been married and divorced. Today she runs one of the country's most high-profile companies. He, meanwhile, remains unfocused. He's been selling advertising. The money goes on his wardrobe. Jeans costing £175. Ooer, perhaps they weren't zirconia? I fear he is becoming the Victoria Beckham of his family... Earlier, I'd been to a trustees meeting where some Posh Spice grooming would have helped. The board is made up entirely of women. Two of whom had dense underarm foliage. Curiously, it appeared to be combed. Pondering this, I found it impossible to concentrate on the serious business. This morning I've concluded that their hairs were smoothed by roll-on deoderants. You couldn't use aerosols and wear vests, could you? There'd be white bits bobbing around in the undergrowth. Which reminds me, I must make an appointment with the barber:-)

Aware of my limitations as a faux city-slicker, I gamely visited the countryside yesterday in a pair of daisy-print clogs. I wanted to be as one with the earth. At the local show, they started to rub, but it seemed churlish to complain when gasping Morris Dancers were turning as hot and shiny as the ancient farm machinery on display. The dog show was a canine out-of-body display. Mutts staggered around like drunks, rosettes askew. People were stripping off. It's all tattoos and midriff bulge in the outback. Back at the millhouse, we left the kids to cool down and our hostess, my mother, and I climbed into the punt with a picnic. The punt pole was broken. My old ma, 75 and extremely game, stood at one end, rowing us upriver. She was nearly decapitated when we went under the bridge. Four youths with a swimming labrador, watched in amazement. "I'm a learner driver with two instructors," she shouted at them. We returned for a delicious dinner. Then the kids had a go at boating. Within ten minutes the three of them were trapped in water lillies. An hour later, they'd moved six feet. Our hostess had to tow them in by canoe. In all the excitement, I couldn't mention my feet. After all, we were being young and free! This morning, I could not wear shoes... "You look like you've been crucified," my eldest said, inspecting the damage. What was it Thomas Jefforson said? Ah yes. The price of freedom is vigilance. Next time I'll wear flip flops...

How is it that the city is silent in the sun? All day the doors and windows have been open, but all I've heard is birdsong. And a small cheer across the backyards when England went one up in the football. I have not yet forgiven Steven Gerrard's own goal when Liverpool played Chelsea. It was a vital championship match. On that basis, it felt hypocritical to cheer the homeland's accidental victory. Indeed, proceedings were so dull I'd have given up watching, but I had visitors. Why anyone would want to watch a match in my company is uncertain. But they arrived in good cheer. With two boxes of Turkish pizzas: like Italian, but soggy. My eldest had decamped to a friend's. The youngest, after a tearful interlude in which she claimed her visit to Hadrians Wall had left her 'traumatised', was off to lunch and a musical with a classmate. It's all right for some:-o Tomorrow we are off to Suffolk for a dog show. The little terrier we occasionally babysit, is taking part. We will be going mob handed - my teeny-weeny mum, a large leg of lamb that she has marinaded, me, the progeny, and an unwieldy 6ft 2" teenage girl who's spending the night here. We are many hued. That should give them a scare in Bury. Watch this space;-)

Today I renewed my resident's parking permit. "Shall I date it for tomorrow?" the man said. "It'll be luckier." As a Buddhist I do not fear the number 666. If I'm found impaled on a long stake, Fatima Whitbread would be a more likely culprit than the anti-Christ. As for my car, annihilation would be a kindness. The damaged digicam that sits unposted on the back seat has more value than the vehicle itself. If it wasn't for the fact it's taxed and insured, you'd think it belonged to an illegal. Dodging soothsayers and evil monks, I popped into the Royal Free to see my friend H's ma. Aged 90, she's giving the grim reaper a run for his money. Six weeks after a stroke she's back on the whisky and planning a return to work. Tomorrow she has her hair tinted. Back home, I rewrote a piece for one of the dailies and flirted a bit online. I suspect my expectations are way above my pulling abilities, but practice helps:-o My own ma popped round with some letters she wanted typed and stayed for a very jolly dinner with me and the eldest. Afterwards, we all went for a walk. The youngest, meanwhile, is following in the footsteps of Hadrian. She left for Northumberland yesterday wearing a Waitrose bag. It was to honour a classmate who left at half term. I didn't quite get the point, but that's the luxury of youth isn't it? You do things just because you can:-)

My hormones are back on message! It happened while I was in a Hummer. With a single mother who's just joined a dating site called sugardaddie.com to find herself a rich husband. She showed me the picture she’s posted up. A very alluring and not dishonest cleavage shot taken on her phone. “I want security,” she explained, removing her hands from the wheel to billet-doux a texting trillionaire. "He’s on his way to the Chinese Embassy." I didn't ask. Because I was thinking that all those cultural commentators that attack the likes of Heather Mills-McCartney have missed a vital point about "gold digging". Which is that rich men are under no illusion about the women they marry. Indeed, having got where they are through single-mindedness and passion, it’s as much the ambition as the product spec of these beauties that they admire... Passing through King’s Cross, my companion's conversation became alarmingly earthy, which made me anxious as her five-year-old was in the back. And then it hit me. I too am feeling rather... earthy. As we thundered past Regents Park, it was like spring coming to Narnia. I realised that the treadmill of activity and excitement that heralded the company launch last week has clearly acted as an emotional exfoliant. Watch out boys - the mountain may soon be coming on to Mohammed;-)

What is life and why are my trousers too tight? The week has flown by. On Monday I sent out fifteen missives and already five people have asked for follow up information. In the tweedledum tweedledee world that is commerce, we are offering a handful of free workshops to the big rollers, and charging the small fry:-o On Wednesday we went off to a women's business day. The desultory bunch of speakers banged on about the obstacles women face. We were informed, witheringly, that the men who dominate business advisory services are bank managers refashioned as consultants. As half the women there were professionals refashioned as consultants, this was a bit of an own goal. Especially as at least two of them were more articulate, intelligent and successful than the silly buggers up on stage;-) The final straw was when the MC closed the session five minutes early with the classic line: "I know you're all dying to get up and fidget." Too often, we are our own worst enemies.

I'm always suspicious of words that have overtones of wrongdoing. Coaching, is one of these. A grubby amalgam of cottaging and poaching. After a weekend incarcerated at the Holiday Inn, Bloomsbury, learning the finer points of this dark art, I was relieved to emerge on Sunday afternoon and reclaim my life. This morning, however, I woke with a sense of elation. And met every single target I had set myself over that 48 hour period. I am revitalised; inspired. It's damned good ju-ju;-) The one image that defines the weekend, however, is not taken from that strange mix of touchy-feely grande dames and tough young HR execs seeking higher powers. That honour falls to Annie Lennox, sorceress-like in her black tailcoat, magicking shivers up and down our spines as dusk fell on Tower Bridge and Traitor's Gate on Saturday night. There must be an angel, she sang, and for a few minutes, there was. I was seeking respite at the Prince's Trust Birthday Concert. Sitting in the courtyard of the Bloody Tower drinking champagne from plastic cups - me, my girls, and their father - our first non-scoff outing since divorce eight years ago. For all of us, happy in our own thoughts, it was, I'd like to think, life affirming:-)

Last night at a book launch, an elegant woman introduced herself: "Did you know we share a plumber?" It transpires that the same man has serviced both our pipes for over twenty years. Indeed, my weekly cleaning team is supplied by his Brazilian wife. The leylines of industry are curious in their patterning. Earlier I'd commented on a strangely garbed guest in a leather winter coat and knitted red hat. When I saw her from the front, it turned out to be an old friend and colleague. Spotting my expression she said, "I know. The colours don't match." She was sporting the Canary Wharf of all diamond rings: "Good expenses, Darling." The novel being celebrated was self published by a highy literate acquaintance: "It's so hard to get publishers to notice you. This saves time and it's a professional product." True. And the book is well written and interesting. But I spotted four improving cuts on the first page alone. That's what gets lost in the mix. As they say, there's no such thing as a free lunch:-o Indeed, my own free lunch cost me dear yesterday. My date had emailed the wrong restaurant name. I circled Covent Garden ninety million times before finding him. As I arrived, steaming and heaving like a mare in foal, he smiled apologetically and ordered me a large sherry. How predictable I must be! But then, we too go back over twenty years. And now, I'm wading through The Seven Basic Plots for one of our workshop exercises. Well, bits of it. Not a single word is misplaced, extraneous or repetitious. There's good editing for you.

Today I had the misfortune to be on radio discussing the impending divorce of Mr and Mrs McCartney. On listening back to the codswallop that passes for public debate these days, I realised I had referred to our only living legend as a silly old fool on about five different occasions. Correction, given the length of the interview, five consecutive occasions. I am not perturbed by the words so much as their repetition. We are all fools at some time. Age is no bar to that. It was ist of me to presume otherwise. Indeed, I cannot think of a headier combination than age and foolishness. This is just as well as I then went on to lunch with a friend and her octagenarian ma who sends food flying in all directions when diverted by conversation. Her glasses hang on a chain around her neck. Consequently, she is often to be found looking out at the world through bits of spinach and prawn shell. To complete the hat trick I returned home via the Royal Free Hospital. There, I fed a smoothie to my favourite nonagenarian. Her swallow has come back. But one swallow does not make a summer when you've had a stroke:-( Have I done any work? Well, yes, a bit. And a huge pile of ironing first thing. Be assured this slow-down is not a sign of my going to the dogs. That happened yesterday. At Walthamstow. A posse of us went greyhound racing. With only six runners on each card, there's a good chance of being quids in. But as we wandered out in the neon-bright dark, every one of us was out of pocket:-o

We should all be at a party right now, but I've called a nightie day. We don't actually own nighties. It's shorthand for sanctioned domestic indolence. Sometimes we have nightie weekends, only moving from the sofa to order pizzas. That said, I have been to Homebase to buy a hose. And collected our furnace hardened mugs from the art shop. And typed up a lot of notes for Tuesday's meeting:-o Yesterday we visited friends who were recently gonged. I'm not one for medals. Give me a prefix any day. It frees you to stamp on the bastards who hand them out, instead of kowtowing. Gongs shoud be saved for useful folk, like lollipop people and voluntary workers. Anyway, we were lunching in leafy Essex with assorted progeny when a waitress with blinding false eyelashes, had a seizure. West Ham were two up in the FA cup. Our hostess promptly insisted we returned home to watch. This was unfortunate as I'm a Liverpool fan. And I cheered them on. And they won: grabbing victory from the jaws of defeat in a mirroring of last year's European championship:-) Erring on the side of caution, we left for home as soon as they'd done their bit at the podium. Now those really are medals worth having...

I have been networking. With people I don't know. Half of them in industries I never knew existed. An alphabetti spaghetti of acronyms. I doubt I'll get work, but a few party invitations would be nice:-o All this connecting makes me feel industrious. But all it really does is set me up for DVT at my Mac. This has not been a week distinguished by industry. The website boys had a hissyfit. They liked their internet version of Blue Peter's Tracy Island. We hit an impasse. By yesterday we'd parted company. Back to the drawing board. Where can I find a designer who'll work for four chocolate buttons, a bag of Wotsits and a pair of socks? Meanwhile, those around me continue to unravel. A lot of pets are kicking the bucket. One dog and one cat this week, already. I haven't had a pet since Sexpot. My hamster. When he died, my mother lovingly fashioned him a casket lined with scented Kleenex. And popped him into the communal incinerator. For a month, she became vegetarian. As a mark of respect. Which I thought foolish. It's not as if we eat hamster, though I'm told guinea pig is a worthwhile delicacy:-o

After the high comes the low. The website is a mess. The designer showed us a fabulous prototype. Which he then scrapped. "I thought you didn't like it." Why? It's the first glitch. And a big one. I must get my cohort, who claims to be an assertiveness trainer, to assert herself. Apart from that, a good day. My eldest godson has just got MoD security clearance. This means he can earn £1000 a day on government contracts. We celebrated with our second brunch in eight days. And I bought flowers. He's still watching his weight. After a full English breakfast with two sugared lattes, he ordered and demolished a steak baguette and a Coke. I think this stage of dieting is called a plateau:-o

Totally knackered after a day in heels handing out flyers at a business start up exhibition:-o The adrenaline kept us going to such a degree, I didn't know I was crippled till I got home and kicked off my shoes. Am hoping the cameras in the ExCel carpark didn't catch me creeping round level 1B sticking leaflets under windscreen wipers. £3 an hour to park in the middle of nowhere. On a Saturday. It's a joke. The business centre is like Houston Airport at 4am. Soulless. Even by the standards of the wilderness that is docklands. I don't know a single Londoner who's bought there. Except for rental income. But every grockle and passing foreigner is fooled into thinking this outpost has cachet. The architecture of mammon is its saving grace, but only when serviced by young men and women in business suits. At weekends there is nothing to hold the imagination. The exhibition punters scurried round like ants abandoned on a moonscape.

Looking out over London from the top floor bar at the St Georges Hotel, three of us were engaged in a discussion about slovenliness. I am prone, when I have a few days without social engagements, to stay unwashed and let the natural oils back into my skin. It must affect the pheremones too, as I clock the biggest hit rate when I'm soiled. And wearing a red Gap fleece. True. I can't go into Waitrose for fear of being accosted. The only time I got asked out by a genuine millionaire, I was grubby and Gapped:-o One of tonight's party admitted she doesn't shower every day even when being social. "I suppose I'm a slut," she said, "but I never break into a sweat even during aerobics, so I just top and tail." Is that where the phrase originates? We were musing thus after the third member of the group admitted taking ninety minutes to get ready every morning because of rituals around bathing. A woman with very strong ideals, she is abstemious to an extreme. She kept studying my tequila sunrise with concern. The only way I could drink was by turning my attention to the picture window. It left me quite heady, gazing across the glorious spire of All Souls, Langham Place, to the elegant curve in the road where Broadcasting House and The Langham posture imperiously at each other.

A ring on the bell. It's a harassed man with a beautiful bag that he thrusts at me. Inside is a huge, but huuuuge, box of Rococo chocolates. They are, of course, from my online sleuth in Brighton. I find his number and call. "You did a brilliant job and could have charged much more," he said. "I wanted to give something back." What's the line about gift horses?;-)

Up at 5.30. Back on the madness wheel. How does it end? Telewest are putting in a business line. We've another bite on free workshops. Later today we hopefully get our website. I've put together a rather impressive sixteen page rewrite for the designers. That's the pay-off. My eldest, above, begins exam fortnight this morning. I have a friend coming for lunch. She's on a diet. "I just want leaves, no dressing." She used to be such fun:-( That said, I'm trying to get my boobs back ahead of my belly. I hate middle age. Take my enormous arse. When I walked, it once looked like two helium balloons in the last throes of making love. Now it's a giant pancake with no filling. The excess has relocated to my midriff. Gross. On Sunday night I met up with a boy I first encountered three years ago. As soon as I saw him, I remembered why I've taken avoiding action ever since. Lovely to look at, but when he talks his tongue sort of sticks behind his teeth. My mate, H, tells me speech impediments, and/or the physical signs of one, are fashionable. Why? Before leaving for exam hell, my eldest marked out some potential males for me in Soulmates. One was an ex-punk. "What does that mean?" I asked, "Piercing scars?" She was upbeat. "Give him a ring, Mum. He says he has a snoggable mouth." Taken aback, I said nothing. Well, actually, I said, "Leave it on my desk." But I can't help feeling our relationship is a little skewed:-o