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...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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..."