I wake up to see a strange light glowing through my duvet and a rather ominous whirring sound. Peeking tentatively under the covers I discover a four year old boy with a smile on his face pointing his charged up wind up torch straight at my lady bits. “Sid, what the hell are you doing? Go and get ready for school you monkey!” Poor lad, that view could put him off women forever.

I thought the worst humiliation I would ever suffer was when I left my Bunny on the side of the bath and found the bathroom perfectly clean and tidy and my favourite toy moved a few inches by my cleaner. But last week I was called into my bedroom for a magic show performed by magician Sid and his delightful assistant Nancy. Nancy, dressed in an emerald green circus style net skirt and swimming costume turns her arms to introduce Sid with his pyjamas dressed up by a glittery waistcoat as Sid says “Da-Daaaaaaaaar” and pulls something small, pink and plastic out of a hat. “Look at the little bunny ears, watch them move, they’re so cute,” squeals Nancy in delight.

“I really think you need to find a new place to hide your sex aids,” whispers Mr Was Right with a raised eyebrow and pursed lips. Clearly the cupboard in the bedroom with 3 suitcases piled in front of it is not enough to deter young foragers. Time to invest in a safe. A sex safe. Safe sex. But then that makes it all a bit serious. And what if I forget the number?

I send out a text to the ladies:

“Sex aid unearthed by kids this morning. Where the hell do you hide yours?”

Brrrrrrr ….God honey, that’s funny! Go to Babeland they sell lock up sex toy boxes X V

Brrrrr ….lol I bought a hide a vibe pillow a few months ago on ebay. My mum stayed in my bed. I didn’t have enough time to change the sheets and the vibrator I left under the pillow the night before went off when she attempted to lie down. Agggh, Xx red-faced Janey

And I thought my story was bad. I google Hide Your Vibrator and find the Hide Your Vibe Pillow which, I am told, has a secret silky compartment with just enough room to store your favorite toy and a small bottle of lube. All you have to do is “zip it up and toss it on the bed” apparently. Well isn’t that the general idea? You can also buy a sweet fluffy teddy that does the same thing but surely that is just asking for trouble from inquisitive kids?

Pretty up a shoebox says one mummy blogger. Clearly someone who does not have a girlchild with a shoe fetish. As I stumble from webpage to webpage I find something a bit different from Vulvalovelovely on the world famous craft site Etsy – a fanny shaped cushion to hide your favourite accessories. But that’s as obvious as leaving a note on your door saying the cash is under the green towel in my airing cupboard – help yourself – enjoy!

Anyone got any better ideas?

I am lying in bed in a neck brace watching Foxy Knoxy’s trial in Italy on the TV. How could I have lost it? My Fireman, Stripper and Carousel went without a hitch, I even managed a few Christina Aguilera’s but as I flicked my legs up into my favourite position, the one that always wows my friends, the one that you see in the picture, I got the fear, I told myself I was going to fall and fall I did, right on my head.

What a blinking idiot. I mean, I should know. I am always telling friends to fight the fear and do it anyway. Hours of listening to the genius that is Dr Wayne Dyer on Hay House Radio should have brainwashed me into realizing that the laws of attraction will bring you whatever you want once you are plugged into it – negative or positive. So by saying “I am going to fall”, I should hardly be surprised that ‘by the powers of Greyskull’ the universe would react to my thoughts and send me plummeting to my embarrassing end. Why don’t I ever listen to my own bloody advice? I am always telling the kids to think positively.

Sid and Nancy both started – around the age of two – to develop this human thing we call fear – and I worked out that it was coming from the reactions of people around them, especially me and Mr Was Right – so I changed the way I reacted. Now if Sid falls over I don’t crumple my brow and go “Oooooeeeyeowch”. I smile, lift him up and say , “Great skills stunt boy”. If Nancy gets stuck up a tree and thinks she can’t climb back down, I don’t run to save her, unless she really is in a life threatening situation. I get her to say “I can do it, I can do it” and both kids now say “I can do it, I can do it” and jump from heights that make me and other playground parents squirm while I wait at base camp smiling a big smile, albeit with gritted teeth.

But it’s all very well telling your kids to change their negatives to positives when you don’t do the same yourself. I write in my affirmations book: if things don’t work out the way I plan I won’t try and push them to work anymore, I will say “Sobeit” and submit to the universe’s grand plan. From now on when I swing my legs up on the pole I will say “I can do it, I can do it,” just as, if a friend loses their job, I now say congratulations, if someone dies I crack open the champagne, if someone’s relationship breaks up I now pip, “How exciting, a new one around the corner.” As Dr Wayne Dyer preaches, ” Change your thoughts, change your life.” Like pole dancing you could be surprised at how incredibly liberating you find it.

The Chinchillas have had more babies, Jan’s hot-footed it back to Sweden and J is playing hard to get. I check out Facebook to see if he’s on a trip too. Come on, you all do it! Aggh, he’s got messages from women with all kinds of strange profile pics. There’s one from Angel whose bottom is sticking out of bubble bath. I see another from a vixen with a stiletto heel unhooking her G-string and a lady with a Catwoman mask licking latex. This guy is clearly some goddang Pornmeister on sabbatical to fantasy land.

You can tell a lot about a person’s facebook profile so beware what you put out in the ether boys and girls. My friend Angie once lost a contract after someone saw her being rude about them on the social networking site. She had foolishly forgotten she had added them as a friend a few months before. I know we all spy on people these days but I still get freaked out on dates when the person knows my CV better than I do. I think, “I never told you that.” Even my 58yr old singing teacher, who, I might add, I would NEVER date, told me he knew everything about me through the Internet, although he rather creepily pretended he could read me like a book first. I gave up the lessons after that. My favourite story of Internet outing was told to me by my mate Allen who found out a guy was pissing him around with the sale of his house by googling him. After being told the guy could not complete (he was too busy mourning the death of his aunty) Allen found him in some online chat-room saying he was having a great day and about to head off to the pub for a few pints. A few minutes later Allen sent out a rocket of a chat message and within minutes the house sale was back on track and the guy had been publicly humiliated online.

Talking of rockets. I had better make like one as I am off to my first live pole-dancing performance in a few hours. I got into the art of tease to get rid of my cellulite. I also wanted to make my lower half move again after years in the sexual Gobi. Little did I know it would take me to another dimension with all sense of space and time disappearing after 10 minutes on the pole. Music does it to some people, art to others, well pole-dancing does it for me. Of course, I daren’t mention my hobby at Sid and Nancy’s catholic school; most of the Mums and Dads there really are too good for this world. When Sid blurted out “Mummy’s going pole dancing” to one Mum in the park the other day I had to tell a porky (thankfully I am a Buddhist if anything so I won’t need to head for the confession booth). I told her I do folk dancing in Ealing following recommendations from my Polish mum in law.

It’s a full moon tonight and, being a bit of a lunar loony, I know this is not only going to affect me but the audience as well. There’s a reason why Full Moon festivals came into being. Hardcore festival-heads know too well that we all have an urge to to bang a drum and wave a glow stick when the moon is in full glow. But feeling in more of a party mood is not the only side effect. We have problems sleeping, the police have more trouble dealing with anti-social behaviour and psychiatric hospitals report patients get that little bit more crazy when the moon is a balloon. Even the most avid disbeliever can see the Science bit. If the moon changes the way the sea works it must have some kind of effect on our own bodies of water.

I have a diary which charts the phases for me. Moon diary tells me that the waxing phase, from new moon to full moon, is the time that we are at our most outgoing and positive but as the moon then wanes we should put our more quiet and reflective heads on. It was Lovely Liz who got me into moon phases. One morning when the St John’s Wort and meditation was having about as much effect as a smile on a traffic warden, I did what I normally do when I feel low and trotted off to her flat to dump my troubles at her door.

“It’s the double moon, she said. It’s been happening to everyone.” No hint of a “Come on in, sit down, have a cuppa and tell me about the bastard,” oh no, let’s just get straight to the heart of the matter and blame the moon. In myth the Moon is said to rule things like feelings, intuition, fertility and creativity and nowadays even those who come up in hives at the mere mention of crystals, can appreciate there’s truth in what my friend says. Many winemakers, fishermen and hunters go by the lunar calendar and women’s cycles are synchronised with madame moon. So why don’t we pay more attention to it?

“Listening to feelings and hunches requires quiet time, something we rarely give ourselves these days, Abi,” sighs Liz.

Quiet time is something I value more than anything since I had children. Anyone who knows me well will have heard that I meditate for half an hour every day. They might even say, as they do to me, that it has made me a more relaxed person and seems to have halted the ageing process. But heading off into an altered state is not on my to do list today as I sashay off to wow a small crowd of full moon crazed punters with my fireman, carousel and trapeze moves. Power to the moon and power to the pole! Wish me luck tonight…

I am all for instilling a sense of charity in your kids, as David and Victoria Beckham say they are doing with theirs, but there is another example the Becks could set. Lady B gets given much of her fine wardrobe. She is one of the best clothes horses in town and a newly ordained designer to boot. But by appearing to hoover up shoes, clothes and bags like a hardened cocaine snorter she is giving the legions of fans who follow her such a picture of avid consumerism it could lead her less savvy followers down the road to serious debt.

Don’t get me wrong I love the poshest of the Spice’s. She wears the kind of shoes I would choose to twist around a pole. She was also born under my sun sign of Aries so is a fellow social tourettes sufferer, which makes for hilarious reading.

However she would seriously play the integrity card by flying over from the US and going shopping at the Selfridges Really Really Great Garage Sale this Sunday where Louise Redknapp, Trinny Woodall, Yasmin Le Bon and Denise Van Outen, amongst others, will be donating covetable items for sale and acting as stallholders to raise money for the charity Mothers4children. No-one would give Mrs Beckham gip for being snapped wearing something second hand. The last time she did an Oxfam photocall in 2006, she got a heap of easy publicity and sales of women’s clothes at Oxfam went through the roof. So it’s win win.

I am not one for telling people to do things I would not dream of doing myself, (apart from “taking a hike”) so, having heard charities are losing subscriptions hand over fist, I have upped my personal donations and tempered my own out of control clothes’ habit. I have swapped Zara for frock-swapping and Oxford St for Ebay. I keep my eye on dates at http://www.bigwardrobe.com/TheBigSwish/index.aspx.

I even frock-swap and swish online at http://www.swishing.co.uk and http://www.swishing.biz but do prefer parties to the online experience: the Internet has nothing on holding a glass of Chilean white in one hand and sifting through a rail of glorious bargains with the other. “Swishing parties are for all those women who want to combine glamour, environmental protection and frugality,” says Lucy Shea, founder of Swishing and director of Futerra Sustainability Communications on her site http://www.swishing.org , “Save money, save the planet, have a party.”

According to Shea the rules of the rail are simple:

1) Everyone must bring at least one item of quality clothing.
2) You have half an hour to browse before the swish opens.
3) No item may be claimed before the swish opens.
4) As soon as the swish is declared open, everyone may take what they want.
5) And, lest we forget, no scratching, spitting or fighting.”

Swishing not only keeps you off the high street, it is good for your money kharma. Most parties raise money for charity and some even give you a percentage of the proceeds from the clothes you donate. The last frock swap I participated in at a friend’s house took 25% off each item sold for Multiple Sclerosis and we pocketed the rest. Despite spending most of my booty the same night I was proud to get rid of my most heinous fashion mistakes, chuffed I hadn’t added to the carbon count and sweatshop labour and felt like a child with a secret pack of chewing gum as I walked out of the door, fingering the small wad of notes in my pocket.

Who knows, with a little public pressure, maybe we could convince the lady of labels to alternate between her clothes line and vintage. Could I be so bold as to suggest she take the swishing trend to LA? Forget her new forays into fashion design, big up vintage in Beverley Hills and Mrs Beckham really could change the world.

I once had a friend called Sarah (Gemini) whose nom de plume at the Tottenham Ct Rd Spearmint Rhino was Sacha. She revealed all to me over a vanilla latte one day when I asked her how she got time to wash, dry and straighten her hair every morning. She said if it wasn’t her job remit she’d be slicking back wet hair into a ponytail and donning the loose Ts, tacky bums and flip flops worn by many of the tired looking parents on the school run. Sarah was thirty five and still working the pole. She’d split from a husband who used to drag her beautifully straightened hair across the kitchen floor before smashing her face with the fridge door and desperately needed to raise some cash for her and her little girl.

I sadly lost touch with her after 3 year old Violet (nicknamed Violence) was asked to leave on account of her hitting the other kids a few too many times. I was sad for Sarah because I knew the whole sorry story (her daughter had seen Dad hit Mum regularly) and gutted for me because she was fun and definitely the friend with the most interesting job. I later hooked up with one of Violence’s nursery teachers who said they wondered “about Mum’s career path” after Violet brought a marabou-trimmed g-string saying ‘hot mama’ on them for show and tell.

Back to tonight’s display. No I am not at the fireworks. I am sitting on a velvet sofa between the Swedes looking at Hot Mama pants and nurses outfits’ as Eastern European teenagers decorate the sofa around us, plying their trade for a £20 dance.
“Hi, how are you? Are you having a lovely time here tonight? Can I get you anything? Show you anything?” Bland, bland, bland. I can see why guys love coming here. These girls are the right side of twenty, scantily clad and don’t answer back when spoken to: so no threat to a man’s ego at all. Feeling like I should pick for a winner for my Swedish pals and hating to let the girls in front of me down I say, “What about her, she’s sweet?”. “How about the lady in latex, she’s lovely and you have to admit she’s put alot of effort in?”

“Wait, wayyyyyt,” says J in a soft sleazy tone that resembles the “T-rust in meeeee,” of the snake from the Jungle Book. “The besssst ones normally come lasssst.” Jan is looking clearly pissed off with his lack of date and not feeling a bit like having a dance with some girl who does it for money. I put my hand on his and tell him I’ll buy him a dance if he perks up. He cracks a half-hearted smile.

“Why don’t I dance for you and your lady friend,” says a blonde girl shaking her strawberry flavoured hair into J’s face? “She’s the one,” says J, leaping to his feet. Come on Abi, show me you are not typically English.” Well I clearly want to see every gory detail of the job my friend used to do and who knows, if Mr Was Right starts getting lax with the mortgage payments and freezes my housekeeping, I might just need a career. So I head behind a wooden screen to watch Misia, the Russian, yes J’s established her name, gyrate a very young bottom in front of us. She’s completely shaved, covered in baby powder and, unless she’s thirteen years old, has clearly had some surgery done to her undercarriage. It’s all very boring and I feel a bit nauseous so I put my hand on J’s muscular thigh to steady myself, which, he says later, is the best bit – fibber.

“You did really well,” says J when the whole excruciating experience is over. “No other girl I’ve brought here has ever been behind the screen with me.” God, he could have told me that before. Oh well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. It’ll be a great story to tell a few of my more enlightened friends.

So you want to know how the story ended with Mr Sweden? Come on I know you have been itching to hear all week, and what a week! Jan and Joachim have texted and emailed with fighting talk. In a nutshell, Jan has decided he is going to be in charge of the talking and J is in charge of the naughty stuff. What are these Scandos like? The email trail has become so hysterical I feel duty bound to share a few extracts thus far following on from a sharp retort I sent after they dubbed me their “mutual girlfriend”:

From J To Jan, Abitight

Abeeee..You’re just full of surprises .. A characteristic we both value!

Explanation .. Me, Scared? Hun, you can’t build a sentence with those words and include my name .. It just doesn’t work ;) Well ok, seeing as you are such a fab chick, I’ll try to explain what was going on in my head (remember the marbles had still not come back home at the time). Jan’s nickname for you is now “our mutual girlfriend”. I believe he sees it along the lines of him taking care of the talking, which only leaves me with the naughty stuff, but I can live with that, since he’s my best mate and you are just awesome. OK back to the explanation …

Jan is, correction, WAS my stylist .. Haven’t told him yet but he’s fired! It’s now every man for himself ;) This stuff about tripping each other on the way to our double date, which should have turned out differently if you had pulled a date for Janny as instructed. Focus baby!

OK, OK back to the explanation .. I was merely looking to stir up some fun by sending the text to both of you .. I gather now it was somewhat far-fetched or possibly just way too brilliant .. Jan replied “what?” You replied “I’m confused” .. So, it didn’t work .. You choose the reason, I am from a neutral country :)

J x

From Jan To J, Abitight
J, you are the most confusing person I know… Why the hell have you fired me???
You picked up Abi after being styled by me. After that, it´s been downhill. Me and Abi have a much deeper relationship than a cave man like you could ever understand. I will keep an eye on you two…Looking forward to Abi fixing me up with a hot date nearer the end of the week

jan the man xx

From AbiTight to J, Jan

Hey Jan…Looks like the hot date might just be you and me the way J is behaving, although I am not sure I really believe his hard man act! I think he’s bonkers about me.

This is all a bit Swedish. When I am not laughing, I am feeling a tiny bit scared!

X Abi

Since you are wondering, I never went to bed with either of them following that Mansion night. While they were waiting for a taxi I slunk off in my heels and walked home without even a kiss goodbye, which got me top points for adding to mystique from Virginia and J and Jan, who had slipped his business card into my pocket an hour or so earlier. I texted the next day, Jan passed on J’s number, J was clearly text-cited and fixed up a date for three TO-NIGHT. The RSVP that I am not into threesomes had clearly not put him off. I figured that was probably what they were angling for in the first place.

“What!” yells Virginia, on our regular roller-skating jaunt around the park. “You turned down two gorgeous Swedish men for what could have been the most amazing experience of your life? Abi, Abi, Abi…my cousin Tarka swears by threesomes. She’s had two guys on a leash for the past year. They visit her once a month, everyone knows where they stand, no-one gets hurt and Tarka says it is the best sex she has ever had.”

“I’d just be too busy laughing to concentrate on the job in hand,” I say. “Plus they’d be discussing the old Venus fly trap the next day. It would make me paranoid. Besides I got a real date instead. Who knows where it may lead?”

J says as Janni is only in town for the weekend he is coming and asks if I can bring someone else. I had Janey ready to go up until five mnutes ago but she’s called to say her baby is sick and her blokie won’t let her go as he’s too nervous to be left with the baby alone so here I am Abi-no-mates, sitting in a restaurant between two drop dead gorgeous guys. Fantaseeeeee Isssssllllllllannnnnd.
“You really let Janny down, Abigail,” says J half-joking while squeezing my knee.

I try to make up for my lack of attractive girlfriend by paying Jan lots of attention. Turns out he works as a location scout internationally for a famous fast food company although it clearly grates on the guy as he tells me it is his job “to make people fat”. No wonder he jumped at the chance to eat sushi tonight. J, meanwhile, is unemployed having recently been made redundant by a company who staffs hotels and fancy apartment blocks. I give them the whole Abi Tight sob story over a sushi platter before J pipes up.

“Spearmint Rhino??”

Well of course I couldn’t say no. Remember Mr Was Right’s receipts? I had to witness first-hand what he saw in the place.

Friends keep asking me why I named my blog The Butterfly Diaries and why I have not been generous enough to divulge this information to date. Tut tut. Well, to be perfectly honest the story behind the name is so bonkers I was too nervous to share it with you for fear you might dub me a complete fruitloop, but I suppose you think that now anyway.

For about six months before I split up with Mr Was Right I started noticing butterfly symbol after butterfly symbol in the most unlikely places and, as much as my ego kept telling me they had been fashionable for years, the butterflies got more and more obvious, desperately trying to attract my attention like the kids are prone to do when I sit at my computer for too long.

My ever-increasing list of butterfly symbols that have turned up in weird places includes:

. a butterfly sticker on my petrol tank
. a big butterfly embossed at the bottom of a pub umbrella stand
. a piece of paper blowing around at the side of the road revealing an intricately hand-drawn butterfly illustration
. a massive butterfly illustration on the side of a lorry
. a huge gaudy papier mache sculpture on a dingy back wall of a very small and traditional pub leading to the loos.

butterfly illustration

These weren’t the kind of butterflies I was used to seeing decorating Matthew Williamson dresses, Accessorise jewellery and my Toh Sho shopping bags. And why would they appear during huge moments of doubt? It got so ridiculous that I started spotting butterflies or butterfly symbols all day, every day. What were they trying to tell me? That I was being a social gadabout, that I was vain and rather too carefree or was this a kick-ass message about transformation?

Just when I started believing Mr Was Right’s theory that I was suffering from the onset of an early mid-life crisis, I would see yet another one. The red eyed techy guy who came to set up my new computer put a butterfly before my name on my sign in box. A friend gave me his new album which had an illustration of a butterfly unfurling from its cocoon. But it was not until a complete stranger lifted her top up in Victoria Station to reveal the most incredible tattoo of a butterfly on her lower back, said nothing, then walked away, that I surrendered, knowing something or someone was trying desperately hard to get through to me.

‘Power Animal’ specialist and regular Hay House contributor Steven Farmer says the person with butterfly as a symbol can be flighty and quite detached. According to him we love fresh air and have a lot of vitality – which fits if you call smoking a cigarette on your doorstep fresh air and an hour of poledancing practice vitality. Carl Jung tows a more serious line. The synchronicity specialist says that butterfly turns up when our ego consciousness gives way to spiritual consciousness. The Goddess Psyche herself was represented as a butterfly in Greek myth and butterflies are often seen around coffins and said to represent departed souls and the freedom of the soul upon death. I could go on and on but those clever people at Humanity Healing have put it in a lovely colourful nutshell in the following video. So check this out…

http://www.humanityhealing.blogspot.com

The butterfly asks us to accept our fluid lives as casually as she accepts her metamorphosis. She teaches us not to let change freak us out and accept the short life and death of things as we undergo the most difficult transitions in our lives. “But I don’t want to leave my lovely comfy cocoon,” we squeal. “Before I make the leap you must give me a sign, a really BIG sign…” And so she flutters softly into our lives to remind us to go with the flow and surrender to nature’s beautiful way…which is a dangerous philosophy when you are being pursued by a brace of Swedes and a G.

But more on that next time…

 I’m going to dust down the cobwebs and shake my booty at the Mansion tonight. This supposedly super-chic restaurant set in a small excuse for a mansion and overlooking a  park famed for flashers and a surplus of dog plop is doing so badly for punters on account of its rather tasteless decor that its manager leases it out to club promoters once a month. I tried eating here once but the smell of the fish glue they used to stick the orange rubber flooring down kind of overpowered the sushi. I later heard from my DJ friend Salamander, that the guy who bought this place is into gimp attire and sado-masochism. OK so this is one place I won’t be scouting for work. As open-minded as I think I am I can’t work for a guy who walks around on all fours attached to a lead for fun. Still, the club nights are wicked and it’s the only place close enough to walk home from after getting my dance fix.

Tonight I have gone for chic rather than foxy. I am wearing my favourite part-suede part-patent purple and blue Miu Mius, a midnight blue Vanessa Bruno dress and the hair is up and back and styled with To Sho bands in an Audrey Hepburn stylee do. “You told me to dress sexy,” says my Polish au pair friend Kasia (Cancer), “You look so smaaaarrt.” If by smart she means I don’t look kinda slutty which Kasia has gone for, her low cut leopard print dress flashing a pair of boobs which are so tightly pushed together she looks like she has a bum on her chest, then she’s right. Our idea of sexy is clearly very different but, kerching, mine seems to be pulling in the boys.

I get us a couple of JD and Cokes. “The man at the end of the bar would like to buy you a bottle of champagne,” says the  latex-loving owner who must be short-staffed since he is working as barman tonight.  I look to my left and spot a 5 foot troll of a man dressed in a kind of Miami Vice get up with the sleeves rolled up on his pastel pinstripe jacket and long ginger hair tied back in to a limp pony tail. He starts waving and gesturing for me to come over. He clearly doesn’t recognize me. “Thanks but I’m sorted,” I shout to the person I last saw picking up his daughter from Nancy’s school. Good God, I talk to his gorgeous wife all the time. I’ll never be able to look her in the face again.

And just as tonight is starting to unravel and look like the biggest mistake since Gordon Brown  I spy the most drop dead gorgeous man walking into the room. The people dancing close to me seem to go into slow motion as I turn, he smiles, I flash a smile with a Princess Diana duck of the eyes back and Mr 6ft tall, dark and handsome sidles over.

“Hi, you here with friends?” I say

“Yes I am, madame, you having fun?”

He has a lovely accent, the bluest eyes and dark, dark spiky hair.

“Where are you from? “ I ask, unable to decipher the accent.

“Sweden by way of Italy.”

I’m in fucking heaven!!

“I’m Joachim. What’s your name.”

“Abi”

“Abeeeeee, I’m in fucking heaven. Come and meet my friend Jan,”

 We walk towards an equally gorgeous but blond man I take to be Swedish too. The next twenty minutes is taken up with two guys fighting over me by trying to outcharm me and outwit each other. Who cares if this is possibly some kind of Swedish line-up for a threesome? I’m loving it. Kasia has gone home with the gimp owner/barman and I am here with two guys who look like they just dropped straight off the catwalk. Looks like I am following the Dalai Llama’s philosophy to the letter but when did Happy feel this Good?

Mr Was Right is around this morning looking super-grumpy and super-tired which explains why the kids are trying desperately to get his attention. “Dad, Dad, can you do this?” says Sid. “Hold your willy in one hand, point your gun in the air and go ‘whooooo, whooooo’.” Mr Was Right attempts a smile, “Sid. That is just what every man would like to do when he wakes up. I’ll definitely try it tomorrow morning.”

He gets our two dressed before chucking a man’s idea of kids’ breakfast down them. 2 Kit Kats, 2 Fruit Shoots and a shared pack of Twiglets later they head off into the misty morning waved off by Mama Tight, who, dressed rather decadently in silk pjs, quietly thanks the God of Separation she won’t have to deal with the additive and sugar-fuelled fireworks going off in the Audi in approximately 1 minute. Screeeeeeeeech…..I shut the door knowing Sid is getting the fourth degree for calling his Dad a “buttcrack” or such like.  

This morning was a toughie. Mr Was Right dropped the bombshell I’ve been dreading for the last 2 months. He told me to – GET A BLOODY JOB. And, well, I kind of had to agree with him. The blog is hardly paying for itself, the kids are at school most of the day and I am starting to feel RSI nerve twinges – thanks to my social media addiction. I need to get out more. Text goes out.

Work is fast becoming a necessity. Any inspired suggestions?

Brrrrr Forget anything child-related, seeing how you lost Jamie the last time I asked you to watch him for 5 minutes in Ikea;)) x Vag

Brrr Given up on the dating site idea then? Xx Janey

Brrrrr With your heels and Dominatrix disposition, you’d make a great door bitch, Ms Tight. Oh and what happened to the pole-dancing? x G

I knew I shouldn’t have told G about the lessons I have been doing on and off for the past 6 months and I know what you are thinking. You need a job. You can poledance. Go figure? Believe me, I’ve tossed that idea around but, while I’ve got nothing against poledancers, doing it for a living would jar with my Goddess principles. Dancing provocatively in front of leery blokes can’t do much for your self-esteem and I haven’t got much of that left these days. It would also probably put me off the male of the species which isn’t really the best position to be in when you are signing up with dating agencies. Besides, who wants a 30 something when there are all those beautiful teenage Croatians, Latvians and Hungarians doing their do in the clubs?

I had better add a few normal jobs to my CV. Not sure former model, kiss n tell blogger, tarot reader, twitterer, jolly good friend, reiki practitioner, pole dancing practitioner and rambunctious raconteur will go down too well in the current job marketplace. Or would it? Can you think of a career that embraces all my finer qualities? Please be kind.

If you are an avid follower of the filmmaker Tim Burton or simply a miserable old end of the world doom-monger you will already be au fey with the warnings that today 9.9.09 could possibly herald the end of life as we know it. But rather than donning my imaginery sandwich board and looking for dark clouds overhead I have hot-footed it to my own Burtonesque hell on earth – the ballpark. OK so I lied on Twitter, doesn’t everyone? I am not soaking up Vitamin D, unless they feed it through the air conditioning. It being half term, I am in dire need of a sit down.

Sid excitedly pulls one of my sleeves to the floor as I pay. New To Sho jumper is now so asymmetric I feel like lolloping like a Silver Back Gorilla into the soft play centre. Soft play: who the hell called it soft play? Genuine evil lurks here. I find the only free table (13), and duck as the kids speed away, throwing their shoes backwards.

They career towards the closest thing to Las Vegas for children and I head for the zone marked ‘strictly for parents’, which has become Teen Central no thanks to half term break. “Can I please use the Internet. I need to do some work,” I squeak at three boys battling it out in some war game and a girl with an Amy Winehouse do and Sam Sparro glasses. She ignores me as a boy bounces her up and down on his lap before licking her neck. Suspecting that I am in this for the long haul, I grab a newspaper and sit down.

Ten minutes later I spot Winehouse clone and salivating boy doing a shifty to the TV lounge. I race to my corner like I am careering towards a touchline. Everything goes into slow motion as my left buttock skims the seat seconds before a fourth war child makes his take-over bid. I whisper a little satisfied “Cha” before finding my Facebook I-Ching and asking the Chinese oracle’s advice on my chances of getting a boyfriend. Up pops a hexagram with the word “smallness” underneath. If I Ching is on the button today “The greater whole may be affected dramatically by something small and ignored.”

The last time the greater whole was affected dramatically by something small and ignored I travelled the length of an office I was temping in, from the Ladies to the photocopier, with a tail of toilet paper hanging out over my jeans and trailing into a crumpled ball on the floor.

“Fierce catwalk strut Naomi,” bleats Claire in HR.

“Joke?” asks Taz from web graphics when I reach my final destination.

“What?”  

“The tail?”

As I turn to look down and spy something rather unsavoury attached to the end of it,  it slowly dawns on me that I must have picked up someone else’s excess loo roll off the floor when I pulled my jeans on. Grappling wildly, I bundle it rather too hastily into the shredder. The slow clap starts around the office. I run to the centre of the room take a few bows before slinking off to find a bin that I can barf in…

“You’re not working,” says wimpering war child.

“Dry your eyes, Rambo. I’ve just got to check my emails, Twitter and Facebook. Give it half an hour.”

“Maaaaaarm!” yells Nancy. “Where were you? A boy pulled Sid’s hair and pushed me head first down the slide. He’s smaller than me Mum. I think you should tell HIS Mum.”

I check out the women in this hellhole and, not fancying my chances, get my brood to alert a staff member. A peroxide blonde with a smiley tiger on her T-shirt gets Nancy to dob in devil-child. She presents him with a yellow card which he promptly brandishes around the room, smiling. It being yellow, not red, he gets one more chance. Meanwhile I spot some Jordan effort I take to be his Mum glaring at me, pushing up her nose like I am some sort of snob, which, after what i have just said, I probably am. This place now has a license for alcohol, I spy four empty wine glasses on her table and the temperature clearly rising in her neck.

The kids head for the Carousel where lights make me blink and see orbs. The smell of plastic mixed with warm socks is sickly. And just when higher self kicks in to tell me to stop being such a miserable arse and embrace the pure unadulterated screaming for its hedonistic quality, a bright green plastic ball hits me square in the eyes and devil-child appears grimacing in a half smug/half what’s-she-going-to-do-to-me kind of way.

“Get your shoes on, we’re going,” I shriek at Nancy. “Whatttt? I hate you. You are the worst Mummy in the world. You are worse than the Wicked witch of the West. I WANT TO LIVE WITH my DAAAAAAD.”

Suddenly all humans are gone and fearsome machines are roaming the earth intent on my extinction. I look for a spark of life and emotion in the parents around me and see little more than a flicker here and there. Why the hell didn’t I go for the nature option I think as I march two down at heel kids kicking and screaming to the exit…

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