I still haven’t got used to the fact that Mother’s Day might actually involve ME receiving anything. Surprising, really, considering I haven’t exactly held back when it comes to sharing the niggling pain (OK, agony) of childbirth, the unrelenting glamour-free state of being a new mum, and the perpetual drama of looking after a toddler. And doubly surprising when being a mother takes up every waking – and sleeping moment of my day. Oh and night. Even when I’m sitting at my desk, toddler safe in the hands of his carers, I find myself humming the theme tune to Chuggington. Or worse, exclaiming enthusiastically to the department “Oooh, what a NOISY car!” when one revs loudly in the street outside.
My hatred of really strong perfume began long ago, back in the days of yore. The really cool six-form girls at my school would always sit at the back on the bus, and get on last because they had to finish smoking their fags. As they passed by little pubescent me, sitting on an un-cool seat in the middle of the bus, I was transfixed by the blur of their Pat Benatar haircuts and paisley-print chiffon scarves. But then came the backlash: a mouthful of Impulse ‘Chic’, sprayed on as liberally as Raid on a wasp’s nest. 
I hate it when people moan about having colds. Especially the ones who proudly announce (usually from their desk, while eating a sandwich) that ‘it’s actually flu’. Unfortunately, I have in the last couple of days become one of these moaners. I haven’t told anyone it’s flu though. I may be shallow but I’m not a liar. No, I see myself more as a tragic figure much like Beth from Little Women. (Actually, did she not die? Maybe not Beth then…) I long to be found, pale and ghostly in a nightdress, wandering the house in search of my smelling salts, a fan and someone to loosen my bodice. 
The toddler is going through a phase of getting up at 5.30am. To me there is only one 5.30, and that’s 5.30pm. 5.30am does not exist. It can’t. It’s dark. CBeebies isn’t even on yet. And the only sane people who are awake just haven’t been to bed yet. But what else can you do when a certain someone is shouting ‘Chicken!’ through the monitor? Ignore it and go back to sleep? Not possible. In fact I’m sure they use a method similar to this to keep prisoners of war awake for interrogation. 
When the sleet started lashing against my face yesterday, I realised the difference between going for a walk before and after having kids. In my old life, I would have found the nearest café/pub/bus-stop and abandoned the whole excursion, secretly relieved at being able to blame it on the climate rather than my laziness. 
I need a haircut more than I have ever needed a haircut. I look like a cello teacher. All I require is a velvet dress and some Celtic jewellery and I’d be set. Thankfully, I am having it ‘done’ next week. At last, I shall be free from the four-feet long witch-like tresses with several inches of un-highlighted roots at the top. I cannot wait. I don’t think I’ve ever looked forward to sitting in the same chair for three hours sniffing peroxide since my hedonistic twenties. (I’m joking, mother.) 
February 10th. Yes, that’s right, the day in 1846 that the Mormons began an exodus west from Illinois. The day in 1979 that ‘Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?’ by Rod Stewart peaked at Number 1 in the charts. And the day in 1990 that Perrier pulled its product from the shelves due to benzine contamination. All hugely significant moments in history, and yet nothing to compare with what happened on this day in 2009. You’ve guessed it: Product Placement was born.
Shopping for products. I don’t mean piling your Boots basket high with ‘3 for 2’ bottles of Pantene. I mean a glorious hour spent worshipping at the altar of Harvey Nichols beauty hall. Not everyone’s idea of quality time, I know, and frankly a distant memory for me, especially as my beauty shopping experiences now fall into three categories (none of which include the above).
