Sorry for lack of postage, my mojo hasn't been working recently, blogwise. I think I am too fat and too tired to write.

This week I have been engaged in a cleaning FRENZY. A hoovering, dusting, toilet-scrubbing, bin-changing FRENZY I tell you.

I haven't had a complete personality transplant: it's because my cleaning-and -childcare person has left me to go to university in Italy. I mean, how selfish is that? Isn't mixing my morning vodka-martini ennobling enough? And my little Elf is heartbroken for one. Deborah was the only person in the world who could get her dressed without her screaming the house down, plus she had an impressive repertoire of cute baby hairstyles. And we were mates, too, in a country where matage is generally lacking. So now I have decided to live without servants, and clean up my own sty, like a Proper Housewife. If I can get over the discouraging fact that it takes Emma a matter of milliseconds to restore the reign of chaos.

I give it a week.