mothers on the verge

I'm trying to give up smoking. Or, at least, I'm thinking about trying to give up smoking. For those who know me off-blog, they will know very well that this shocking news is somewhat akin to Gordon Brown contemplating voluntary resignation, the Pope donning a pink sequinned cowboy hat for Gay Pride or Jordon (aka Katie Price) being seen in a twinset and pearls. I'm one step ahead of this lot though, having purchased a pack of nicotine patches at the chemist this morning. Yes, they are still sitting in my handbag unopened, but they're acting as a constant reminder of my sort-of intent every time I delve in my bag to rummage for the ever-present pack of Marlboro Lights. Baby steps, right? Most people think my long attachment to the ciggies is kind of pathetic. They also think that a stern talking-to will make me see the error of my ways; a tactic especially favoured by ex-smokers who, frankly, should know better. Kindly folks suggest all kinds ...

Buggeration. Our estate agent, a creature I'm not particularly fond of at the best of times (he has the arrogance of youth without the brain cells to complement it), has just called to announce we have to reduce our apartment by at least £100k if we're to have any hope of selling. It's hard to believe that the market has fallen by that much since we first put it on the market a mere four weeks ago, but there you go. Looks like my dream of upgrading to the properly grown-up house in Shepherd's Bush that I've been hankering after, and installing Sven the 18 year-old Swedish au pair in the airy attic room, is fading before my very eyes...