All I want to do this afternoon is to lie down on that Ikea couch and wrap myself in an on-sale (now quite nutella-and-peanut-butter-soiled) Brora blanket and have a little doze. Just for 20 minutes. And I want to mull over some boys’ names for the as-yet-undetermined forth child. Hunter? Miller? etc, etc. And then have a little half-dream about giant mince pies being delivered by the Abel & Cole man who may sing a few carols for the children and keep them entertained before taking the recycling away without me shoving it into his arms pointedly. But such a reprieve is being denied me as I have children. One in particular is interrupting my nap by running up to the couch and demanding more peanut butter and jam, which is to be picked off the bread, wiped on his shirt and the blankets and a few walls/light switches, and then I am to spread on a little more so the process can be repeated. I say no. He yells. I yell. No one gets a nap.

Anyway, one of the reasons I am a little on the weary side is that, apart from the 32 weeks pregnant thing, I went out to something Very Stylish and a Little Bit Cool last night. Jo, she of the new baby and lovely new haircut and litheness and fresh-face and Alexander McQueen scarf, asked me to go with her and some friends to see the Yeah Yeah Yeahs at the Brixton Academy. That, quite frankly, is a Proper Young Person’s Outing. So pushing through the pain-barrier of tiredness and ennui, I went and had a lovely time. Also, I had two gin and tonics. This caused me to sweat a little bit and when we were waiting for Karen O and her Band’O’Noise to come on, standing, the place got hotter and more crowded and I did my Heavy Pregnant thing of feeling like I was going to vomit/faint/die.  So I said I had to go. Jo, ever courteous, said she would find me a wheelchair. This was not quite the effect I was planning to have on the crowd, my vintage polyester red frock and McQueen tuxedo jacket threatening to get lost in the folds of a wheelchair, but heyho.

But (and this is the point here, fellas – take NOTE!) for the disabled/heavily pregnant/swooning among you at a gig, there is a ramp that one can go to – a Disabled Person’s Ramp – which is actually just another term for Really Good Seats With An Excellent View – away from the throng of Abled Bodies who, while obviously feeling good and healthy and fully in charge of their limbs, are also squashed in and involuntarily mooshing. Well, there is one of these genius ramps at the Brixton Academy, in any case. So Jo and I took our seats and could watch Karen O in her PVC and tubular crinoline and her violent smashing of the mic completely unobstructed.  And the faintness passed, the risk of spewing left me and I was fine, although a little more tiredy than usual today.

Tonight is Book Club – a whole new Queens Park literary adventure. I am going to try to sound faintly intelligent. This is no easy task these days. I fear that amongst the beautiful TV producers and architects and documentary makers and lecturers, my contributions may fall flat. We shall see. In the meantime, here is my Custard in a nice jumper.