I’m glad Thresher have finally mended their window but I wish they would calm down the bad paint job too. Actually, for all their three-for-two offers, I want them to become Oddbins. It feels a more classy way to buy booze, because you can delude yourself it’s quality not quantity you’re after, and buy some smoked almonds, which somehow seems more sophisticated than a packet of Skips and some Maltesers. Truth is, I’m finding that every evening I want the sun to come over the yardarm a little earlier, mentally reframing the constant drinking of Mint Juleps by the mothers in the ‘Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood’ as a sign of tender friendship, rather than a clear indicator of alcohol dependency. The bulging glass recycling bag outside the front door makes our keen appreciation of wine a bit public. And the shopping bags do tend to clink. But has it always been the lot of parents to want chemical ‘support’? Gin as mother’s ruin, valium as mother’s little helper, and now Prozac as mother’s buffer? I realise being light-hearted about this sort of thing might seem irresponsible, but that’s the point. It’s a response to feeling it’s a bloody miracle that we have survived another day without serious injury or public humiliation (like realising, after I get home from work, that the reason that the 13-year-olds were smiling at me is because my skirt is tucked into my pants). With a full glass in front of me, I can slump on the sofa, and fantasise about the entirely fictitious but fabulous social life we’d be leading, if only we had a babysitter.