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When my best friend, let’s call her “B” to protect her identity – and also because it sounds cool – suggested meeting at the park, with the kids, in November, I knew she had to be one of two things – mental, or hungover.

Turns out it was a bit of both: with a head in ruins after a night being well and truly bombed by Jäger, she had been driven mad by a morning spent with Competitive Mum.

You know Competitive Mum: She updates her Facebook status every time her little treasure gets full marks in a spelling test or has a bowel movement while simultaneously wiping its arse with Cath Kidston loo roll (OK, I don’t know if that actually exists, but that woman will slap a floral print on anything – so there you go, Cath, that idea’s on me).

Anyway, turns out that an invitation for coffee at Competitive Mum’s turned into B’s idea of hell when the morning suddenly turned into an impromptu craft session, complete with B’s arch-nemesis – glitter.

I hear this story from behind the bush I’m crouching by smoking a fag as quickly as I can before I’m spotted by one of the kids, or worse, a morally upstanding member of the public who is likely to tackle me to the ground crying “Look! A mother! Smoking! AND I bet she didn’t breast feed!”

I stand up light-headed and B gestures to her daughters on the climbing frame, twinkling in the sunshine. “Bloody glitter gets everywhere”. Now I’m not suggesting we deny children glitter, or glue, or even paint – they ****ing LOVE that shit. All I’m saying is keep it in school where I don’t have to spend an hour hoovering it all out of the rug.

Same with baking – I’ve lost count of how many nauseating pictures I’ve seen on Facebook of my friends’ children holding aloft trays of perfectly iced cupcakes in an array of pastel shades, a twinkle in their eye and maybe a single smear of flour bedecking a cherubim cheek… However, when we tried it at B’s house all it resulted in were six broken eggs, two punch-ups (the kids, not us), 12 burnt cupcakes and three fights over who got to lick the bowl (we won).

Nobody can say we didn’t try, but the truth is, as with most things, the idea is always better than the reality. Family days out for example: they promise rosy-cheeked children, eyes aglow with wonderment as they gaze at the fireworks/Christmas lights/zoo animals/bunch of assorted crap we think they should be impressed with… in reality, 30 seconds after arriving, one of the kids wants a wee, another’s hungry, they’re cold and bored, and they just want to go to the gift shop.

Speaking of which, B and I have barely decided whether we’re gonna drink tequila or vodka tonight and I’m just about to crouch back down behind my bush when two of the kids run over to inform us that they’re all bored and hungry. Am actually pretty impressed it’s taken this long. We say our goodbyes and B tells me she’ll be round once she’s managed to scrub the glitter off her children. On the way home my eldest asks me if they can “make things” when we get home. I suppress a shudder and manage to convince them that sitting quietly on the sofa with a Disney DVD and a (shop bought) cupcake while Mummy pops out for a fag and then “rests her eyes” for five minutes is much more fun… RMC…

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