2010 -  the number of tears I cried as we drove away from our family Christmas holiday at a Luxury Health Spa.When we arrived there on Christmas Eve for this first in a lifetime experience there was a brief wardrobe malfunction when the white wrapover dressing gown they provided didn’t. A quick call to reception got a jumbo sized one delivered within minutes, and I was good to go, or in truth NOT to go,  for the next four days.

What can I tell you?  The rubbing was first class – face and body. The food that I didn’t shop for, prepare, dish up or wash up after was made in heaven and the entire break  proof positive that my family are the world’s best company. I didn’t log on to my laptop, watch TV or even read for the entire duration. I stared into space, dozed. ate and  laughed - a lot.

Since getting home I have done a couple of radio interviews.  This morning’s was on BBC Radio London with Vanessa Feltz and all about Kirsty Young’s recent high handed comments about how to bring up children http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1240650/The-modern-disease-pushy-mothers-Kirsty-Young.html .  Ms Young says pushy parents make her puke.   Millionairesses who don’t need to juggle paid work with bringing up their babies and who can easily afford to pay for a world class education for their little darlings, but  preach to less fortunate mums make ME puke. I get it Kirsty – you are too rich and posh to push.

Her timing is choice because many mums in the UK are currently worried sick waiting to hear whether they got their first, second, third or fourth choice of state school for their sons and daughters. It’s oh so  fascinating to know what  autocue automaton Kirsty thinks about real life education matters for other people’s children.

Vanessa Feltz led the discussion. She  is a fast talker and thinker, and to to keep up with her in a discussion requires full concentration. Midway through our live radio chat about pushy mums my postman turned up. Because the interview was arranged at short notice it was via phone from my home and not in the studio. This house is a black hole for telephone reception and the only place where it’s guaranteed is in the middle of the front bay window. 

The postman was puzzled. He could clearly see me ignoring him, so he abandoned the front door and approached the window and started hammering on that instead to get my attention. I had no choice but to turn my back on him to keep the thread of the debate on the other end of the line. He shouted, jumped up and down and banged on the glass for several minutes before he walked away making rude gestures with his free hand. The parcel I hadn’t let him deliver was in the other. 

A while after it was all done  I spotted the postman back delivering on the other side of the street. I forgot I was wearing a dressing gown, walking boots (very warm), a scarf  and flourescent pink earmuffs AND I had Sudocrem dabbed on the numerous spots on my face, cheeks and chin. Dashing  across the road I apologised to him that I couldn’t answer the door or acknowledge him and explained (why did I do that?)   I had been doing a live radio interview with Vanessa Feltz.

He considered for a moment and looked me up and down before  answering. “I’m sorry, too” he said. “ I meant to get  to you earlier but I was getting a signature from Brad Pitt for his giro.”