Take a look in the mirror...

New Year 2007

Another year in the can: New Year again, time for bitter revelations and close-up inspections. 39 and a half, and I now have to tweeze out my grey hairs in secret. I’ve replaced the bulbs in the bathroom with energy saving ones with the pretence of going green: my husband Martin’s got that light on his special shaving mirror so didn’t notice. I keep thinking ‘Botox’, and really must get those thread veins on my thighs dealt with once and for all so my husband never mentions them again although I'm sometimes past caring (as long as the limbs they are on stay slim). The lines on my forehead show no signs of abating despite the blasted overpriced creams deriving from grape extracts. The stretch-marks - road-map to two pregnancies and two gorgeous children -are there for good. But I reckon I look pretty decent most of the time: dressed that is, maybe not quite so impressive naked, but being married isn't that less of an issue these days, dare I break a taboo and speak the truth?! As for our ambitions for an even leafier ‘location, location, location’ than the suburbs of ‘Greater’ London we call home, plans for global domination in real estate didn’t materialise this past year...

New Year Resolutions (or “Revolutions” as my son aptly puts it):

ONE: Deal with sly addictions. First and foremost: sneaky and totally unnecessary emotional purchases of designer clothing off eBay, most of which remain sadly unworn with flapping tags, the price of guilt, still attached. More acceptable, but still in excess, are the couture jeans (yummy mummy uniform)! It has to be said: there’s nothing quite like the school run to bring out the competitive streak in women. The current look in vogue’s the ‘I’m over 40 with loads of kids but look like I’m 20 with none.’ Which explains the expensive belts to add that spot of ‘bling’ and hopefully show off a trim waist - though they’ve been shoved to the back of the wardrobe since Christmas dinner racked up a few extra pounds. Lastly, more designer handbags than I need, although as we women know, it’s not a case of exacly 'needing' fashion. But I'm ashamed to admit that, literally, I do NOT 'need' (or indeed 'use'...) half of my wardrobe...

TWO: Tone down the chocolate and the wine (even if one probably can’t survive motherhood without the chocolate: 70% dark, organic does make it sound, after all, like you’re doing yourself a favour). As far as wine goes, remember the 6pm slump’s a little early, even on weekends?! Note to myself: I know we’re not in the league of my (socialite and gallery owner's wife) friend Min’s Petrus ’47 (how did crushed grapes ever get to be worth thousands?) but remember to check out who built her corkscrew-shaped wine cellar, or hubby’ll keep banging on about it - wish I’d never mentioned it now. I wonder whether he wants it for himself or just to show off to other men. Sometimes it seems that certain members of the male species haven't really evolved past the peacock stage...but then, how can I possibly criticise when I use designer handbags to the same effect?

THREE: Don’t just hope, but translate it into action! (Note on ‘hope’: playing the lottery every week’s apparently nowadays a widespread middle-class affliction, so don’t feel too guilty). Things I hope and have to work on: reignite the romance in our marriage; have more sex; lose weight; afford that bigger house in the not too distant future; create a worthy career for myself (or just actually "find a job!" as my husband puts it, saying that whenever he calls from the office I'm at "Paul's French Bakery" having tea and cakes with the ladies - untrue, of course). But there is some truth in jest, as they say. Somehow being nearly 40 and a full-time mother (with a part-time husband)leads me to desperately hope that this doesn't represent everything I'll have achieved by dreaded middle-age. Much as I love my kids I cannot contemplate that the day I have more time to myself to do something really creative and productive, I'll be too old, wrinkly and tired to really achieve anything of note. And of course, an income of my own instead of having to make snide suggestions to my husband about topping up my account, and instead of having to hide those credit card statements...

FOUR: Remember that obsessive diary writing isn’t a substitute for a good gossip with a girlfriend, and shouldn’t preclude marriage counselling...so how about proper writing, writing, writing, for local magazines maybe? Or even a novel? Prize: that brand new Ligne Roset designer writing desk with drawers to stash all the stray A4 (so they don’t morph into paper aeroplanes), and plenty of flat space for laptop and teacup. Writing is all I can do, all I trained to do as a journalist, the sum total of anything I could achieve at home in the time available (except flower arranging and wishing we weren't so much poorer than everyone else I ever meet at the school gates, who by dint of nannies and au-pairs have all the time in the world).