My lips are still throbbing. Not as exciting as it sounds, unfortunately, just the horrible result of E putting Sichuan spicy bean curd sauce from the Chinese supermarket onto the stir fry we had for supper last night. How can anyone eat anything so spicy? Of course, the instructions probably said to use a fraction of what we did but as the whole packet was in Chinese, who knows? So much for multicultural city living. Get out the bread and cheese.

Wednesday

News comes of exciting sounding hotel-and-flight deals to California for couples and others who don’t have the easy option of giving birth the natural way. Thousands of 'reproductive tourists' are leaping on the first plane out and heading for the nearest fertility clinic to be implanted with unlimited fertilised embryos. Great if you’re desperate for a child, have a few thousand pounds to spend and fancy a bit of Californian sunshine. Fortunately we didn’t have to go that far. I’ll spare you the sordid details but comedian Sandi Toskvig’s remark in a newspaper interview this week that the birth of her three children involved a 10p test tube rings a few bells of recognition.

Monday

Back from holiday. Tanned and surprisingly relaxed until a huge lorry veers straight in front of us at 70 mph on the Severn Bridge. Not even a wave of apology from the driver when I finally pass him after flashing my headlights manically to force my adrenalin levels down. D’s comment that “It’s all mum’s fault” does nothing to help. Especially as it isn’t, for once. The prospect of work and some respite from the 24/7 company of D and E over the past week is starting to look quite appealing.

Sunday

South Wales, in mining country, on the last afternoon of our holiday. It’s a beautiful day so we choose to spend it down a coalmine. Yes, we’re mad but it’s a lot more fun than it sounds. The Big Pit in Blaenafon is now a museum and the highlight is an hour-long tour of the mine, walking bent double with no light except from a head torch, through corridors held up with rotting pieces of wood, the floors wet with water seeping in through the ground above. Oh and everyone, including D, is wearing a belt weighed down with more than 11 lb of batteries and anti-carbon monoxide masks. D’s belt is so heavy that at one stage it falls to his knees, pulling his trousers down and temporarily crippling him until the former miner doing the tour comes to his rescue. D’s the only one on the tour who’s able to walk upright through the tunnels and emerges without a crick in his back.

All week

Holiday in West Wales with six solid days of sunshine. E and I have packed: two waterproof anoraks each, waterproof trousers, waterproofed walking boots and four fleeces each. We actually need: shorts, T-shirts, swimming costumes, beach towels and sun tan lotion. Why bother with abroad? We even swim in the sea. I can’t believe I’m doing this. D nags to be allowed to swim every day then stands at the edge until his lips go blue and his body erupts in goose pimples, refusing to plunge in with me. What a wuss. Maybe we should buy him a wetsuit like all the other children of his age seem to have. They don’t have cruel parents who force them into the sea dressed only in their swimming trunks.

But the one time he does get himself wet, he actually lets go of me for long enough to float for a few seconds by himself in his armbands, flailing and kicking. He’s swimming. Next stop, the London Triathlon. Except that he has to learn to ride a bike first.

Daily cliff-top walks are the price he has to pay for being allowed to have ice-creams and sit on the beach making replicas of Hagrid’s hut (Hagrid in Harry Potter, of course, keep up) out of stones and bits of driftwood. The walks are our treat. Even if D jumps from rock to rock just inches away from a sheer drop down the cliff into the sea. And even if he goes up to everyone we meet on the way saying “I’m on a walk with my mummy and mum.” We certainly get a few odd looks. The paths and beaches are full of nice nuclear families. None of your London diversity here, thanks.

Which is why we’re spending this holiday in a beautiful self-catering cottage on a farm run by a gay couple. No need to explain anything, no dirty looks from curious B&B landladies at breakfast or questions over double beds. D realises for the first time that turkeys and chickens don’t start out as shrink wrapped packets in supermarkets and that farm dogs are happy to play catch and fetch for hours, giving us some merciful peace and quiet. Glasses of wine on the patio all round.

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