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It has been a heavy week. I am seriously thinking of changing these pages from Mum About Town to Mum Out On The Town.

Ben's needs have taken a serious back seat to his mum's social life and, apart from feeling slightly knackered from the heady week of social engagements, I have thoroughly enjoyed it.

Three gigs in seven days, a birthday curry, a retirement bash and somewhere in among that lot was work, Ben and the small matter of sleep.

The gigs were the highlight of a week of sheer craziness. It was an eclectic mix which began with the mighty Bon Jovi, ended with the more sedate Neil Diamond, and featured the Isle of Wight festival somewhere in the middle.

The writing was on the wall from the off. After the two- hour trip down adolescent lane that was the Bon Jovi gig the voice was in shreds. Livin' on a Prayer can only be sung in one way in my book, and I was determined to crucify it. The result was me sounding uncannily like Thelma from The Simpsons the following day, with very little sympathy for my sore throat.

The pain however was nothing compared to the torture that was the aftermath of the Isle of Wight festival.

I can dress it up any way I like but essentially it was my own fault. Having been reintroduced to my old friend Mr Beer we went on to shake hands with Uncle Jacobs Creek who then popped by to say hello to cousin Strongbow. It was quite a gathering.

The idea was just to stay the Friday night and catch the ferry back. It didn't quite pan out that way. A marvellous Kaiser Chiefs set, a couple of nightcaps and, hey presto - two festival goers on the wrong bus, heading for Ryde when Cowes was the destination of choice. Once there not even my silver-tongued mate could talk an unsuspecting police officer into the benefits of giving us a lift back. So a taxi ride later saw us deposited at the correct terminal but too late to catch anything resembling a ferry.

A rather uncomfortable bench beckoned - that and a series of apologetic text message to explain my absence. It was around 5am when, huddled around the hand drier in the ladies trying desperately to keep warm, I questioned my suitability as a mother for the umpteenth time. How could I be in charge of a child when I can't even get myself from A to B? I eventually rocked up at home around 8am that morning smelly and hungover. One look at me and it was obvious I had suffered enough so I duly took my leave and headed for bed. I'm not sure Ben even recognised me. He certainly didn't seem to have noticed my early morning absence and from the smell of me didn't exactly cut a dash for a cuddle either. It was probably around Sunday evening when I began to feel anything like normal but it served as a reminder that I could still just about do it, only with slightly less grace and a lot more time to recover!

11:39am Tuesday 24th June 2008

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