And I'm feeling good...

I didn't realise that raving had become my life. Although clearly other people had judging from the comments of 'your always raving!' - because now that I'm not doing it every weekend – it seems that there isn't much else.

Of course, being a parent – there is my child. But she's now at the age where spending the WHOLE day hanging with your mother – as cool and hip and she might like to think she is - is deeply uncool. And means avoiding any shopping area (in south London) where she is likely to 'buck' any of her school friends.

Most of my friends have children – so Saturday nights are our times for meeting up, after we had enjoyed mummy time, and doing all the stuff necessary to keep home and hearth running – or in my case, ignoring all that shit completely and going shopping, gym or somewhere most interesting instead.

Most Saturday’s I roll out of bed and go for a run – cos if I don't do it the a.m. ...'forgettaboutit'. Plus it's nice to get out there early before all the tourists take over the South Bank making it impossible to run.

Then, I come back sweaty and shattered and have breakfast or take Daughter Dearest to Giraffe for brunch. That's cool – we usually have a chat about the goings on at school. Still no boyfriend action (cool), no chemicals in hair (good) and no piercings, tatts or underage drinking (awesome).

Sometimes when I just need to get away from it all I pop into my local arthouse cinema – either the Ritzy or Clapham Picturehouse. On Saturday I went to see 27 Dresses. I recognised one of my sistren there – "i.e. Single sister who can't be bothered to wait pon people to see a film so chooses to go by herself but is looked on with pity by male ticket attendants".

I don't know why I wanted to see this film – but I guess as much as us post-feminists try to hide it, that romance thing is ingrained, and I thought it would have the feelgood factor. Cos Lord knows I ain't getting it much 'good feeling' elsewhere.

Five minutes into the film I pretty much feel embarrassed that I am even there.

But of course I chomp on my popcorn (small) and continue watching – and much like heroin does for Pete Doherty (I'm guessing) - for those 94mins I am transported to NYC – which looks great by the way. Bills, work stress, and the lack of available men fade into the background.

Cheap at the price for £8.50, and safer than injecting yourself with a needle.