The G fairy

Is it wrong to eat strawberry cream tarts for breakfast? No I didn't think so. Friends came over for dinner last night and by the time I had bathed and bedded Sproglet and rustled up some culinary joy, we kind of forgot about dessert. It might also have had something to do with the many jugs of gin, elderflower cordial and apple juice - try it, trust me - that I kept pouring...

Sproglet couldn't believe his luck at the booty I brought forth from the fridge. I debated if we really should be chowing down on such fare, for all of about two seconds and then we tucked in. Sproglet had already had proper breakfast I might add, should you think I'm pumping my kid with fat and sugar without some proper sustenance - mind you most cereals are filled with just that - so the innocent little tart probably is healthier...

The crummy mummy tribe are on the move today - we're off to Southampton to visit an old friend of mine, over from Canada. I call her G Fairy - as in 'the good fairy.' Because she is, or was, so damn good. She has a sing song voice, a sunny disposition, unrivalled politeness and is the kind of person who buys an Xmas tree for her room in a grubby shared house.

One particular Xmas when we shared a flat, I came home slaughtered, lips stained black with a violent strain of red wine, to discover G Fairy having a merry little Xmas sing song as she carefully wrapped her carefully chosen gifts under said tree. Never again have I seen such a visual that captured the holiday spirit. She belongs in the Waltons or something... Anyway, I picked up my unwrapped (largely unbought) gifts and demanded she wrap them too. Out of fear or simply to humour me, she did. I might add my current fling at the time, well, he kind of looked like the devil. All dark pointed eyebrows, thin face and black hollow eyes. Yes, a real stunner. Let's make it clear that I was with him for his mind; he was a hugely talented TV producer with a hugely expensive cocaine habit - and obviously best avoided. (I was young and mending a broken heart at the time so he seemed the perfect tonic. His scary eybrows and all). G Fairy glanced over my shoulder at the antithesis of everything she was - glaring at her and she squeaked in fear.

From that moment on I became the Bad Fairy. She calls me B. Funny thing is, I bought a flat, met Husband a few years later, married - with G taking the pics at my wedding - had a baby - all very G stuff. She however, followed an unsuitable boy to Canada, settled there, ditched unsuitable boy, hooked up with another one and then ditched him and settled for... well, his boss. Not so G. She now has her own baby with said boss man.

Somewhere along the line we worked out that we swapped places - although I would wager that deep deep down she was never that G that I was never as B as she thought I was.

Her Dad has a sprawling house, with a pool and... a pub in his back garden. A small one, but a pub none the less. Husband likes it very much. They never call time at the bar. Never have to throw out a rowdy rugby bunch or wait for an hour to get a drink. Brilliant.I'm going to meet her son for the first time. No doubt we will drink to his health.

Maybe we'll revert to our old roles... we'll see.