Blackcurrant Jelly, Clapham South platform poster

Amy has invented a country, a magical land of skateboarders that can only be reached by rocket ship, speed boat or jet plane. There are no secret doors leading to this magical place, I know this because I asked. Amy looked at me like I was dense and said, "You have to get there by rocket, speed boat or jet plane."

The name of Amy's country is, 'The Magic of the Power'. She's spent a lot of time thinking about this place. She's designed the flag, made the castle from Whitby sand, drawn pictures of the town and the King and Queen, she's told me many stories and facts about this place where, 'Young people can't turn into things, only the grown ups.'

I invented Wobbletopia. I had to. Amy made me. I was trying to read a book when pressed to draw something, so I drew a blackcurrant jelly on a plate, and this became the Wobbletopia flag. I then had to draw the people of my land, and drew more blackcurrant jelly's on plates. Little did I know that I would soon have to invent a Wobbletopian national anthem - and sing this to Amy and Mum.

It was ok for my Mum, because when she was Amy's age she'd invented Barovania. I doubt my Mum has thought about Barovania for 60 years, but she remembered her flag, the King and Queen's names, and many other details of her imaginary medieval-esque land.

The Wobbletopian's seem like a dull bunch to me, they just pick blackcurrants, make some jelly and live in jelly houses which they love to eat. They say 'wobble' an awful lot, and have a funny accent. Amy loves this place, and wants to chat about it all day long. She likes to compare 'facts' about Wobbletopia and The Magic Of The Power. She can't get enough of the Wobbletopian's grunty language, she likes that my name is Jode, and her Gran becomes Grud. All this is fine by me, I can draw a blackcurrant jelly in less than 10 seconds, and make 'Wobble wobble wobble Grud' conversation without needing to look up from my Sunday paper.

Amy asked me if I went to The Magic Of The Power what I'd turn into? She thought I'd choose Beast Boy, who's my favourite character from Teen Titans. We often play Teen Titans, or Supergirl, or Pokemon. She though I might pick Pikachu, I have to be Pikachu whenever we play Pokemon games. Instead I told her I'd like to turn into a wobbly blackcurrant jelly on a plate.

Wobble wobble wobble blug raders.

Purple felt tip stain, Whitby bus station

This is a proper family holiday, Mum, Amy and me at the seaside. I remember family holiday routines from my childhood, daily structures, conversational games, I think most families use these techniques to give a holiday a familiar, home from home feel. So each day we visit the beach and must take Amy's secret path, when we get there we have to say hello to the donkey we've adopted as holiday pet, and then it's time for sand castles, always stuck with flags.

It feels right to take Amy to stay in a seaside B&B. I visited Whitby when I was 6, and I expect the place has changed little since then. I made friends with a donkey called, 'Always First' - he never was. Amy's beach friend is called 'Polar Bear' - he isn't, he's a donkey too.

I haven't stayed in a B&B since I was a child, of course I view it differently now. With a cynical eye I decide Mums and Dads escape the 9-5 toil, to deal with 9-bedtime. A day at the beach is a good day's work. If it's rainy maybe they visit some castle or historic monument, and marvel at the olden days where whole families lived in one room with an open hearth, and survived on a limited diet of oats, and fish, when they could catch it. They'd laugh about all this over supper, at a place where finding something on the menu without chips would be a major challenge; then they'd return to their family room at the B&B, with a camp bed in one corner and a cot beside their double bed.

In the morning it's a 'Full English'. You can be proud of your heritage if you eat all this, and toast and cereal too. Mum and Dad will be happy if you can, knowing this means they can get away with a shared pack of sandwiches for lunch, or perhaps just an ice cream or two? Better yet the kids might fill up on their pocket money stick of rock.

At Full-English-Breakfast time there's always someone who tries to be fancy. You can order what you like, but there's never any need for a menu. So much to choose from, perhaps a sausage and bacon sandwich? Or bacon sandwich? Or egg on toast? Or bacon and eggs? Or to make a change why not try the eggs and bacon?

On the dining room wall there'll be a local print. There'll be pot pourri in a bowl (it's lost it's smell.) There'll be almost life-like flowers besides almost-antique china. If you pay more your evening meals are provided, prawn cocktail and melon starters guaranteed. Classier B&Bs have Games and TV rooms. Wise Mum's save up for B&B extras, they mean shorter working hours, 9-bedtime reduced to 9-tea, or 9-TV.

We stayed at an ordinary B&B, in a family room, with no evening meals provided, and no games or TV room. This meant drawing pictures while sitting on the double bed. I got purple felt tip on the duvet and Mum was horrified. Each day she'd dab at the purple stain I'd made, she'd fuss over it, seek advice on the progress she was making, and then hide it under a towel when we left for the beach.

I returned to our room on Friday because Amy had forgotten her bucket and spade. I found the B&B owner in our room, she told me about the shoddy work of the girl she'd hired to clean. She fussed about the girl not turning up that day, and said she'd have to clean herself. The purple felt tip pen stain was still tactfully concealed under a towel. I said goodbye to our B&B hostess, picked up the bucket and spade and left. I told my Mum about the incident - that was a mistake. I'm still not sure if it was just a coincidence, but 5 minutes after I'd told her this story she suggested leaving for York that day.

Everyone knows what to expect on an English seaside holiday, each happy routine mapped out from Full English breakfast, to sunny beach with donkeys, to family room bedtime. There's no place here for purple felt tip pen on the duvet. It would wash out - I didn't worry about it. But my Mum was used to proper seaside holidays, and so her Whitby holiday memories will be forever stained by purple felt tip pen.

Lidl catalogue collage stickers, Kings Cross

Steve is soon heading to Vegas to cover the most exciting poker tournament there is. I'm visiting my Mum in York and we're going on holiday to Whitby, my favourite Yorkshire seaside town. Steve and I should both be happy about leaving London for a while, but we're not. We were enjoying our coupledom far too much, a three week interruption isn't welcome at all.

Hopefully I'll write some of my screenplay when I'm away, but I doubt I'll get chance to update my blog. More likely I won't write anything much at all, just spend time entertaining Amy. She's taken to whining every time she sees me use my laptop.

Today when she whined, she and I made collages. I picked pictures I liked from the Lidl catalogue, and some funny slogans about the products, and made silly mixed-up stickers. 'That's Cheap!' 'Egg Cream with Vanilla' 'Available in various cute designs'. Aw, hard to describe, you have to see them, they made me smile...

To prevent myself going bonkers with boredom as a Mum I have to get creative. Amy and I often make stickers, or invent games, or draw little books. The latest big hit is 'Mr.Polar Bear's Ice game'. Amy loves drawing the board game pictures, Steve came up with the idea of using coloured ice cubes, my contribution to the fun seems to be a habit of landing on the square that means I get an ice cube down my back. Future versions of this game will see this square abolished. We've already lost the cat litter sprinkling square. I'll miss drawing that picture of Dolly doing a poo...

It's all very well adapting the game in the developmental stages, but Amy seems to invent the rules half way through the game - depending on the size of her ice. If her ice cube is big, avoiding the salt trials and hot water dunkings, she claims last one to melt is the winner. If her ice cube is tiny, and then she lands on a square that means she can hold, shake, or blow her ice cube to death, she claims first cube to melt is victorious.

It's all good fun, I like making things and playing games with her. I just wish I didn't have to do it quite so much, and why does it always seem to be when I want to be doing something else? It's that timing again. Like trips to Vegas, and holidays on the beach, that would be fun, if only...

Perhaps Steve, and Amy and I will be happy when we're away anyway. I'll do my best. I wonder how many people pack ice cube bags alongside their toothbrush and bras when they go on holiday?

Girl on swing, Up escalator Oxford Circus

"Push me on the swing," Amy said.

We were in the kitchen. There wasn't any swing.

"There isn't any swing," I said.

"You're stupid!" Amy said. She often gets cross for no real reason these days.

Like when we went to the shops yesterday. "You ask questions all the time! If you ask any more questions I'll get mad!"

I go quiet. I'm scared of asking questions, I know it might upset her. I should be scared of keeping quiet too, it turns out that might upset her as well.

"You're making me upset now! You're always making me upset!"

I don't know what to say.

"I know you're going to ask me questions. When we go to the shops you always ask me questions!"

I knew asking questions wasn't a real problem. Thinking that helped me stay calm. If I stay calm and remember that there's no real problem I'll see her anger attack through, and everything will be fine again. She starts accusing me of 'always' asking her what she likes, 'always' asking her what we should buy. I listen patiently.

"You ask questions all the time!"

I knew where it was going. It always leads to the same thing.

"You're not a good Mum! You don't even like me!"

How do you argue with that? You have to argue of course, and reassure, and do your best to prove it wrong. But you're reasoning with someone who's logic is so skewed, they'll see your breathing as a sign that you don't like them, because you're closer to the air in your lungs.

Back in the kitchen... The 'Push me on the swing' thing. I'm thinking, "What have I done now?"

Was I supposed to play some swing game with her?

"You have a rubbish memory!"

For once I could agree with her.

"You never remember anything!"

Well I didn't remember this, and obviously this mattered a lot.

"It's our secret code. Remember? You're so dumb!"

I didn't remember. Maybe I was dumb. I'd happily agree that I was dumb if that would calm her fury. I knew it wouldn't work. Nothing worked. Neither agreeing or arguing worked, I'd tried both. I'd tried different styles of both many times, calm silences or angry shouts.

Then I remembered!

Amy had had a friend to play when she'd had an attack of the 'I hate yous.' It was one of the first times it had happened, so I'd assumed it was caused by jealousy, because I'd played with another little girl too.

In an attempt to stop it happening on her friend's next vist I'd told Amy that we should have a secret code. A word for her to say in case she felt sad again, so I'd know if ever felt in need of my love or attention. I said, "How about if you say 'muffin.'"

She'd dismissed this idea grumpily, but she thought for a while. I could tell she was excited by this game. Eventually she came up with, "Push me on the swing."

This was a month ago, and she'd never used this secret code words. No wonder I'd forgotten this...

Maybe that she said it was progress? I hope that it was a hopeful sign, that she wants help to love me again, instead of trying to hang on to her strange hate for me.

It would hurt more if I thought I was at fault, if I believed I was doing much wrong. But I've thought and thought, and I can't see what it could be to make her feel like this. Her 'proof' of my badness is always random and ridiculous. So instead I'm just hurt that she's so unhappy, that I don't know why, that she doesn't believe me when I tell her all the time that I care.

Amy smiled as I understood her secret code. I made a game of loving her, hugging her, elaborately fussing as she laughed. Then I whispered to her about secrets understood, and it felt like we were a special gang of two again.

That day she used her special code three times, and each time I tried to show her how I felt. It wasn't even a game. I love her and want to hug her. I just do. So we had a good day, it was my day off. Yes, it was a good day off.

Then morning I rushed to work, late as usual, and Amy watched me from my bed, as I headed out the bedroom door...

"Push me on the swing!" She said.

I was ten minutes late.

"I don't have time!"

"Push me fast." She smiled. "Push me hard!"

I gave her a quick kiss, a tight squeeze. I had to go.

She'd have to swing her legs, push herself. I hoped that with a quick push on the swing she could keep it going on her own.

Get well soon card, Tooting Bec platform poster

I wrote Steve a long email about the sun on Oxford Street on Wednesday morning. Only really it was about changes. I had one of those 'in a film' moments on Wednesday on the way to work. Oxford Street looked like it should be in a movie, the sun was low and bright, the street glowing like a golden Hollywood version of London. I felt like I should be in a film too. Only it wouldn't be any kind of interesting film, I've nothing exciting to report, things are merely chugging along; this is a month of many changes, but only small ones, mainly stressful ones too. The biggest change was that I've coped so well with all of that, and in this surprised myself. I felt happy the other day. The sunny Wednesday morning on Oxford Street felt like a turning point in my life. Even though it was obviously just a Wednesday morning where the sun was low and bright. And that was it, it really was. Yet enjoying this low-key moment of midweek happiness felt strange, felt like a very big deal.

I'd like to claim this as an Act 1 turning point, but as I turned 37 last week, the chances are it was the end of Act 2. Maybe Act 3 will be my happy ending?

I blogged about an accident on the tube. On Tuesday a poster appeared at Tooting Bec station. A woman had fallen under a train. The poster said, 'Did anyone see the accident' It said the woman had been 'seriously injured'. Do you know how relieved I was to read those words?

We mark significant events with cards, don't we? Birthdays, Weddings, Christenings, National Nettle Week, that sort of thing. It's my brother's 'English version' of his Wedding Reception this Tuesday, his actual wedding was in France a year ago, but many members of our family couldn't make it for this, so this is their second chance to celebrate. I'm looking forward to it, even though I have to go to Yorkshire for a week, even though I have to go to this without showing off my wonderful boyfriend.

Amy made a card for Tash, our au pair, because she's leaving on Saturday. I haven't found a new au pair yet, but I will... This is a big change, I won't find it easy living with someone new, but hopefully I'll find someone that I like. Amy claims she wants a 'boy au pair!'

And Steve is leaving for Vegas on Tuesday, it will be three weeks before we're together again. We've been a couple for 4 months now, and haven't gone a week without seeing each other as yet. I don't think there's been a day where we haven't both sent emails. Now I'm going to a Yorkshire village and I'll have no internet, and he's in Vegas with no time to himself, sharing a room with a boss who likes to find him endless tasks to do...

So the idea of this blog post was 'change' and the cards that I might send to do with this. 'Good Luck' to Tash the au pair? 'Bon Voyage' to Steve? 'Get Well Soon' to the woman injured at Tooting Bec? 'Happy Birthday' to me..? There's also thoughts of invitation cards for my recent 10 year college reunion. I must write about that, that was good. There's even 'Congratulations' with the potential of changes for me at work.

But you can't get cards celebrating, 'Happy Wednesday' can you? And that would be the best card for me... I want to celebrate the fact that I can be there, on an average day, and feel as good as that. That was special. I doubt it will happen in quite the same way again, but if you can't buy a card for it, does that mean it can happen any, or every, day? If so, Happy Tomorrow to me...

Badly drawn monkey mug, Tooting Bec platform poster

I was wondering whether the Queen has matching mugs, and tries too hard with her childminder..?

I think anyone can judge their place in the world by the mugs in their kitchen cupboards. I blame the Queen.

I'd imagine the Queen has the best mugs the royal millions can buy. These might be solid gold mugs, with intricate designs in mother of pearl inlay - or they might be if coffee didn't taste better in china. I don't know exactly what the Queen's coffee mugs might look like. I just know they'd be classy coffee cups. Well, the Queen is a classy lady.

You can't judge people by the coffee they put in their coffee mugs. Coffee has too many variables, it's not just personal preference, for example time pressures might force you to drink good-quality instant when you'd rather use the coffee machine. And you can't judge people by the coffee making method they use either. People are often given coffee machines as gifts; you can't tell whether a coffee machine was bought by choice, or is a gift that's only called upon when needed to impress guests.

Of course many people don't like coffee and prefer tea. That's OK. Tea can be drunk in mugs too. Mugs still matter. Mugs are still key. Neither the drink you choose, or your coffee making facilities really matter, but your mug collection is a window to your soul.

I have friends from many kinds of backgrounds, and various mugs fill their kitchen cupboards. Some friends I class as 'Happy-Family friends'. Happy-Family friends all live in nice houses with their nice kids, they come home from their nice jobs and cook nice food, whilst they look out of their windows at their nice pets in their nice gardens. Without looking inside their kitchen cupboards I know exactly what their mugs are like. They have matching mugs, tasteful, practical, understated mugs, probably bought from John Lewis or Habitat. These mugs complete their pretty picture of happy family life; they drink good coffee, chat to the kids, stir the risotto, while the wife picks herbs or tidies weeds, and their contended cat lies on the grass in the sun.

I blame the Queen. As Head of State she sets standards to which we must all aspire. She has a fantastic house, a well brought up family, a good job... My Happy-Family friends all try to copy her. Buckingham Palace is smart and tidy with quality nick-nacks and impressive art, and of course there are plenty of servants to keep it ship-shape. My friends houses aren't so grand, but they try their best. They have thoughtfully chosen ornaments, and interesting art, and a cleaner once a week to dust and hoover.

The Queen has grown up kids now, but the pressures of her job meant she couldn't be a full time Mum when they were younger. So the little princes and princesses nannies would take them on picnics or to riding lessons. My Happy-Family friends have childminders who've been persuaded to take their charges to dance classes, or playgrounds after school.

My Happy-Family friends sometimes invite their childminders to their homes, and offer them coffee in the matching mugs.

The Queen would drink tea with her nannies too. It's part of the deal.

You present your mugs to others, hoping they'll like them, hoping they'll like you. Then you chat about the garden or the ornaments, art, cleaners, kids or pets. You drink from the matching mugs, knowing nothing else matches; but you don't care. Your childminder doesn't like your mugs. You don't like hers. You offer a mug to them, to feel better about leaving the house and earning money, coming home with shopping, to cook nice food, to drink good coffee, in these, your mugs. Then you washup, and put the mugs back in the cupboard.

"Bang Bang" speech bubble, camel poster Tottenham Court Road

"Bang Bang!" She just thought it, instead of saying it. What do you do when your boyfriend is asleep when you want him awake?

You know you should want him to sleep. Sleep is necessary. To deprive someone you love of anything they need is very selfish.

She shouldn't mind that he slept, sleep was the simplest, least egocentric way to ever part.

"Bang Fucking Bang" She said it quietly. She knew that noise would rarely wake him. She'd often have to shake him. More often she'd move restlessly, brush against him, as if by accident.

Sometimes it didn't work, especially if he'd been drinking.

She turned onto her back. She stared at the ceiling without looking at the ceiling at all.

If she woke him up they could have sex. She smiled, was that why she'd thought of the word 'bang'? It was a jokey word for sex, wasn't it?

She didn't need him for sex, sadly it was sometimes better on her own.

Why would she want to wake him? What would they do if she did?

He'd want to talk about his stuff. She'd want to talk about hers. She'd mentally close her eyes as he talked about the War book he'd been reading. Then he'd smile solemnly, as she talked work gossip, or told him how she felt about her mum's new dog.

He liked gun things, so was that why the phrase 'Bang Bang' had come into her head? No, unlikely. She barely ever considered his interests at all. Only ever to wonder when his conversation would end, to judge when she could fire off a conversational topic of her own.

It wasn't the sex thing, no, that was for sure. The 80's sitcom meaning of the word still amused her. 80's or even 90's? It was when she'd been with her ex. When she hadn't needed to know the phrase, when it probably wouldn't have made her smile.

Bad times. She'd never thought to repeat them.

Old Sitcoms were repeated endlessly on cable channels. Times changed and made them meaningless to her. You'd see those old shows running through the night. Did anyone still watch and laugh, or were they just familiar friends to people who couldn't sleep?

"Bang Bang!" She felt quite angry now, as if her partner's lack of attention was callous, a deliberate act. She remembered when her love was a thunderous bang of all-consuming, life-fulfilling, love. No time for sleep. A shout of loud endless love. Endless? A shout couldn't last. Only 4 letters in 'Bang'. Repeating it barely helped. Feelings like these weren't meant to last forever. Days always ended, eyes closed at the day's close, then stillness, quiet.

Things had to be that way.

Didn't they?

Always.

Each night eyes closed, each morning eyes opened.

It had to be like that no matter what.

Didn't it?

Forever?

"Bang Bang"

You're dead.

Pink and yellow cake, Tooting Bec platform poster

My birthday was good. The meal was yummy. Steve had some sort of beetroot tortilla thing. He pointed at the tortilla filling and smiled, but it was only later that I realised,'It was pink!' We have happy romantic magic things going on with pink food. This is all to do with the late night Streatham cake shop, where we once went after a giggle-inducing ice skating date. We ordered chocolate cake at the cake shop, but were given pink cake instead. And now Steve lives in Streatham and goes to the cake shop regularly because it serves good coffee. Yesterday I bought myself a new coffee maker, as a present to myself. I've talked about getting a coffee maker so much I was sure Steve would get me one as my birthday present, but that didn't happen.

I took my yellow sticker pen to Barcelona, but I was too busy to make a sticker with it. I lost the pen. But one of Steve's birthday presents to me was a new yellow pen. He was stressed about buying presents for me, just like I would be for him. And He got me a book about afternoon tea, a book about gardening, and some film about a talking rabbit, 'Harvey'. So he did just fine. As in, I don't care what he buys, and it means I don't have to buy him great presents in September! What a relief! I think his birthday is September? It might be October? He says he's told me 3 times already, so he's stopped reminding me.

I had birthday cake at the office yesterday, with a candle that played Happy Birthday to You' and my present from colleagues was the first series of Lost. That's good, Steve and I need things to watch together, we usually sit in front of the TV without much of a clue.

I like work things, and work people at the moment. There was an Office Poker League, and I only played 1 game and finished last in that. (I was exceptionally unlucky in a key hand in this only game I played!) I only got 1 point, and I expected to be bottom of the league, but I found out today I wasn't! Ellis only got 1 point too, and he was bottom! I like PokerStars, yes. Especially for the decision to use a non-alphabetical system when there's a tie in league placings in the office league. 17th feels so much better than 18th.

I used my new yellow pen yesterday, and draw a pink and yellow birthday cake. It was a couple of days after my birthday, but the day I stuck it was the day I got my birthday cake at work. I think this is proof that stickers are magic. It was a good day yesterday, for no special reason. Just things feel like they're on the up, a Waitrose muffin for breakfast, a coffee-maker present to myself, an excellent article by Steve to make him feel better about work-things, a sunny-yellow present pen to draw a pink cake sticker that reminded me of fun things, and especially the usual emails from Steve that make me smile and love him more. I wrote to him about expecting to love him less by now, but I don't. I suppose it's changed a bit, but it hasn't got any less intense, I just know him and like him more, and being his girlfriend only seems to get better and better.

I imagined Steve going pink as he read this email all about 'the L word' - as pink as the icing on that cake I drew. Pink doesn't suit his ginger hair at all. He emailed me back to say he was working late at the Gutshot card club, and the lights were low so no one would see that he was blushing.

We decided we should try to go away for a weekend together after his WSOP Vegas trip. Nothing fancy or ambitious, just a Saturday and Sunday - one night away together should be possible, even with his long work hours and my Amy responsibilities. We went to Whitstable together last Easter. It rained. We had a great time. And as I type this 'Singing in the Rain' is playing on my Ipod. A silly song that Steve sent me once to cheer me up when I was down. Rain is Steve's favourite weather. I still don't get that. I like sun best. But I love that he likes rain. I love him even more than pink cake and bright yellow sunshine.

Rainbow Tree, 'Be careful on the escalator' poster, Tottenham Court Road station

It's my birthday today, so it's one of those 'time to reflect' kind of times, like New Year's Eve, and National Nettle Week. Did I tell you about National Nettle Week?

I'm happy today, not just because Steve has a proper night off and we're going to a place that serves Chipotle Glazed Artichokes. Although that is good! And I'll tell him to switch his mobile off, just in case his boss forgets it's his night off. Yes, I'm happy, because I've realised that the only problems I have right now are related to good things, like having a very nice boyfriend that I worry about, and wondering soppily how much I'll miss when he goes away for two and a half weeks... And, well, other problems are really just minor stresses. I feel better for having written about the Steve-work problem, even though I know that if he saw it he'd probably dump me. No, only joking... I think. He wouldn't do that on my birthday, would he?

I used to think, 'Well at least life's not boring' when things went wrong. Lots of things have gone wrong in the last year - since last year's 'National Nettle Week' actually...

I wrote to Steve this morning and told him I had a carrot muffin for breakfast. I think we'd both like a simple life, and email exchanges discussing what we ate for breakfast, rather than emotional ups and downs, and other stressful stuff.

I made a muffin sticker once, quite a while ago. Maybe muffin magic is about a dull but happy life?

Amy asked me to draw some stickers the other day. I found myself in the strange situation of not knowing quite what to draw. I drew my first ever unhappy sticker. I drew an empty headed person, bald with a small forehead and an empty 'think bubble' drifting from his poor empty head. He was smiling, but he just couldn't think. So how could he be happy? And I wasn't thinking, 'I can't think' when I drew it. No, I was thinking... of someone else. Someone I think about an awful lot. When I looked in my sticker bag this morning, wondering which of my stickers to use on my birthday, I couldn't find this empty headed man sticker. That's probably a good thing.

Amy wanted me to draw another sticker after I'd finished the sad one. I suppose I was a bit empty headed myself. I couldn't think of anything to draw. My first experience of stickerer's block?

Amy decided to help, she gave me her 'magic pen' to hold. This is a garish, multicoloured, sparkly pen, with the word 'Flirt' written on the side. She showed me how to hold it properly to work the pen's magic.

I closed my eyes.

'You don't have to close your eyes!' She said.

I said I wanted to close my eyes.

I don't know if it was magic, I don't think it was, but I don't know what it was... I just knew what to draw.

'I'll draw a tree,' I told her.

She smiled. 'You see, the pen is magic!'

'A rainbow tree,' I told her.

I used every one of my special stickering pens. I drew spots, and stripes, and squares, to completely cover my cartoon rainbow tree with colour.

I don't know why I did that.

But then, I think the best magic is mysterious and unknowable. I hope it gives me a good birthday today. I think it has already.

Happy silly (magic) fun Birthday to me.

Spotty dog balloon, Up escalator Tooting Bec tube station

Steve finally escaped work at 1.30pm on Saturday, so he could join me on a trip to meet old friends at Southwark Festival. I wasn't too bothered whether he came, it was just the usual thing of waiting around, neither of us knowing when he had to work, or how long his work would last. All the uncertainty and weekend work shit made us both grumpy. It's usually easier to assume Steve has to work all the time, unless he has special permission for the time off. I asked him to email his boss to ask for Tuesday night free, because that's my birthday. We're going to a nice vegetarian restaurant with 'chipotle-glazed artichoke' on the pretentious menu. Anywhere with a menu that can make me giggle has to be good.

Steve's boss wished us well, and we have permission to enjoy my birthday. The 'Cool. Have fun!' sentiment only slightly tarnished by Steve being told he's to make sure he's around on Wednesday and Thursday nights. We're both wondering whether that means Friday is his night off? Probably not, his boss just hasn't thought that far ahead.

Steve offered to work Sunday and Monday nights, as part of the bold plan to ask for Tuesday night free. But don't worry, it's not like he works a 9-5 day on top of all this night work. No, it's 10-6.

Steve's work can mean long and unpredictable hours, the positive spin on this is that it's exciting and important work. Johnny Chan makes a final table, with a chance of an 11th World Series bracelet? Of course our trip to see a comedy gig is jeopardised. Intimate hugs interrupted by post-midnight phone calls? Well his boss needs to moan about the tech department - a vital part of the important world of poker editorial.

So 'just an hour' of work on a Saturday, turns into four or five, and I find myself starting to hate someone I've never even met. And I can't even write about it here...

Steve can't talk about it either, he knows he just has to get on with his job, no thanks given, only ever criticism, accompanied by the nagging stress of never knowing when the next 3am work session, or 14 hour day, will be upon him. Oh, I said I wasn't going to write about it?

It's hard though. I love him. I just want him to be happy.

I don't like his boss at all, but of course I realise that that's not fair. I know it's wrong to feel like that about someone I've never even met. Steve respects him, but I just think that respect is part of the problem.

When I'm trying to be logical and understand all this I decide that Steve's boss is like me when I have my writing-head on. If I have a script or a novel in my blood - I think about nothing else. I want it done right, I turn into an obsessed perfectionist, a maniac writer, some weirdo, writing, control freak. I feel like Steve might be the typist hired by some maniac writer to take his dictation. The maniac writer has some grand vision in his head, and he can see little else. His poor typist is on 24 hour standby, dragged out of bed and expected to work in his pyjamas, whenever his boss finds 3am inspiration.

His typist is obviously expected to get up next morning and work a full day too, which he does, because his boss does this, because this sort of passion rubs off. The typist knows he has to stop whatever he's doing, whenever his master calls, and does so willingly, because he believes his master is creating something good.

Steve's respects his boss, and works hard without complaint. Don't tell him I'm writing this, ok? (He doesn't read my blog.) But just sometimes it feels like he's that typist tapping away for a genius boss until his fingers start to bleed. His boss would probably not notice the blood, or if he did keep him typing anyway, so wrapped up in the work that he wouldn't see how late it was, wouldn't realise they'd both work better for some sleep. Instead the boss would notice that the typist has made typos, and see that there's blood spilled on the paper. He'd demand the work repeated, he'd want his typist to go faster, to make up time lost through his mistakes, to catch up with the work he still has to do.

And my poor typist tries to type, and take notes too, and make plans to make the job easier (reading books about speed-typing), and also he needs to buy more ink for the machine, and correct those mistakes he's made with correction fluid, and soothe his boss with kind words, and make coffee for him, and tell him it's all going to be great - and then type some more. Just keep typing. But he's doing so much, he can barely remember how to type now. He just wants to rest, to slow his spinning head, to remind his mind of where each letter is placed on the keyboard, without always looking at his hands - he didn't used to look at his hands? But he can't stop. He has to just look at the keys and type slowly, worrying that more mistakes will be made, replacing the sticking plasters from his fingers when they fall off, doing all that he can to keep up with the constant flow of his master's dictation.

If he stopped it would end. His boss would be too caught up in his grand plan to notice his special efforts. If the typist ever stopped his boss would find a new one, quickly and without thought. Sometimes the typist thought that this would be a good thing.

There'd be no time in the day for the typist to remember he'd once punched his keyboard eagerly, dreaming that he'd one day have a head full of ideas too; even a typist of his own? He thought if this happened, he might try to know the typist's name. He hoped he'd give him a break some days, a short one. He was realistic, he couldn't give him a holiday.

It's ok, I do know I'm getting carried away... Steve's job is quite normal really. He's just a journalism student with his first ever writing job. Lots of people do anything to live a dream. Steve must be one of millions to take a job, full of idealism, live for the work, then realise life and work are better seperate. Unfortunately by then 'living for work' might be expected of them.

Last Tuesday Steve and I supposed to meet, but he was given an unexpected task to do by his boss. He was unhappy about that, but I persuaded him to come to my place anyway. I said I'd try to help him. I thought it might be fun. He had to come up with some interview questions for a couple of poker players. He researched, considered, then rattled off some great questions - while I stood there just thinking, 'Errrr....' They really were great questions. I couldn't have done what he did. He cared, he wanted them to be good - even though, with me there it would have been easy to do a half hearted job. I liked to see him work, even though it took his so long I read two magazines, and then wrote half a blog post.

The best thing about this was how much he wanted to be asking his questions. He wanted the chance to do a great interview, he knew that if he did the interview it would be good. Despite all the stress he still wants to do his job well. I love him for that. I want that too. I don't care if I see him just once a week, even see him once a week with him hugging me with one arm while he types a reply to his boss on Gmail. If I knew he was doing something he was good at, that made him feel good, then I'd be the happiest girl in Tooting Bec.

So we... ok, he... came up with a long list of excellent interview questions. Then he adapted them to better to fit the person who'd be asking them, and then he sent them to the interviewer, knowing full well he wouldn't get thanks, knowing full well he'd get no credit for his part in the interview. Then Gmail messenger pinged, and he looked so worried... Fuck that, he looked scared. Scared that he'd failed to please his boss in some minor way again, scared that he'd have to work some more - when he'd had far too much of work already. So instead of making him feel good, his job, that he's good at, that he wants to get better at, that he's trying to learn without anyone ever really teaching him, just made him feel bad. As it does far too often. And I hate that it does that. Of course I do, I love him.

And all we can ever say is 'fucking work' and try to make the best of things. So our on/off trip on Saturday to Southwark Park finally happened. We were both determined to enjoy it. And we laughed as we saw a spotty dog balloon flying high in the sky. And we both had a good afternoon, and I believed that we could be happy one day. It seems that Amy has fallen for Steve too. She talks about him all the time, asks every day, 'When is Steve coming?'

So yes, I think, we might be happy one day. When spotty dogs can fly.

Fruit, Innocent Smoothie and Chocolate Mini Roll, Up escalator Oxford Circus

Steve and I like smoothies, and any smoothie fan knows that Innocent Smoothies are the best smoothies. All fruit, your full 5 a day in a single bottle, with added cheer-inducing amusing bits down the bottle side.

We both like muffins too. Steve is interested in good food, and has an impressive foody background. He once had a French Ex who was a really good cook. The fact that she was a good cook and French meant for a long time I had culinary low self esteem - I hardly dared make him a cup of tea. I still worry when I give him a biscuit. Is it the right sort of biscuit? Will Jaffa Cakes do? Are Jaffa Cakes biscuits or cakes?

He knows the difference between good and bad olive oils, he even does things with balsamic vinegar and salad. This love of good food is further proof that he isn't a proper Northerner. Unfortunately I am, I was brought up to believe that good food meant Vesta Chicken Supreme, Angel Delight, and, yes, Jaffa Cakes. I just smile when he talks about pain au raisin and aioli, and then rearrange my cupboards so he can't see my crappy food.

I used to want a fish tank in the office. This plan was nearly a success, my boss for a while contemplated installing a 17 foot fish tank across the back wall of the Support room. In the end it wasn't the £8,000 price tag that put him off, his Mum thinks it's cruel to keep fish in tanks.

The fish tank does have to do with the smoothies, be patient. You see my colleague Andrew goes to Tesco's mid-morning, and he always asks others in the office if they want him to buy them stuff. I usually ask for crisps, spicy ones. Crisps are my favourite food. Spicy is my favourite flavour. Usually there are other requests for fizzy drinks and crisps. Andrew is PokerStars top email answerer - fast, accurate, clever, and he doesn't show the players he hates them. On a busy shift if I'm in charge I'll contemplate the clear waste in resources of sending clever Andrew to the shops as 'crisp boy.' So a while ago I asked for a crisp machine to be installed in PokerStars office.

The only response was a debate amongst senior management in Canada and Costa Rica about the funny word 'crisps'. No 'Potato Chip Machine' ever materialised in PokerStars London office. I was disappointed yet again. It was just like the fish tank. Only I know there's no cruelty in keeping crisps in a tank!

On further reflection I decided that crisps were not healthy, it was good that PokerStars wouldn't help me stuff my face with them. I decided that PokerStars should provide their staff with fruit instead.

The PokerStars office always has 'fuck off' flowers on the front desk. You know, modern flower installations; never pretty, always stylish, attractive in a poke-your-eye-out kind of way. The company spends a fortune on some top florist to provide these pretentious blooms. I decided that if PokerStars wanted to spend money on natural-shit, why stick to flowers? Why not let us actually eat the nature-stuff instead? I thought they should give their staff free fruit.

Last night I told Steve I was going to start a campaign for free office fruit. I played around with the letters to try to give the campaign the acronym 'F. O.F.F.' Perhaps Free Office Fruit is Fantastic? But I gave up on that, deciding F OFF perhaps wasn't appropriate for a happy, positive, health-giving, campaign? If I told the boss F OFF he might not be inclined to be nice.

Did you know that Innocent Smoothies was awarded 'The Best Place to Work in the UK' by The Guardian? They're a warm, fuzzy, caring company with character, they give staff £1000 every time they have a baby, they have a cheese club, stuff like that.

I considered applying for a job at Innocent, but decided PokerStars are an excellent company too, and they would get even better if they gave staff fruity freebies.

Unfortunately the staff of 'Fruit Towers' (Innocent's head office) seem to be too busy enjoying their cheese club and benefits, to actually do any work. Gutshot, the company Steve works for, had made repeated efforts to stock Innocent smoothies at the bar, but 'Fruit Towers' had failed to deliver. Steve decided that he would have his own workplace campaign too. He would write to Innocent, and try to ensure that his favourite healthy drink was available at the poker club.

We decided there'd be a contest, a challenge, we said, 'First one to succeed before Christmas!' I've no idea how or why Christmas came into it, or what would happen at Christmas if either of us failed, or succeeded? No, I'm not sure, but it was one of those late night, snuggled up in bed, bit giggly conversations; yet also a serious mission for us both! I planned to beat Steve with my fruity mission, I was determined to bring free office fruit to PokerStars London office before Christmas!

I got up for work a couple of hours after my mission was decided, arrived at the office and started to make strong coffee as usual. I noticed that on the kitchen table were bowls of fruit. There were apples, pears, bananas, oranges, satsumas, nectarines - even a melon! I ate an apricot while the coffee brewed. Yes, there were apricots too.

Free fruit had strangely arrived without any fuss, there was just an email from our office manager, Lin, 'Enjoy the fruit!'

I was sure it was a one-off, we sometimes get gifts from players of the FPP Store. So I wrote back to our office manager and my boss, thinking this was an ideal way to start my FOF campaign. I wrote a long email extolling the virtues of office free fruit. I think I said that productivity increases if you eat a bananas. I explained why we must make the office free fruit a regular thing. I told them that I was ready to launch the campaign for office fruit, with a petition and everything!

Lin wrote back, it was just a short email, 'Yes, we plan to repeat the fruit order. We're having free office fruit from now on.'

So that was good. I won!

Steve was impressed at how fast I'd completed the challenge, and he wrote to Fruit Towers as soon as he heard. I won, he knew that, but he didn't want to be too far behind me crossing the finishing line.

I didn't tell Steve that I'd written to Innocent Smoothies myself, a few months ago about the Gutshot smoothie problem. I'd been disappointed with my favourite companies response.

I received this email from Tamsin at Fruit Towers.

'We must apologise for not having replied sooner. We have been absolutely snowed under over the last three weeks, even though its nearly summer. No excuse though, so slap on the wrists for us. It sounds like a problem with one of our stockists so I have Cc…’d in Meera who will chase it up for you.

Meera wrote back, to be fair. Only her email was dull, so I never bothered to send her the Gutshot telephone number she asked for.

But it must have been fruity magic day on Tuesday, just a few hours after sending his email, Steve received this reply -

Hello Stephen,

Thanks for your e-mail. We were really sorry to hear about what happened. I don't work on the sales team, but I've forwarded this to the lovely Mav who will be in touch to try and rearrange some more drinks to be sent and find out what has gone wrong in this instance. Hopefully we can make sure those poker plays are getting their intake of fruit whilst winning some money at the same time!

Take care,

Row

I bet Row and Tamsin and Mav are really nice people (not sure about Meera) I hope they all enjoy their cheese club, and I wonder if they get free fruit too, and have loads of babies at £1000 a pop?

So there you have it, I think this is a happy, magic, story. I think free fruit and Gutshot Smoothies will be a big success.

I also have some Cadbury's Chocolate Mini Rolls; actually a pack of 16 (they were 50% extra free) and these have a 'best before' July 7th. Another recent giggly bedtime chat involved cream cheese. Cream cheese says 'eat within 5 days' - this worries me because I can't get through a pack of cream cheese in 5 days. Steve told me cream cheese really lasts a month, and after that you can use it as glue. I'm not sure... I'm careful with food dates, whereas Steve was once sick after eating a quiche. So I'm not going to eat my 14 remaining Mini Rolls on July 7th, instead I have a better plan for them.

PokerStars gives us free office fruit, Gutshot give Steve smoothies on his bar tab. On July 7th I'm going to put the box of Mini Rolls outside my front door with a, 'Help yourself - these need eating' sign. Because it's July 7th do you think I should add the note, 'Don't worry, it isn't a bomb?'

Flowers tied with black ribbon, Tooting Bec platform poster

Amy told me she didn't want to go to the Princess of Wales memorial park. This didn't surprise me, she's been upset and argumentative since I got back from Barcelona. She tells me I'm 'mean' a lot. I have to remind myself that this isn't true, that I'm no meaner than usual anyway; that I'm probably no meaner than is normal for a busy, working mum. Thick skins are supposed to be one of motherhood's essentials, like wearing practical shoes, carrying a comb and tissues, and having a constant awareness of where to quickly find food, drink or toilet facilities. I couldn't do the combs and tissues either.

I can't decide whether this change in Amy might be caused by me abandoning her to go to Barcelona when she was ill? Or whether it might be insecurities about Steve being on the scene? Perhaps it's even a normal stage of development? We have the famous terrible twos, I found there were also the tiresome threes, the feisty fours, the fitful fives, now it's constant six year old strops...

On the way to the 'Pirate Ship park' that Amy usually loves to visit she accused me of being a bad Mum, pointing out that it was my fault that she didn't have any friends to play with that day. I should have invited companions for her. She told me I was too shy to ring her friend's mums. She has a point. I am. I feel sensitive about joining in with my friends and their kids on a Sunday. Sunday is a family day, isn't it? I was recently given a last minute invite to a friend's family Sunday lunch. I didn't enjoy it, the smell of single mum sympathy overpowered the aroma of vegetarian gravy, it ruined my appetite, even though the roast potatoes were cooked to perfection.

Sunday is a day of Mums and Dads taking their kids on outings, enjoying rare weekend freedom. Why would they want me and Amy tagging along? I can organise after school friends to come for tea, a time when parents feel inconvenienced by hurrying home for the school run - I'm doing them a small childcare favour, but weekends? Yes, I am shy.

So Amy stood in the street and refused to move. 'I want to go home!' She yelled. 'I hate you!' 'You're mean!' I eventually persuaded her to walk with a few bribes and white lies, so we began to make slow progress towards Tooting Bec tube station.

It was a dramatic arrival at the station. We reached the tube station to be greeted by a fanfare of sirens, and action. A helicopter overhead, cars, and fire engines. Police, and firefighters, and ambulances, descended on the magic station. Three ambulances, four police cars, two fire engines. Uniformed men jogging or talking on radios, or carrying machinery. Strangely the tube station seemed to be still open. I thought I'd better ask before heading down the stairs...

A paramedic snapped, 'No, the station's closed.' And when I asked why, just gave me a pompous, 'I'm not at liberty to say.'

I saw a firefighter carrying a lump of machinery with a saw for cutting things. Another fireman was lifting a plastic stretcher down from the engine.

None of the uniformed people seemed in any particular rush, there was no sense of urgency or excitement just busy, businesslike action. A crowd had gathered, but there was a different mood amongst this crowd, lots of people were on their phones, showing off their involvement in this drama, pretending they needed to make calls to discus lateness or alternative travel plans.

Amy and I speculated about what it might mean. I didn't want to tell her what I thought it meant. I said it might be an 'accident,' a good, vague word. Although I was sure she must realise it was more serious than a cut knee and an elastoplast. I suggested it might be, 'Someone hurt on the tube.' She excitedly chattered about bombs, and people being dead, and 'trains being blown up.'

About a year ago her school had had an assembly to explain 7/7 to the kids. I didn't think this incident was as serious, so I tried to reassure her of that. I didn't think it was as bad as bombs, but I was still upset that anything bad could happen at the tube station I cared about.

There were my stickers on the platform posters... I wondered if someone, whoever it was, at the heart of this drama had noticed those? I hoped not. I didn't want anything to do with Tooting Bec station just then. I wanted to be anonymous, unconnected. It was just a tube station. That's how I wanted to feel.

Amy and I walked to Balham, I thought that Balham tube station might be open so we could still visit the pirate ship park. Amy had forgotten her moodiness, she was just excited, I think my serious mood had intrigued her.

Balham station was shut too. A station official used my word. He said, 'There was an accident at Tooting Bec.' He explained that some passengers on a train near Tooting Bec were forced to walk through the tube tunnel to Balham.

I considered that if Amy hadn't been cross with me we'd have reached Tooting Bec station a few minutes sooner. We might have known more clearly what the 'accident' meant.

We headed to Tooting Common, we played in the playground for a while, we ate our picnic, we decided to head home. Balham station had reopened by then, so we went to the Princess of Wales park as planned. Amy had a lovely afternoon in the sun, then we took the tube back to Tooting Bec.

At Tooting Bec there was no sign that anything had happened. No one would know that the emergency services had dealt with... the 'accident.' It bothered me that there was no sign of any of it, the word had to mean tragedy.

With a road accident you see flowers by the side of the road. It's sad, and no one likes to be reminded that that can happen. London transport don't want anyone reminded of sadness... It felt like I'd told six year old Amy more than station officials would ever tell me.

As I'd stood outside the tube station, I'd wanted to be uneffected, to have no part in the place's strangeness that day. But the tube station had banished it's strangeness so quickly, hidden it away just as if it had never happened. It was decided that no one needed to know. It was by chance that I knew anything at all, and what did I even know..? Everything was designed to make it easy to forget, Tooting Bec returning to 'normal', like any other busy station on the Northern Line. I didn't want to think like that. That didn't seem right at all. So I made a sticker and stuck it at the magic station.

Michael Owen in goal for Poland, Up escalator Oxford Circus

I played football games with Amy today in Alex-The-Ex's new garden. Amy drew the pitch markings on the paving stones with chalk. The goal was clearly defined by two bars of her Dad's wooden fence.

We each had to decide who to pretend to be. I chose Michael Owen. Alex pointed out that Michael Owen was injured. Amy told me to pretend he wasn't injured. I was up for that, so I pretended to be Michael Owen not injured.

I was in goal as usual, and briefly whined that I was always the goalkeeper. Alex tried to help out, pointing out that Michael Owen didn't play as goalkeeper. Amy said that I could pretend Michael Owen was a goalkeeper. So there I was, pretending to be Michael Owen recovered from injury, playing in goal.

We had to pick which teams to be for our exciting World Cup penalty shootout competition. Amy chose England, of course. I decided to be Poland. Poland had won the World Cup of Poker in my recent poker blogging trip, and they were a very nice bunch of poker players. So there I was, pretending to be Michael Owen, recovered from injury, playing in goal, for Poland.

It was a very good contest. Following each spot kick Amy meticulously recorded the crosses and circles next to our team names. We had ENG, POL and BEL scrawled in chalk on the patio steps. Alex's Belgian Rio Ferdinand had a comically long run-up as he took each kick, and Amy insisted Rio had his eyes shut as he struck each goal. Belgium scored just one penalty in their five attempts, perhaps she was right? I screamed as I scored the crucial goal to take Poland to tie-break penalties vs. England.

An exciting five tie-break kicks, and the match was finally decided... My Polish team called on crucial saves from Belgium's goalie to ensure England won the contest. It was important that Amy-pretending-to-be-England's-Captain won, and was therefore in a good mood at 4pm to let us watch the genuine World Cup game.

Letting Amy win didn't work. Amy-pretending-to-be-David-Beckham was still in a lousy mood at 4pm. I'm not sure why..? Perhaps it's confusing for her to see me and her Dad together again? Perhaps my reluctance to define Steve clearly to her is confusing her more? I describe Steve as a 'friend', but she giggles and says, 'He's your boyfriend'. And sometimes she even sings, 'Mum and Steve sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.' I just blush. How do you do the 'Mum with a boyfriend' thing..? But I'm thrilled that Steve is so good with Amy, she really likes him.

I was stuck for a babysitter on the Sunday I returned from Barcelona so Steve offered to help. I returned to find the house decorated with drawings on nearly every wall, 'Welcome home from Squirrel Man and Amy' pictures everywhere. Amy loves the 'Squirrel Man' super-hero name she's given him. Steve knows this and good-naturedly plays along.

Amy doesn't like football at all, she refused to watch the England game with me and her Dad. We tried to ignore her constant whines that she was bored. I tried to get her interested in the match, but knew I was doomed when she asked, "So is there only one ball in football?"

Amy cried that she wanted to go home. Alex had just moved into his new home; toys were still in boxes, he had no internet to distract her, he didn't even have paper for her to draw on. Amy had a small point about it being boring for her, even though she was mostly being an annoying brat. It's only two quick stops on the tube from Alex's flat in Clapham south to Tooting Bec and we both live near the station, so I decided it would be perfectly possible us to get home during the half time break. A dull first half meant I decided to dash for home at 4.40pm, sure it was no more than a 20 minute journey, and that I'd be back in time for the second half.

Stuck in a tube tunnel between Clapham South and Balham I wondered if the train driver had suddenly remembered the football was on, abandoned his passengers to go watch the game? The train finally got going again, only to stop and start it's journey, making frustratingly slow progress towards Tooting Bec. The driver eventually announced that the delays were due to a signal problem. I wondered if the signal operators were busy watching the England match? How could I have expected them to concentrate on working their signals properly with the football on..?

I got home half way through the second half and wondered what had happened to Wayne Rooney. When I figured it out I had to explain the red and yellow card system to Amy. She was intrigued by this, and pointed out that at school you'd always get two warnings before any timeout on the 'naughty chair'. She thought Rooney's red was quite unfair. I wished the World Cup ref had used the same disciplinary procedure as Fircroft school.

As England's penalty kicks began I remembered our garden penalty game. Amy's England had won only because I'd kicked so many weak shots straight at Alex. I knew Portugal weren't going to aim easy shots at Paul Robinson's tummy. And they didn't. So that was that. Who did expect England to win on penalties? I felt strangely bitter towards the TV editors who'd already contemplated England's World Cup exit, pre-selecting the sad song to play at the end of the programme. The sad song bit always makes me feel like crying, emotive music, emotive images, defeat still sinking in...

As the sad song played, and Rio cried on the TV, Amy turned to me and said, "I'm going to support Italy now." She told me, "I can cover the England word on my top and write Italy instead. We get extra play time at school when Italy win."

It's easy being a football fan when you're just six. I blame the school. The teachers of Fircroft School are having a World Cup sweepstake, each class is allocated a team, and when their team win a match they get extra break time. The whole school was jealous of Class 2 for being given England. Not any more... I hope Italy do win, extra play time is a very good reason to support any team. Even if Italy lose Amy still gets the same break time as before. As a 'proper' England fan it feels like play time has been cancelled for another four years...