I’m sure you will be thrilled to hear that not only did I declare a No Computer Day on Saturday, but I became so enthralled with being a truly atrocious Mother at the weekend, that  I forgot (oops!) to switch the damn thing on again yesterday.

Oh yes. All my fears have been confirmed. When push comes to shove I am an appalling  Mommy. I want to tell you that my weekend was abundant with joy and brocante-esque pleasures. But instead I have to tell you that I dressed my son like a girl and dropped him  flat on his chocolate covered face. Oh yes.

You see Finley and I took ourselves on a little shopping jaunt on Saturday. Perhaps it  wasn’t a good idea:  my PMT is reaching new highs of atrocities upon the innocent and quite frankly my little boy was getting on my nerves.
(No I can’t believe  I just said that  either, but  suffice to say it’s true.)

What I really wanted to do was lose myself in the aisles of the bookshop and drown myself peacefully in a cup of chai latte. Quietly. By myself.  Alone if you please.

But instead I had to deal with  a  two year old  who greets every instruction with "I’s not. I’ll  kill ya." .

A child who  is  "going away to get a new Mummy!!"  A two year old with a girlfriend. Oh yes. My son has a girlfriend called Keelaigh, a monster of a four year old who last week informed my son that a)boys aren’t allowed to kiss their mummies, because b) boys and girls only kiss each other in bed and c) kicking is good…

So there we were, me and my hooligan. In Starbucks. Me with a cold-sore so ugly and dry it cracks every time I eat, or laugh, or breathe and I find myself looking like Dracula’s Mother, blood running down my chin and misery written all over my face.

So there we were: me with the cheese and marmite ciabatta I’d been craving and Finley with the only things Starbucks provide for children with celiacs/coeliacs:  a plastic box full of fruit salad and a foil wrapped chocolate coin.

There we were. Me staring into space and Finley taking the opportunity to lean over and drop squashed strawberries down my jumper.

Me pretending I was somewhere else and Finley flashing his big brown eyes at an old lady smitten with his curly locks.

"Isn’t she a pretty little girl " cooed said scarily tanned and leathery old women.

Now trust me this happens all the time and normally I just nod and agree that yes indeed my little girl is scrumptiously pretty. But this time Finley took matters into his own hands:

"I is  a boy!  Don’t touch my pwecious curls. I’ll kill ya  orange lady."

The woman looked at me like I had a raised a tiny psychopath. "He’s wearing pink and his hair is long." She said. So bless me I must be raising a little girl.

I shoved "her" in "her" pram and grabbed a few magazines as I made my way to the door (Writers News, Counry Living USA, Romantic homes,  Vogue and  Selvedge) Then made my way to the toyshop where Finley proceeded to run wild for half an hour and I tried to think up a good bribe to get him out of the shop, only to find myself grappling with him on the floor in front of Liverpool's yummiest Mummies.

Me with blood running down my chin and a piece of kiwi fruit hanging out my bra. Him with chocolate all over his face and pwecious locks a flying.  And in that moment as I tried yet again to  shove him  into  his pram, while keeping a hand clamped over his screaming mouth,  I momentarily lost concentration as  I watched a fur wrapped vision of maternal loveliness offer her immaculate toddler a hand to climb into his pushchair, and realised that I was finally losing the battle to maintain my composure no matter what.

Is it any wonder I dropped my gorgeous little monster?