I admit, too, that my puritanical streak made me suspicious of the sheer moral degeneracy implicit in cheering up a dreary chore like supermarket shopping with a jolly cappuccino break. Surely the road to hell was paved with cinnamon macchiatos and muffins? And what about muffins? When I’d waved goodbye to Blighty, the only muffin one ever heard about was Muffin the Mule. Now, all of a sudden, it was banana and bran here and blueberry there, with muffins, each the size of a toddler’s head, on sale here, there and everywhere.

Now, I’m just amazed that all the coffee shops are still staying open. Or maybe we’re just such hopeless coffee addicts, now, that no one can face weaning themselves off their £10-a-day latte fix, even in the grip of all this economic misery. And all right, I admit to being hopelessly hooked on muffins. Who isn’t? They’re light, they’re reasonably healthy *ahem, maybe not the one in my picture* and, if you make them yourself, they don’t even taste of bicarbonate of soda.

Look, we’re all in this together, aren’t we? Obviously the politicians are making their usual mess of things, but we, the people, must make sure that, no matter which banks implode, notwithstanding the whole of Greece sinking into the financial mire, we must keep our muffin tops afloat on a sea of coffee. I’m relying on you.

Well, I actually do have a deeply-felt emotional connection to housekeeping – but then, as my many friends will attest, I am a bit bonkers. And I am the ONLY person I know who gives a toss if their skirting boards are dusty. Most of my friends are way too busy to know they actually  have skirting boards, and I suspect even their cleaners have more of a life than to give them a passing thought.

Having annoyed everyone with the housekeeping book (and yes, that includes me – I fully uphold every woman’s right to be deeply uninterested in skirting boards), Flanagan is moving on to adolescent girls. Her theory seems to be that girls are damaged by the increasing sexualisation of our culture, and the Internet is making things worse. So far, so obvious, and I’m sure hardly anyone would disagree. Teeth will be ground, though, when Flanagan makes it clear that she believes girls are bound to be helpless victims, preyed on by boys, who are growing up cruder, more brutal and with even less idea of what real girls and women are like than ever before, thanks to surfing porn 24/7.

While it’s probably not the case that all boys are now Internet porn junkies (I said ‘probably’), it’s a bit of a shame that Flanagan doesn’t suggest, for a second, that anyone should stop boys from being boys in this way. All her suggestions focus on changing girls’ behaviour, not boys, even though it’s not the girls’ behaviour that is the problem.

Sigh. All a bit silly, really, and I wouldn’t give it a thought, except that I happened to see the list of one of my girls’ Facebook friends on the computer the other night. I didn’t pry, really I didn’t, but I was struck by how much effort these girls had put into their profile pictures. Careful make-up, alluring poses, dramatic outfits – from very young teens. It all looked a lot more like hard work than anything in my day. We didn’t have to present ourselves to the world in as attractive a manner as possible, in order to gain the maximum number of friends. Yes, granted, I did pose in front of the mirror with different hairstyles, and experiment with make-up, and try on every item in my wardrobe before even going to the corner shop, but that was only for an audience of about seven bored people. Girls now are out there, on the Internet, trying to look as old and as worldly-wise as Britney Spears (God forbid), in front of countless millions. It’s just sad.

I’m not going to stop my children going on Facebook – I do value my life – but it all makes me queasy. I’m feel I am almost on the point of agreeing with Caitlin Flanagan. And that’s very worrying indeed.

It’s all because I’ve developed a new hobby, buying our favourite china, Ostindia by Rorstrand, on eBay. Ostindia is a pretty Swedish blue and white floral patterned dinner service, with a romantic story attached – it came out in 1932, inspired by a shard of china salvaged from the wreck of the Swedish East Indiaman Götheborg, which sank in 1745. We saw it on holiday and fell in love.

Then the eBay supply of Ostindia plates dried up (all right, I bought it all). So clever TL found the Swedish equivalent of eBay, Tradera. As Rorstrand is a Swedish firm, you can hardly move on Tradera for Swedes flogging their Ostindia – it’s still one of Sweden’s most popular patterns today. I’ve had great fun, browsing page after page of candlesticks, tureens and other bits and bobs that you can’t find anywhere in the UK. Before you ask, my Swedish is limited to ‘hi’ – I just paste everything into Google Translate.

Finally, I decided to take the plunge and I bought a teapot. Ostindia teapots have been discontinued in the real world, so I was pleased to find one on Tradera, and remained pleased even when the seller told me how much she was going to charge me for postage. I was very happy indeed, right up until the moment I opened the box this morning. The teapot is NOT Ostindia, it doesn’t have the right markings, it’s slightly the wrong colour, the printing is all wrong, some of it is even blurry as though it’s a bad photocopy of a teapot.

You’d never think a Swede would lie, would you? They have a reputation for being upstanding, honourable, good people. After eight increasingly vituperative emails this morning, I’m now coming round to thinking that it’s no wonder Inspector Wallander is so busy in the Henning Mankell books. What this lady is trying to get away with is blimmin criminal.

Ok then, so I was all completely on track to make some of my signature flapjacks. What’s that? Yes, I know they’re not hugely exotic, but they are very, very nutritious. Yes, really. They’re full of oats, which as everyone knows lower cholesterol and provide sustained energy in a controlled fashion, unlike those naughty white flour snacks. I won’t mention the half-pound of butter if you don’t. Or the syrup. Obviously there is a sprinkling of sugar, too, but not that much. Not in the grand scheme of things.

Right, so there I was, poised on the edge of making the Anchor flapjacks. Well, if we must be strictly accurate, I was on the sofa, watching Above Suspicion (aka Shouty and Pouty) on catch-up, when Child Two called up from the kitchen. ‘Can I make some fairy cakes?’ Well, obviously, the answer to that in our house is always a resounding YES. So make them she did. With my Anchor butter. Specially bought for the flapjacks.

Oh deary me. On the plus side, we now have a delectable tin full of yummy fairy cakes, in two flavours, almond and lemon, with matching icing. Nommy nom nom. On the, ahem, minus side, we have no flapjacks. But do not despair. I’m going to give you the recipes for both, then you can decide which works out better for your own personal elevenses moment.

Child Two’s Fairy Cakes

Set oven to 170 C

Put paper or silicone cases into two fairy cake tins

Ingredients

250g Anchor butter

250g caster sugar

4 eggs

vanilla essence

250g self raising flour

almond essence

100g ground almonds

juice and pith of a lemon

Icing: icing sugar, lemon juice, almond essence

Method.

Cream butter and sugar until pale and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time. Add vanilla essence. Sieve in flour, then beat. Divide mixture into two bowls. Add half lemon juice and pith to one bowl, and almond essence and ground almonds to the other. Mix well. Put into paper cases with a teaspoon. Bake for 20-25 minutes.

When cool, make glace icing in two bowls, one with the other half of the lemon juice and pith, the other with more almond essence. Drizzle over cakes and enjoy!

DD’s Flapjacks

Set oven to 180 C, put greaseproof paper in a lasagne dish or baking tin

Ingredients

250g Anchor butter

450g oats – from cereal aisle at supermarket. If you can’t find them, then an oat-heavy muesli works really well.

200g sugar (any type works)

2-3 tablespoons golden syrup

Optional extras (try one at a time until you find your family’s favourite)

Half teaspoon cinnamon or allspice

100g chopped hazlenuts

100g raisins

Method.

Microwave or heat butter in a large bowl/pan until melted. Add the oats, sugar and syrup and any ingredients you fancy from the optional list. Cook for twenty minutes and try not to eat it all before everyone gets home.

And there is the mountain of unworn jumpers/coats/scarves etc, not just mine but everyone else’s, which are clogging the place up like baconfat clinging to an artery. I did see an ad in a magazine the other day for a declutterer, who comes round to streamline your wardrobe, like a Dukan diet for clothes. I couldn’t face the scorn, though. ‘When did you last wear this?’ ‘What were you thinking when you bought this?’ I can get all that from my own daughters. I’m not sure I need to pay for it too.

Oh dear. It’s all too much to contemplate. But contemplate it I must – because I can’t get on with Book 2 while there’s all this crap swirling around the house. It has to go. Wish me luck.

I wonder what this lady driver’s friends say to her when she asks:”does my bum look fat in this?”

I’ve tried different partings, made trickier by the fact that I have a double crown so that my hair sticks up in mad clumps at the back if not parted at the side. I’ve tried cunning sweeps across the forehead, which usually last seconds before being dislodged by gravity, or other people’s levity. I’ve even occasionally considered – intake of breath – Growing My Fringe Out.

Of course, when I produced beautiful daughters, I was adamant that they would not have fringes. Not for one second would they suffer Fringe Hell. I didn’t realise that Child One’s hair would fall naturally into a fringe, which we would then have to train out, by use of the ‘spout’ method. This is the syndrome which gives little girls strange little fountains of hair held up by elastic bands in the place where their fringes would be. It is rather reminiscent of those little Yorkie terrier dogs with one careful lady owner, whose topknot bows carefully match their little tartan doggie coats. Luckily for Child Two, she was a natural non-fringer.

Now the girls tell me they’d like to have fringes! When I shout, ‘no, never!’, they are understandably disconcerted. ‘But you have one, Mummy.’ The logic is irrefutable. But they won’t be getting fringes. Not on my watch.

A fringe is a curse, which requires more maintenance than the most demanding spouse and more trimming than the most manicured lawn. And it is very hard to escape from. Only this morning, I was thinking, yet again, of growing out my fringe. This afternoon, I found myself in the bathroom, cutting it very badly with blunt nail scissors. Oh well. Looks like it’s here to stay.

Is there anyone out there who doesn’t just adore John Lewis? First it was the huggable Christmas ad, flying in the face of children’s seasonal grabbiness. Then my own trip to the mothership (Bluewater branch) had me falling hopelessly in love with the Sylvanian Families John Lewis shop. Next, at a drinks party, a friend brought up John Lewis out of the blue and proceeded to shower them with praise.

And no, this blog is not sponsored by John Lewis and I haven’t been offered a single freebie for mentioning them (not even the Sylvanian shop, sob). I would, however, say yes in a flash to a bit of advertising from John Lewis. JOHN LEWIS, are you LISTENING?

But I digress. My friend, whose husband virtually runs another famous and hugely successful high street fixture, was practically swooning with the wonderfulness of JL. She had dispatched her busy husband to the John Lewis Oxford Street branch on Christmas Eve’s Eve, to pick up some gloves for his mother-in-law. Many men would have refused to have anything to do with the project at this point (and who can blame them) but my friend’s other half bravely soldiered on. My friend had already checked via the website that John Lewis was teeming with the right kind of glove, and the husband’s mission was simply to pick up a pair and leave.

Of course, it wasn’t as simple as that. He couldn’t find the gloves. He asked an assistant, who informed him they were out of stock, despite my friend’s information about high stock levels shown online, and that was nearly that. Stressed, cross and jostled by other cross, stressed shoppers, he started to make his way out, dodging the Christmas Eve’s Eve crowds, when he was stopped by a floor manager. ‘You don’t look very happy, sir, didn’t you find what you were looking for?’

My friend’s husband hesitated, torn between saying a sharp ‘no’ and storming off, or wasting yet more time explaining. He decided to explain, and told his sorry tale, which was received with sympathy and decisiveness. The floor manager asked him to stay put, and nipped away, returning sharpish with the right gloves. They’d been languishing in the stock room all along, as the website had said. A Christmas miracle!

Well, my friend certainly thought so. Her husband was amazed that a floor manager, on the second busiest shopping day of the year, had taken the time and trouble to assess a disgruntled shopper’s mood, step in, make his day and convert him into a John Lewis loyalist to boot. My friend, naturally, was thrilled too. And I’m sure her mother was very pleased with the gloves. Well, you just can’t beat John Lewis, can you?

The star of my subconscious show was a rabbit. Well, two rabbits, actually. Child Two, who has always been mad keen on rabbits, had a new one in this dream. It was a huge great white fluffy thing, with occasional beige splodges, and actually a fine figure of a bunny. It was called Snowball.

Then Child Two let the rabbit out onto our roof terrace (we don’t have one, but could my dream be suggesting we need one?) which seemed to stretch for acres and was beautifully turfed. Lo and behold, the rabbit hopped over to another, identical rabbit. Which one was ours?

Ok, ok, so I know I’ve ripped this dream off entirely from a Lauren Child ‘Charlie and Lola’ story called something like, We Really Can Look After Your Dog, in which the adorable dachshund, Sizzles, gets mixed up in the park with another adorable, identical sausage dog, with gigglesome consequences. So, in the dream, I was poised for a similar plot to unfold. But no sooner had I said to Child Two, ‘I’m sorry, but we’re just going to have to decide which one is Snowball and leave the other behind,’ than an enormous golden retriever dog appeared. And it was ours. I can’t say how, or more to the point, why we acquired this creature. It was just there, and unquestionably coming back inside with us, no doubt to wreak havoc by swirling its golden fur, massive tail and four blundering paws around like Prince Charming in Shrek.

My first thought was, ‘Oh my goodness, how am I going to explain this dog to the cats?’ Yes, I feel guilty about my existing pets, even in a dream.

I’m not sure what this dream was trying to tell me. Get a rabbit? Surely not. Get a dog. Most definitely NOT. Stop worrying about pets? Possibly. Get a life? Probably. Get a roof terrace? Hmm, tempting. Spend more time thinking about world peace? Yep, definitely. Sigh.

Now that I am dangerously teetering on the edge of hot flushes myself, I am beginning to understand, for the first time, how these women might actually have wanted the attention of being caught red-handed with an extra tin of peaches about their person. I’ve noticed that cars no longer stop when I want to cross the road, shop assistants no longer hover to help me find what I need, and even AA men are less prone to chat. Middle-aged women just start to disappear.

But, oddly, they no longer seem to be trying to get arrested to make up for it. Maybe they are all taking HRT, to keep their minds focused as they wander the supermarket aisles. Maybe they order everything from Ocado and stay at home watching Loose Women instead. Maybe being menopausal/hormonal isn’t quite as much of an isolating, dislocating experience these days. I certainly hope so.

Meanwhile, there’s Anthony Worrall Thompson, caught red-handed with some very unexpected items in the bagging area at his self-service till. Gosh, I hope he doesn’t start some sort of copycat movement among mid-life media men. All we need is Jeremy Clarkson hogging even more of the spotlight by ramming purloined asparagus down his ill-fitting cord trousers.