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My concerns that I am approaching a mid-life crisis continue. Yesterday I bought a hair clip in the hope that it could revive my flagging personal style (cute, buttony) (the hairclip, not my personal style, that is) but in fact it just makes me look like a wa**er.

When I was pregnant I felt so bloody awful that I vowed I would hit the treadmill in the gym just as soon as I'd given birth, lose loads of weight and purchase a capsule wardrobe that even Gok would be the envy of. I took a plain piece of A4 and listed a number of adjectives (and adjectival phrases ;)) I wanted my new look to say about me. They included: comfortable, feminine, organised, appropriate, practical, but with a hint of quirk, je ne sais quoi, carpe diem, etc etc, so that my True Self would shine through. (Would a bloke ever sit down and complete such an exercise I wonder?)

Actually, I'm not sure who my True Self is anymore. I'm a fairly passionate mouthy sort, with a reasonable sense of humour and a mega grumpy dark side that I blame on PMT. I am very organised (well I try to be) but am somewhat ineffective at 'sharpening the sword' (Seven Habits speak, as those of you who have done the course and bought into the ridiculously expensive filofax will know), also somewhat pedantic (I added that after re-reading the para above) and quite a scorpio I reckon. But more of all that another time.

In my youth (What?! Am I actually saying things like that now?) I thought of myself as 'alternative'. Or should that be 'Alternative'? or 'an alternative'? For F's sake! I had my nose pierced before it became de rigour (yep, I noticed the italics symbol tonight), wore a lot of tassles and purple and tights with big flowers on them and thought I was The Business. I have never been a follower of fashion, would hate to look cool, but would hate to look uncool and would hate to look as though I'm trying too hard. This must be boring you senseless. Total navel-gazing self-indulgence.

It's hard to get enthusiastic abut looking good when you spend your days arriving late at playgroups, sweating and pavement pushing, or hanging out in the park with your boob hanging out, dribble, crumbs mud and dog poo decorating your inner and outer wear. But I still aspire to being a woman that people would look at know I am just, I don't know, a bit different, not conventional, a liberal free thinker not run of the mill ho de hum diddley dee I don't know.

So, with Babe in nursery, and fired up by my recent hair clip purchase, New Babe and I hit the shops this morning. I wanted to purchase a gilet, what with the colder days approaching. (Now if that isn't sodding conventional, I don't know what is, but whatever. I need something I can thrown on fast and which will keep me warm, but enable me to cool down quickly when I open it.)(!).

I was immediatly distracted by a number of handbags - good friends will know of my search for the ultimate 'third lung' - a vessel that carries my daily requirements to perfection, both looking and feeling The Business - and also of my general obsession with all things of a receptacley nature (make up bags, wash bags, lunch boxes, pencil cases...). God, I'm sad.

In the knowledge that for the forseeable future I have need of nothing but a baby change bag, I managed to avoid the clutches of the clutches, saddle bags, satchels etc that kept crossing my path, and somehow or other ended up in the Disney shop, quite at odds with my anti-consumerist principles and bought an indecent amount of Cars film memorabilia for Babe's impending birthday.

Feeling bored and irritable, I decided to give TX Maxx a try, as there one can rely on variety under one roof. I bought Babe two jumpers and a coat. New Babe kicked off before I could continue shopping for myself, so I had an early lunch in a cafe while he bounced on and off my breast, leaving my nipple exposed every time a suave young man entered the joint.

Feeling bored-er and irritable-er, I bounced round a few more shops where I bought a few more things for my kids, before somehow ending up at a bakery where, yes, you guessed, I bought the equivalent of an early tea to eat on the bus on the way home. At approximately 12.45am.

I then sprinted along several pavements, trod in two turds and arrived sweating at nursery to pick up Babe. On arrival I lifted New Babe from the pram and he promptly posseted over my shoulder and down my back. Rummaging about my person for a tissue I noticed that my left boob had leaked quite badly en route. And that there was doughnut jam stain on my elasticated trousers. And that my shoes were muddy. My hair was tied back and I wasn't wearing any make up. Bloody hell.

I retrieved Babe, who was covered in paint, had sand in his shoes and was wearing girls' pants and trousers as he had weed and pooed himself senseless all morning and refused to use the potty and they had run out of spare boys clothes for him. We looked at one another as he took my hand, and despite his tender years I believe a mutual sigh of understanding was shared. We picked up some juice, bananas and chocolate buttons (half a pack for Babe, two-and-a-half for me) from the corner shop and headed to the park as it started to rain...