Mr A sauntered off to a weekend of blokes-only, family-free bliss in Ibiza in the wee small hours of Friday morning. I say bliss but only out of a firm desire not to think of the probable debauchery involved in a stag weekend. This being the last stag of the group to walk up the aisle as well as their collective hurtling towards the tail end of their thirties, I suspect this was treated like a mission on a par with the final frontier.

In the sixty or so hours since his departure (not that I’ve been counting) the endless tantrums, wee on the floor (from the toilet-trained three year old; not the nappy-wearing one year old), screaming and bickering have felt like a tortuous, relentless battle of World War proportions that I was never equipped to even entertain the notion of possibly winning.

The worst aspect of the weekend so far is the realisation that, when pushed, it appears I’m actually capable of snapping. And when snapped it appears I become possessed by none other than my own mother. Short of her trademark smacking that effectively deterred any repeat offense (this being the ’80s social services wouldn’t have batted an eyelid), I am ashamed to admit I raised my voice (and I mean more than just a few decibels) and, when that failed to elicit the desired response, I sent the red-faced, tantruming three year old, who was giving Damien from The Omen a run for his money, to her room and shut the door.

When she eventually stopped kicking the door and calmed down (luckily before the neighbours dialled 999) I realised, rather miserably, that she wasn’t the only one who had let the side down. The difference being I should know better. I’m sorry for getting angry, for shouting and being a terrible mother…

More specifically, I was sporting the ‘sleeve’ tattoo equivalent on both my legs (technically could they be referred to as ‘trouser leg’ tattoos?).

There is no doubt that this dream is entirely induced by the continual and compulsive viewing of ‘Prison Break’ that I have recently undertaken. For those unfamiliar, it is a drama series featuring the dreamy Wentworth Miller (Mensa-level intelligence coupled with Adonis looks – what’s not to like?) and charts his attempts at, as the title suggests, breaking out of prison. His secret weapon is the prison building blueprint he has tattooed across his entire upper body, like a long sleeved T-shirt.

I have no idea what guise the tattoos covering my legs came in as the shock of indelibly branding myself in such an un-middle class way woke me up instantly in a cold sweat.

I have nothing against tattoos per se; nor against the people sporting them. In the manner of sartorial freedom of choice it is no skin off my nose whether my neighbour has a daily dress code of leopard print or twinset and pearls. My aversion to tattoos is on a more personal level – I have never and would never consider one for myself. The permanence is too unsettling. How can one guarantee that the Chinese/ Sanskrit/ Arabic characters interspersed with some tribal art, that was deemed so universally cool in our university backpacking days, might not date in the manner of ’80s shoulder pads?

Some women are addicted to body art the way most of their peers can’t resist the latest ‘it’ bag. For most though, one tattoo usually suffices to sate the rebellious streak. It will serve as a reminder of that point in their life like a scar, whether a moment of drunken impulse or a sentimental dedication to some long lost love, whose name is now probably anathema.

At the height of the tattooing popularity sweeping through my contemporaries, most victims fell into one of two camps: the emblem (rose, dolphin, lizard, dragon, flower etc etc) on the lower back, versus the Chinese characters, most memorably ‘girl power’ (the Spice Girls have a lot to answer for) on the upper arm. Even Samantha Cameron it appears wasn’t immune and bears her dolphin as a relic of her youth, albeit tactfully discrete below her ankle.

As for me, a henna version was more than adequate to quench my tats thirst. Even then I couldn’t quite decide whether it looked boho chic or simply chav-tastic and was more than happy for it to fade to oblivion. Perhaps I am more prone to ambivalence than most and indeed there could be a whole host of grannies out there still enamoured by their body art, no matter how distorted by gravity’s pull on sagging skin. I wholeheartedly salute them.

As for everyone else, unless you have a supremely strong reason for it (for instance, as a means for breaking out of prison), the temporary tattoo might prove a filling taster.

I am thrilled at his newfound foray into the realm of independence; not least because of the sigh of relief my back is breathing at not having to heave his almost twelve month’s of body weight around in his every waking hour. This is offset slightly by the extra hours spent hunched over retrieving toys and other paraphernalia from nooks and crannies in the house I was previously unaware existed.

Secretly and shamefully, however, I am somewhat wistful for my baby boy. As he takes each more confident step away from me, I feel increasingly redundant. Soon (well, probably not that soon given he is yet to turn one) I will be a discarded crutch with about as much remaining use as firewood.

There are days where, though I never resent my children, I resent the drudgery that now consumes my life as a result of choosing to have children. That is, until my ingratitude slaps me in the face and thoughts of the friend with two failed rounds of IVF under her belt drown me with guilt.

It strikes me that being a mother is a bit Dr Jekyll/ Mr Hyde – we can’t stand the relentless requests and being on call 24/7, tethered by the ball and chain of our children. Yet equally unbearable is the thought of becoming surplus to their requirements. It’s like the proverbial rock and hard place and I am officially stuck.

I am considering a change in career. Given I am currently in extended limbo since the abrupt end of my most recent career over three years ago,  this would seem long overdue.

The 10 month old is now old enough to consider the possibility of farming out some of his pastoral care without inviting negative comments regarding my maternal negligence. I am free to find my life’s calling again; though the beckoning bray of The City’s charms are somewhat less musical now than they once sounded to my singleton status twenty odd year old ears.

Therein lies the difference. The three year fallow period aside, I remain the same individual who managed to wrestle her way through half a dozen interviews and claim my place as a bona fide broker. Minor mental deterioration owing to sleep deprivation and nursery rhyme overdose is a moot point. But I am no longer single – my ball and chain baggage is a family. And I am no longer in my twenties – raucous socialising at the expense of expense accounts no longer floats my boat.

So where does that leave an ex-banking mother of two? The principle requirement is for flexibility around nursery/school drop-offs, pickups,  holidays, sick days, dentist/ doctor visits… I am beginning to understand why Lord Sugar claims he would ‘think twice before employing a woman’. So far, the only options on this particular career carousel are teaching (I shudder at the thought of dealing simultaneously with so many children) or setting up some form of self employment where my employer (me) won’t be tempted to fire me for moonlighting as a mother.

The  last time I reached this junction in the road of considering my career options, I gave up and postponed the difficult decision by plumping for the easy option of having another baby. Unless I harbour a hidden desire to form our own family five a side team, I suggest I shift up a gear and get my backside on this carousel pronto.

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There are some phone calls one hopes never to be on the receiving end of. The one from the hospital labour ward, calling a mere two days after blood tests were taken, with the opening gambit, ‘Is this a good time to talk’ would be one of these. The results were meant to come after a minimum of two weeks and the parting words at the time were, ‘No news is good news’.

So I ask, ‘Then surely this must be very bad news?’

Time stands still, stranded on the pavement equidistant from home and the music makers playgroup we were en route to. And instead of a morning of making music, I find myself dragging an uncertain Babybel back to the hospital where she first graced the earth. Mr A is there to hold my hand and support my crumbling world – but there are some things even he cannot save.

I would not be able to cope with a down’s syndrome child. There – I have voiced the unspeakable. I am selfish and mentally weak. The precipice of sanity has been teetered too close to already. Babybel senses the seriousness of the situation – her solemn and beautiful face looking at me intently. How lucky I am to have such a perfect child. How could I burden her with a lifetime of a dependent sibling? Because after Mr A and I are gone, it is inevitably she who will be the sole provider.

The consultant is so kindly that I sense this is the beginning of the torrent of sympathy reserved for those bereft. And that feeling of grief is creeping up surreptitiously around us like garden weeds. Tomorrow we will have a CVS. Followed by the longest two weeks of our lives waiting for the results.

If we lose this baby, I know with a heavy certainty that I will not have another. Because I will not want another. Nor shall I deserve another.

Like a reverse commute while the rest of civilised (sane) society was conducting a mass exodus last week, we were making a beeline for the country currently most touted on the news for its chaos.

On checking in at The Four Seasons in Sharm el Sheikh, we were greeted by a prominently placed portrait of Mubarak in the hotel lobby. Barely a week later at checkout, it had been discretely removed and the wall seamlessly painted over without a trace. Notwithstanding the fact of his having allegedly retreated, since his newly unemployed status, from Cairo to his holiday retreat down the road in this very Red Sea resort.

It wasn’t a decision lightly taken to embark on this long-planned trip to a country now mobbed with civil unrest. Indeed it was with much trepidation and foolhardy trust in the foreign office advice (as well as BA’s resolute refusal to offer even a partial refund) that we set off rather reluctantly at the height of the protests.

In a sense of foreboding, Gatwick was eerily empty (we were the penultimate flight of the day) with a post armageddon atmosphere. We made it from taxi door, through departure gates, security and check-in in under 15 minutes and, no, we weren’t ushered through priority check-in. Note also we were walking at funereal pace to cater to the speed of the lowest common denominator of our party: a toddler towing a Trunki.

On boarding, it transpired that bar a portly man and his equally portly other half, we were the only travellers in our cabin. Like an empty restaurant, this has to ring alarm bells. On the positive side, we had limited audience for extending apologies after hours of crying from the overtired 9 month old.

Five bleary-eyed hours of pacing the aisles with the fretful 9 month old; the 2 year old sleeping like a seasoned pro-traveller replete with eye mask, we touched down in the country that felt as familiar as our own given the compulsive viewing of everything Egypt related on the BBC news over the past week. With the exception that all was quiet and calm. Bar the local cab drivers squabbling over the fresh batch of tourists, there wasn’t a riot in sight.

Echoing the capacity of the flight, the resort was equally as sparsely occupied. For the large part the pool was a private affair and it was with much indignant harumphing if on the odd occasion we had to share it with anyone else. The breakfast buffet was a bursting banquet enough to feed the biblical five thousand but in reality only needed to feed about fifty.

The Egyptian people were warm, welcoming and gracious. Service was affable, efficient and the epitome of the term ‘family friendly’. Our room was equipped with nappies, wipes, cot, baby bath, toddler step stool, bottle steriliser, bottles, bottle warmer, an array of baby toiletries, jars of baby food as well as a microwave to warm them up in. The suite even came complete with washing machine, tumble dryer and dishwasher but there is a line to be drawn at full-on domestic drudgery while on holiday.

There was also a kids club where the 2 year old made pasta necklaces and a huge cardboard rocket that she insisted we bring home on a seat of its own on the plane.

At one point I gazed longingly at a Russian family who had brought along their own maid to deal with their toddler. Now, if the hotel could provide one of those then I would most definitely make a return visit regardless of any revolution. At dinner one evening I did attempt to palm off the 9 month old onto the willing Maitre D but, unlike the 2 year old who worryingly accepts M&Ms from strangers, the 9 month old just clung to me limpet-like glowering. It seems he too has learnt the power of protestation.

We may still be no closer to finding our dream home but better this than to buy in haste and repent at leisure in an abode euphemistically described by one estate agent as ‘a quirky compromise’ (neither in a cute nor quaint way) – need i say more?

Not long ago, she had said that one of her greatest gifts from the big C was its generosity in allowing her at least the time to see her little boy start school. She recognised that in that most precious and depreciating commodity of time, we should value the high points and simply let go of the low.

In life, we are divided into two camps: those who fight for what they want and those who follow what they’re given. Amanda was the contender who put complacent resignation to shame.

I will remember you in your hairdresser’s convertible, roof down, sunglasses on and driving with your perfectly pedicured feet in pink flip flops. And of course, I will remember you for your strength of character, optimism, energy and not least of all, our shared love of clothes.

Some use alcohol as an emotional crutch; others use food; and more still use religion. As for my son, his crutch comes in the form of a decapitated elephant head attached to a scrap of, admittedly very tactile, blue fabric.

More specifically, the ears of said elephant – he cannot enter the land of nod without having one clamped firmly in the gummy grip of his mouth.

An unsuspecting newborn gift from the far-flung reaches of across the pond has unwittingly become the dreaded ‘lovie’ (Baby Whisperer lingo) a.k.a. comforter/ blankie/ security blanket. It appears my 8 month old is Linus reincarnate.

The problem is that half a dozen months of sucking on said elephant’s ears has left it looking rather lacklustre and fearing the day he awakes to Dumbo with downright disintegrated ears, the quest began for some sneaky substitution. Mr A recommended a bout of cold turkey but I’m yet to find a life occasion worthy of veering from the path of least resistance.

Many hours of (much interrupted) cyber surfing later, it transpires that my son has been inconsiderate enough to develop an addiction to something nigh on impossible to get his grubby hands on outside the US . Amazon (.com not .co.uk) will sell and send for the price of the GDP of a small nation with delivery anywhere up to a month. Cold turkey wouldn’t even take that long. Then, eureka, Google uncovers some obscure luxury baby goods retailer here in Blighty who actually stock them. The euphoria can only be likened to Mr Newton’s apple on head moment. No matter that the cost leaves barely enough change for a skinny latte from a fifty (GBP not JPY).

The elephants (yes, plural – shame it wasn’t 3 for 2 or BOGOF)  arrived yesterday to much whooping and smugness. Evening rolled on and a box-fresh elephant was placed in the cot while his bordering on unhygienic relation, was flung on the precariously close to a landslide of a laundry mountain. But all elephants are NOT created equal. The 8 month old cast it aside like poo from his shoe and as punishment for my efforts to deceive him, promptly engaged in a 90 minute screaming session.

So here’s hoping the course of cold turkey doesn’t last as long as that left over from the Christmas dinner. As for the exorbitantly priced elephants (ears intact), they are waiting patiently for friends (or foe) to have new babies. At which point, the cycle of desperate parents hunting down substitutes will restart (it beggars belief what parents will pay for the promise of a good night’s sleep). And as for me, I will be first in line if that company ever floats.