I blame Diana. From the moment she dropped her boys off at nursery looking a million dollars in designer shades and tight white trousers with the ‘paps’ in tow, the cult of the ‘yummy mummy’ was born. The closest I’ve come to a yummy mummy is my best friend who’s a high flying, head honcho in a big publishing company. She’s never endured the humiliation of snot snail trail across her ‘clean on’ sweater or baby puke down her back. She has time to cleanse, tone, moisturize and choose matching co-ordinates. She even manages to apply nail varnish before scooting off to work. But that’s because her nanny turns up at the crack of dawn to dress, breakfast and transport her four year old to nursery. Then at the end of the day, whilst my friend is holding court in some power meeting, the nanny is there to collect, make tea, bath and read a bedtime story, before my friend sweeps in. How wonderful! But for most of us ordinary mortals, mornings are a whirlwind of half-eaten toast, barked orders about teeth cleaning, smudged mascara and mismatched underwear. Then just when it’s ten to nine and I’m already running late, my three year old says, ‘I’ve had an accident mummy’ and cleaning my teeth, putting on earrings and feeding the cat go out of the window! I’ve come to the conclusion that to be a fully signed up member of the yummy mummy club, you have to have one of the following: the support of a nanny, like my high flying friend; a husband/partner who’ll take over in the morning while you get dressed and do your make up (dream on!); or children who are completely self-sufficient and can take care of themselves (dream on again!). So until pigs fly, there’s a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and 28 hours in a day, I’ll settle for smudged mascara, badly applied foundation and occasional day membership of the yummy mummy club. (Oh and the priceless moments when my three year old tells me how pretty I look!)