'Are you still writing that blog?’ asked one of the other dads at Sports Day.
‘No, she got a REAL job’ He jumped in before I could answer.
‘Oh I used to read it a bit said the other dad', as if I wasn’t even present. 'It was even quite amusing at times.’

And we all know what this particular dad meant. He had enjoyed reading about those who I openly criticized, from time to time. Not really a good trait or one which I’m proud of, I hasten to add, but one that I continue to do.

So, why on earth can’t I help myself? I promise it’s not that I think I’m so much better than others. I really don’t. Mostly I suppose I’m pretty fascinated by people. Who they are, what they feel and why they say this, that and the other. Plus, for the most part, those who are smug, a mug, live in a fug or have offspring as thugs DO tend to wind me up.

Just how high Isabella can jump, how beautifully little Harry sang with the local choir, which fish pie they can rattle off in 10 minutes flat… it’s all eye wateringly painful.

He’s much more longsuffering of fools we happen upon. Less judgmental and more accepting of all. Almost immediately, I make up my mind and wish with all my might that I’m at home reading my book, paintbrush in hand or lying horizontal watching a film.

I suppose what I’m trying to say is with less time to write (what I fancy) and less posts to fill, I’m just as scathing but more in my head than on the web.