How can that be? Couldn’t they even have pretended that it had all gone to hell without me? Oh, the pain. The suffering.

  Gents, you have it easy – Manflu usually disappears after a few days of sympathy and pampering.

  But Mumflu? Paracetamol and bed might sort out the virus, but realising that you’re not needed leaves scars that will last a lifetime. Sniff.

  School of Life

  Sometimes the obvious is just staring you in the slightly terrifying face. Partick Thistle’s new mascot, Kingsley, was unveiled this week, and the general reaction has been on the evil clown side of horror. Some claim it resembles a Dementor from Harry Potter. Some say it’s more like the love child of Lisa Simpson and a Chuckie doll.

  I beg to differ. I feel poor Kingsley is misunderstood and see a whole other range of emotions. I see worry, I see fear, I see panic. When you add in the auspicious timing, it becomes obvious that Kingsley’s expression is inspired by a woefully familiar sight at this time of year.

  He’s a parent at the start of the summer holidays.

  Six weeks. Six long weeks of entertaining the kids, organising child supervision and spending the equivalent of a fortnight in the Bahamas on a day trip to the cinema.

  I’m lucky to work from home. It gives flexibility, even if I’m usually still at my laptop at 4 a.m. However, in the summer holidays, managing the work/life ratio requires the kind of juggling expertise usually demonstrated by large-footed, red-nosed chaps called Coco and Krusty.

  In the primary school years, I’d make grand plans to keep my boys busy. I’d organise bike rides, footie in the garden, painting and cosy afternoons reading and doing craft-like stuff I remember from Blue Peter circa 1977.

  Invariably, rubbish weather, an imminent book deadline and a baking-obsessed son would result in days spent typing a romcom with one hand, while tent-building, watching Pixar DVDs, and supervising the creation of so many cupcakes I’d have to thrust strawberry-sprinkled fairy sponges into the hands of innocent passersby.

  Now, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, I’ve realised that I miss the old days.

  My boys have grown into teens who are usually too busy to lie in bed until teatime. So far, so good. On the downside, I now appear to be in a Twilight Zone episode called Mum’ll Take Me.

  We live in an area that has little public transport, so their summer days consist of the following:

  Wake up, go to gym to work out.

  How are you getting there? Mum’ll take me.

  Arrange to meet pals to play basketball in the afternoon.

  How are you getting there? Mum’ll take me.

  Over to a friend’s house for dinner?

  No problem, Mum’ll take me.

  More basketball training in the evening?

  Mum’ll take me.

  Then, just for a little bit of variety…

  Friends coming here afterwards, then need to get home?

  Mum’ll take them.

  Every now and then, I get clingy and throw in a curve ball. ‘I’ll come to the gym with you today, son. You know, so we can spend time together.’

  At which point son faints. Quick visit to pharmacist for smelling salts?

  Mum’ll take him.

  This summer, in a typical masterstroke of inferior time management, I’m chasing a book deadline yet again, so I’ll spend most of my days sitting in car parks outside sport centres, gyms and eating establishments, banging out another chapter of romantic comedy while waiting for my sons to reappear.

  Their schedule? Fun, fitness, friends. Mine? Drive. Work. Drive. Work. Drive. Work.

  So, parents of primary kids, enjoy it while you can. Savour the footie in the garden. Enjoy the tent-building. And all those cupcakes? If you see a burd sitting in a car park typing a novel on her laptop, she’d really appreciate the ones with the strawberry sprinkles.

  Fleeing the Nest

  I’ve heard about the potential pitfalls of empty nest syndrome.

  Optimist that I am, though, I reckoned I had it sussed. When my boys leave home and my fingers are finally prised off their ankles, I had planned to simply shrug off my cloak of control-freak motherdom and get on with doing all the things that I never seem to have time for.

  I’d fill my days doing yoga, cooking healthy meals from scratch and catching up on highbrow discussion programmes that expand the intellect.

  Please note, I realise that last paragraph comes with a measure of delusion, given that I tried yoga once and pulled a muscle, I am to cooking what Jamie Oliver is to chicken nuggets, and my idea of highbrow telly is a Criminal Minds box set.

  But life would go on. I might even turn into one of those suave, chic types who has time to slap on make-up every morning and check she’s not wearing her leggings backwards. Apologies to all those who witnessed my unfortunate gait on the school run last Wednesday.

  However, I’ve just had a taste of a child-free existence and I now know that the future is not how I imagined. Apparently, the minute the kids are gone, I’ll regress to being Shari Low, age eighteen and three-quarters.

  I’ve said before that both the Low teenagers are sporty types. However, not wishing to come across as Show-Off Shaz, I didn’t mention that they both play basketball for Scotland in their respective age groups.

  Yes, check out my chunky ways and embrace the irony that I bred two national athletes – a genetic miracle, since I’m definitely more Murray Mint than Judy Murray. Although, I was wing-attack in our school’s unbeaten netball team of 1983.

  Anyway, last weekend, Low the Elder was playing for Scotland against Ireland in Dublin.

  Off I went, with another very lovely basketball mum (henceforth known as VLBM) to support the team. Now, what you have to understand is that both myself and VLBM are organisational supremos, who facilitate every requirement of our broods’ packed itineraries. We plan. We research. We implement. And we get everyone where they’re meant to be, when they need to be there, with everything they need to have.

  We run ships that are tighter than my Spanx after a weekend on the banoffee pies – until, it would seem, the point when we’re only accountable for our own schedules.

  We stepped off the plane at Dublin airport, expecting to be met with prearranged transport, only to realise that I’d forgotten to arrange it. We headed to the hotel, ready to turn in at a sensible hour, only to be waylaid at the bar.

  We then sat up gabbing until 3.30 a.m. Note to the G8 Leaders, we sorted out the entire world. I’ll send you a memo with our notes.

  Next morning I woke at 9 a.m., jumped out of bed, did four hours’ work, went for a ten-mile jog, before a kale salad lunch.

  Okay, I’m lying. I did wake at 9 a.m., but lazed until noon. Mumflu aside, I haven’t stayed in bed until midday since 1986. Our only workout was a walk to a restaurant, and we ate puddings for lunch.

  Other than attending the games, where we cheered our boys in a raucous manner, the rest of the weekend had no organisation whatsoever. Just sheer indulgence, laughs and the complete abdication of responsibility.

  Empty nest syndrome? Bring it on. Boys, I’ll miss you. But when one teenager leaves, apparently another one takes its place.

  Signed,

  Shari Low,

  Age eighteen and three-quarters.

  All About Me

  Och, you’ve got to love that modest wee lamb, Heather Mills. The ex-wife of Paul McCartney has been wittering forth on the extent of their parental influences in bringing up their daughter Beatrice.

  Heather said, ‘I think she’s got the best of both of us. We’re both very musical, I taught her the saxophone because her father can’t read music so I do all the music teaching.’

  Ah, the passive-aggressive triumph of claiming glory while pointing out another’s failings. Cue theme tune for musical Heather’s very own version of an Andrew Lloyd Webber classic – Catty.

  In a further barb to her ex, Heather went on to say that Beatrice believes ‘she is ninety-nine per cent me’.

  I’m not judging, but personally speaking, achieving that kind of parent/child similarity isn’t on my list of family aspirations.

  Dear sons, if you ever read this, let me say right here and now, that I sincerely hope you never become ninety-nine per cent me. I have a gazillion flaws and they’re all mine, so please get your own.

  There’s no doubt that my boys have inherited a couple of my characteristics. Fourteen-year-old Low the Elder is a dedicated athlete who loves a party, a laugh, and rarely comes through the front door without five pals in tow. His priority list is sport, pals, food. Swap sport for ‘impulsive online shopping’ and his shiny new parachute (eBay £99.99) would drop him on my side of the personality fence.

  At thirteen, son number two is a dedicated bookworm – a big tick in the ‘got this from his mother’ box. Other than that, he’s laid-back, chilled out and naturally happy in his own skin – all traits that are in direct contrast to the fact that I’m more highly strung than Billy Connolly’s banjo. If musical talent is genetic, Low the Younger’s skills on the saxophone would suggest I had a one-night stand with Kenny G. And I can assure you I’m not responsible for his vocal talent, given that I couldn’t hold a tune in Noel Gallagher’s Tupperware box.

  I recently read the wise words of a retiring headmaster, who claimed that too many parents were damaging their children’s development with their narcissistic endeavours to turn their children into mini-me’s.

  In our house, that’s already a physical impossibility, given that my offspring are six feet tall. But anatomical anomalies aside, the list of attributes I hope my children do not inherit is long.

  Obviously I’d prefer them to avoid two of my most prevalent features: my rubbish metabolism and my fondness for a pudding.

  I pray they don’t develop my capacity for relentless worry. Right now, I’m worrying they’ll get my worry gene. And don’t get me started on my catastrophising, otherwise my blood pressure might increase, I could faint, fall to the ground, setting off an earth tremor that could wipe out the Western world.

  Which brings me to my chronic hypochondria. I’d tell you more about it but I’m too busy googling the symptoms and treatment for ‘high blood pressure and fainting’.

  I’m impatient. Intolerant. Shallow. When riled, my choice of language makes Gordon Ramsay look like Mary Berry. On a Sunday. At church.

  And decades of juggling house, work and family have left me way too far along the scale of dogmatic control freakery. Why? Because I said so.

  So creating mini-me’s? No thanks. Boys, my advice is to be unique, be different, be yourself. However, if you do experience moments of worry, hypochondria, or second helpings of pudding, there are flippers on eBay that are perfect for the very occasional splash in your mother’s gene pool.

  Term Time Blues

  Many things in life are predictable. Death. Taxes. Donald Trump conserving his hairdo by avoiding high-wind situations.

  And the wails of devastation that ring out in Casa Low at this time every year. No, it’s not because we’ve once again managed to go a whole summer without unpacking the swanky double sun lounger – codename Optimism Central – that the husband still hasn’t forgiven me for buying.

  It’s because it’s that time again; the dark day I hate even more than the January morning on which I put away the singing penguins and say goodbye to two weeks of festive revelry.

  My boys go back to school today.

  No more stress-free, chilled-out mornings. No more laughs and blethers throughout the day. No more cups of tea, brought to me with love and demands for a minimum wage.

  Sorry, had to pause for a solemn moment of self-pity.

  I know it’s pathetic. I realise some of my pals are putting out the bunting and waving their wee darlings off to the accompanying soundtrack of a brass band, but I’m sadder than Miley Cyrus in a polo neck jumper.

  The uniforms are ironed and the brand-new PE kit is packed – the same one I’ll soon be picking up after a double sports session and transporting to the washing machine in the same manner I’d treat plutonium.

  But logistical preparations aside, I’m just not ready to start the new term, and once again become Ascending Mum. For the uninformed, that’s the maternal equivalent of the phone ringtone that gets louder the longer you ignore it.

  This is followed by the daily uniform hunt, because even if I’ve left their tie in a visible place, attached to flashing lights and a claxon that sounds at ten-minute intervals, it’s always gone in the morning.

  Then there are the standard morning calls of the species, teenagerous boyus.

  ‘I can’t find my PE kit!’

  ‘I forgot to do my homework.’

  And my personal favourite, ‘We were supposed to take something in today. Oh yes. A rocket for our science project,’ he says, as we’re stepping into the car.

  He then wonders why I’m banging my head off the outside of the window.

  Next, comes the biggest bugbear of all: the school run numpties. Oh, how I’ve missed them for the last six weeks. Not. There are the ones who just stop in the middle of the road to let their little angels out. Or equally infuriating, park on a corner, forcing all the other vehicles to adopt a one-way system to get past them.

  As I fight to refrain from pointing out the error of their ways, inside my jalopy, Ascending Mum is back.

  ‘Have you got everything you need for today?’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ one of them answers.

  ‘Are you positive you’ve got everything?’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘You’ve DEFINITELY got everything?’

  Sigh. Eye roll. ‘Yes!’

  And off they boldly go, oozing confidence and independence, which lasts until two minutes after I get back in the house and the phone call comes, the one that starts, ‘Mum, I forgot to bring…’

  So, I’m sad. Devastated. The only consolation is that the education they’ll receive can be used for my benefit.

  Boys, any chance of doing Ascending Mum a favour and using your mathematical expertise to work out how many days until the mid-term break?

  Spectre

  You’d have to be living under Daniel Craig’s shed to avoid the hype surrounding the release of the new Bond movie, Spectre.

  Next weekend, I’ll be handing over my tenner at the multiplex, remortgaging the house to fund a large Coke and a cardboard tray of nachos, and then trying to sit through two hours without snapping at the people behind me for rustling their popcorn while Bond, James Bond’s finely toned abs are saving the world.

  There’s been much speculation over who will take over from Craig, Daniel Craig if he hangs up his deadly blue swimmies.

  I have a suggestion. If they’re looking for someone who already has the required skill set, the next Earth-saving super spy should be… an undercover mum.

  It makes absolute sense to harness the powers of maternal experience.

  First of all, we can spot guilt at a hundred paces. Oh yes, my darling Low juniors, we can. Even when neither of you were ’fessing up to the great ‘Toilet Duck puddle on the new carpet’ debacle of 2006, I knew exactly which one of you was guilty. One day, retribution will be mine, so when you move into your own flat, you might want to put a lock on the cupboard under the sink if I’m round for a visit.

  Which brings me neatly to the next point: we forget nothing. Every comment, every crime, every misspoken word is stored, ready to be trotted out like a court transcript when required for historical accuracy, emotional blackmail or bargaining power.

  We would be naturals at undercover work and talking our way out of tight spots due to our awe-inspiring competence in falsehoods and duplicity. I give you the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, and the chunky bloke in the red suit.

  Our interrogation skills are on a level that is comparable with the CIA and we also know when to tap into our extensive network of intelligence sources. ‘Where were you? What were you doing? Who were you with? AND DON’T DARE LIE OR I’LL CHECK WITH THEIR MOTHER!’

  We’re also relentlessly proficient at sensing danger and monitoring potentially hazardous situations. That’s why we immediately go straight to hyper-alert at crucial milestones: the first day at school, participation in sporting events, and later, solo outings and teenage parties. Don’t get me started on the first holiday with the pals. My sons will be followed and subjected to 24-hour covert surveillance should they ever decide to embark on a fortnight in Magaluf with their chums.

  Of course, there are downsides to a career in espionage. Lady spies look great in Diana Rigg leather trousers. Given that my diet has failed spectacularly this year, encasing my lower half in leather would make me look suspiciously like a two-seater sofa.

  Then there’s the ever-present threat of being annihilated by a lethal psychopath with a secret island lair. Or having to stroll out of the local beach looking alluring in form-fitting blue swimmies. I’m not sure the population of Millport is up for the spectacle.

  But let’s face it, it’s a far more appealing prospect than being a Bond girl. All that waiting around for him to conquer evil would undoubtedly drive me to boredom-snack on my trusty Tunnock’s teacakes, and then James would have to add ‘helping me wrestle out of my Spanx’ to his list of heroic feats.

  So producers of the Bond franchise, when you’re looking for the next ‘double Oh-Dear-God is that thing loaded?’ I’m here, I’m ready and I’ll expect your call.

  The name? Low. Shari Low.

  Woe Ho Ho

  I’m making an official Christmas crime complaint.