IT’S not as if I have a burning desire to be at my desk by 9am – but the novelty of this one-lane malarkey at Thornes is beginning to wear thin.

At first it’s always a bit of excitement, having a lane or road closure.

Something even a tiny bit different to break up the monotony of the commute is always welcome.
But after numerous hellish journeys into work and a weekend of trying to navigate all the cones in the manner of Crystal Maze to get to B&Q, I’ve had enough.

It’s no fun getting flashed at or nosed out of the queue by mean people who refuse to let you in when the lanes converge.

But it is equally annoying when those smug city boy wannabes coast past the the entire mile-long queue and then casually slip in at the front at the very last minute – and NEVER say thank you. Not even by raising one measly finger off the wheel in gratitude.

Especially the ones in Audis. Blue ones.

I, on the other hand, frequently look like a crazy woman, waving and smiling and winking like a lunatic, to make sure the generous person who has let me in knows I am grateful for being rescued from a fate of making pleading raised eyebrow expressions all morning at people who just ignore me and drive bumper to bumper on purpose.

Meanwhile workmen seem to just be wandering about, digging up roundabouts and taking pictures of each other.

“What are they doing?” I murmur to myself so often I’m doing my own head in.

Especially when I realised that it is probably my job to find out.

So, fellow tortured commuters – this is what they are doing – repairing pot holes and the general disgrace of the road and it is going to take until November.

Ok, fair enough. No-one can moan about that since our letters page is rammed with complaints about the state of our roads.

But motorists – it’s Easter. Find it in your hearts to spread goodwill to all men and women and show some consideration.

No wonder Wakefield has been voted the second worst place to visit.

LADs put it away will you ?
The sun is out I grant you, but it is not the weather for stripping down to your pale pimply cheaply tattoed chest - it’s enough to put a girl off her M and S sushi.
I’m sure we all agree that spring is in the air. The crocuses (and before I get letters moaning the plural should be croci - it isn’t. I’ve checked. So don’t bother) are peeping out, the snowdrops tinkling merrily in the garden. The sunshine is putting everyone in a much better mood. But it is all a big lie. It is still very cold outside. There is frost on the ground for crying out loud.
It is not the temparature for pararding up and down outside the Southgate entrance to The Ridings with no top on as if you’re strolling down the Magaluf strip.
On Monday a group of youg men were posing outside our offices, puny naked chests puffed out like piegons while they tried to impress a gaggle of big earringed girls.
Diet coke break it was not.
So pale they’re almost blue, one with a ghastly tatoo of a panther on the shoulder, but with his acne bless him it looked a bit more like a wallaby.
And nipple rings just aren’t sexy. They just make most us wince. Especially when it’s gone a bit septic.
I know us Brits are out with the lawnmovers and barbeques at the mere sniff of sun, but surely there’s got to be a limit.
And its not because I’m prudish. When I was a kid my mum was always dousing herself in sunflower oil and sizzling naked in the back garden, devil may care.
Fair play - at least they’ve got body confidence. But even Gok Wan would tell them - less is more. Wrap on warm boys - it’s still offically winter.

IT is a dark dark week for The Lost Boy fans everywhere.
Corey Haim is dead. Not Corey Feldman. Not the one from Stand by Me. Corey Haim. HAIM.
My first ever crush and the man, well boy then, that I used to weep into my pillow over the fact I would never actually meet him.
My best friend Lucy and I used to watch his films religiously, begging our dads to rent out his 15 certificate videos for us - and when they refused, drawing kohl round our eyes, and backcombing our hair to try and make our 12 year old selves pass for teenagers at Hollywood Nites video shop on the corner.
We would get Lucy’s pink ghettoblaster and tape his voice from the television screen so we could play it on our walkmans and listen to him in the car on the way to school.
We’d pause his sexy high cheekboned smile and play it back in slow motion. We could recite all his lines from Lucas, Lost Boys, License to Drive, Dream a Little Dream - films of such quality and critical acclaim you’d be sure to spot them in the clearance bin in Morrisons for a pound.
My entire bedroom wall was filled with posters of him cut out from Just Seventeen and I spent a whole month’s pocket money on the soundtrack to The Lost Boys - just to feel closer to him.
Obsession is the mantra of teenage girl.
This kind of behaviour in relation to a real person (as in none celebrity) would constitue serious therapy and a possible restrainng order.
But for some reason, when you’re a teenager, stalking tendencies are a mere expression of just big a fan you are.
Ok, I’m no Kathy Bates but I still loved him throughout my 20s, I knew what had happened to Corey Haim before that stupid Thrill song came out.
Former child star becomes fat drug addict, accepts cameo roles as themsleves in spoof films and tries to sell their own teeth on ebay.
I didn’t care. I was still faithful to you Corey. I even bought the Lost Boys 2 The Tribe because you were in it for 47 seconds.
Zak Efron, Taylor Lautner - you’re pale and weak imiataions of teen idols.
Corey Haim - I will always be your number one fan.

FEAR. real fear. There’s nothing like it. When you’re heart literally stops for a millisecond, you get a metallic taste in your mouth, your legs feel like jelly.
I don’t mean the inferior fear of watching Hallowee’n or seeing a spider of alarming size - I’m talking full on, gut wrenching, uncontrollable horror.
There have been a few of these occasions in my life. One, when my car burst into flames while I was driving it down Jacobs Well Lane, two, when I woke up in the night to hear a burglar downstairs, three, when my son was four weeks old and was seconds away from having his thumb amputated - and yesterday at the cash point next to the Cathedral when I found out my bank account had been emptied.
I’m no stranger to balking at my mini print out, but we only got paid a few days ago - and not only was it all gone, my entire overdraft allowance had gone as well.
Getting myself up to HSBC faster than you can shout “robbing thieving scum” I burst through the doors and almost collapsed at the feet of a worried looking Martin, a worried looking customer services rep.
“Someone’s taken all my money” I screamed, before promptly bursting into tears. Glad to know I can keep it together in a crisis.
Lovely Martin was ace though, getting me water and speaking to me in soothing tones, promising to sort it all out.
How I wish I had a Martin for all occasions. Perhaps he could come and sit next to me on deadline days, sit in the passenger seat in rush hour when I’m stuck on Thornes Lane because of the one lane nightmare, or accompany me to family functions where my gran always tells me how fat I’ve got.
Turns out to have been some kind of internet banking error, rather than the shocker of someone actually draining my bank account, but it did leave me gagging for a swift gin for the rest of the afternoon.
Thank you Martin - you’re a superhero.

NO, Mummy, no!!!! screams my little boy as nursery staff begin to forecfully prise his wrench-like grip from around my neck.

I watch as his little swollen face crumples in horror and he is carried off horizontally like a plank, fingers-stretched towards me, agony in his eyes.

Lately, every morning is beginning to feel like Sophie’s Choice.

Not that being dragged into nursery is exactly the same as being taken to a concentration camp – but try telling my son that.

Every morning for the past four weeks we have gone through such dramatics – with each performance becoming more spectacular and my guilt levels topping the chart.


As a result to ease my feelings of being a terrible, inadequate mother – this weekend I am hosting a birthday party for no less than 21 toddlers.

Between popping the beta blockers and trawling the internet on the hunt for Peppa Pig-themed loot bags I’m beginning to discover there is a whole new meaning to the phrase party politics.
I used to think that kids’ parties were simple. A round of pass the parcel, musical bumps, some Dairylea sandwiches and a cake – Bob’s your uncle.

Oh no. It’s all hiring of double decker party buses, pool parties, football parties, fairy parties, pony parties, reptile parties, people who bring a real live lion cub into your house (actually that last one sounds tempting).
My husband has become quite scared of me. I am planning this party with military precision and bankrupting him in the process.

“Do they really need actual genuine Peppa Pig toys, can’t we get the cheap fake ones?” he looked in horror over my shoulder as I pile toys into my Amazon basket along with overpriced George Pig napkins – despite the fact the soft play centre is including tablewear in the cost.

“No” I shrieked in my best banshee impression, “This is your son’s second birthday. These party bags have to be perfect!”

All I am accomplishing is this – 21 sets of bitter parents who will feel they now have to spend a fortune on their kids’ parties too, and will stop inviting us on playdates in revenge. Bliss.

MOST people I know roll their eyes or pretend to stick their fingers down their throat when you mention St Valentine’s Day.

Everyone scoffs at how commercial it is, that they’re not doing anything to celebrate, blah blah blah.
But Valentine’s isn’t traditionally about couples. It’s for secret admirers to declare their feelings without the fear of rejection.

It’s the one day of the year you can announce your undying love and hide behind anonymity.

The most exciting St Valentine’s Day of my life was when I got a card from a genuine secret admirer – propped up outside my back door against the milk bottles. By the time I got on the school bus everyone knew that I had been sent a card by Graham Robinson in the fifth form. Secrets in secondary school are sadly a rare commodity.
It didn’t matter he was ginger with a predilection for Guns N Roses T-shirts and Newcastle Brown.

It didn’t matter that he used to shout abuse at me from the street corner with his gang of mates a mere two years previously.

In my eyes, his simple act of buying a cheap tacky card from Mr Mann’s newsagents, leaving it by the back doorstep to give me a clue to his identity – he used to help out the local milkman – was nothing short of poetic. It had to be true love.

Three months later and I’d moved onto a bass guitar player called Tom – and all that was left of Graham Robinson’s heartfelt gesture was a mixed tape and a Nirvana T-shirt.

But it was the most romantic gesture in all my 14 years – and to be fair remains one of the most romantic gestures in my life to date.

Although my husband won’t be too chuffed to read that, given it’s our first wedding anniversary on February 14.
All I’m saying in this...your husband, boyfriend, girlfriend, wife – they all you know you love them. Well they should do if you’re doing your job properly.

Singletons – Sunday is all about you. Make someone’s day and get Cupid out of the dole queue. Sending an anonymous card does not make you a stalker. it puts you up there with Lord Byron.

What have you got to lose?

EVER wish that life had an un-do button? It’s fair to say that I don’t get embarrassed that easily.
Empty dance floors don’t deter me. I will sing, albeit very badly, in public, I expose my deepest darkest secrets in this column most weeks.
However I had a particularly cringe-worthy experience this week. I had my implant removed after deciding it is the sole culprit for the half-a-stone I gained over Christmas.
Expecting a lovely discreet little plaster, I was a bit shocked at being bandaged up like a mummy, and distraught not being able to get my arm through the sleeve of any of my shirts.
Needless to say the first thing everyone asked me on my arrival to work was “what’s up with your arm?”
Tried muttering “Err, I’ve had something removed”, but that was met with sympathetic looks and questions about biopsies.
Clearly I did not want to give anyone the wrong impression, so had to mutter out of the corner of my mouth: “I’ve had my implant removed.”
“What implant?” one male colleague boomed, “What do you mean?”
“My contraceptive implant” I whispered. About 80 times.
So in a meeting on Tuesday morning with my brand new boss and managing director, there was little point in lying.
I’m not allowed to lie anymore anyway. I get a bit carried away with myself and become embroiled in giant web of deceit.
I once told a bloke I was trying to impress that I played the violin. I even told him I could play Riverflow by The Levellers and used to be in a band.
Imagine my mortification when round at his mother’s he presented me with a bow asked for a rendition of The Wonder Stuff’s violin-heavy Welcome to the Cheap Seats.
Needless to say I have learnt my lesson – so told them the truth. They were a bit taken aback, but nothing I can’t deal with. Not like when I asked the man in the garden centre where his chlamydia was. Clematis, Lisa, clematis.

I DON’T normally agree with new year’s resolutions. All they do is add to my list of Things I Have Failed At this year, making me feel just dandy about myself while I sob into my champagne at midnight in 12 months’ time.
So far I have not managed to stuff myself back into my size 10 jeans, nor have I become a confident, guilt-free working mother who does not find herself with an eye twitch on the drive between nursery and work.

I have not given up secretly blaming my husband for the filthy sealant around the bath, for the mysterious bruise-coloured stain on the white carpet, nor for the giant hole in the plaster on the kitchen wall from his shelf putting up attempts.

I have not managed to get through 2009 without crashing my car and I have not managed to finish writing the Great British Novel.

However, I have decided my negative attitude is standing in the way of me becoming the very embodiment of peace and  serenity.

Therefore, my new year resolutions will be all about looking for a positive in everything. So this year I will:
1. Stop feeling guilty over my outbursts of rage. It’s healthy to express oneself.

2. Just live with the squalor in my house. It is post modern and eclectic.

3. Enjoy watching Alvin and the Chipmunks and The Tale of Despereaux again and again and again. Can almost recite the entire script. Could go on Mastermind.

4. Let toddler sleep in bed with me if it means getting more than 20 minutes’ kip in one stretch. Tell all whittering Stepford mums of the “you’re making rod for own back” persuasion to go and plug themselves back into the mains.

5. To enjoy nagging husband. Is character building for us both.

6. Don’t worry about driving abilities. It’s not like I have any no-claims bonus to be fair.

7. Give up the novel. Prize winning writers are all up-themselves toffs and people who read them are all boffins with no   girlfriends.

There. I can pretty much guarantee that next New Year’s Eve I will be sitting back with a satisfied smirk on my face.