A fistful of thistles

It's breakfast time, and Francis is checking his e-mails. "Well, I've had my first rejection," he says, in the tone of voice of someone who knew all along the worst was coming, and now has the evidence to prove him right. We're at a tipping point. Any further bad news will plunge him straight into deepest Eyeore territory, and it will take more than a handful of thistles to lure him out again.

Sometimes I suspect his pessimistic attitude is protective colouring. Faced with a crisis, he likes to spend time thinking things through, whereas I view contemplation as akin to torpor and inaction as one step up from a persistent vegetative state, and react by sparking off ideas in all directions like a misguided firecracker, opting for action and plenty of it. Doing something, anything, is infinitely better than nothing, as long as it produces a temporary adrenalin buzz that quietens the panic that otherwise threatens to engulf me. And then I wonder why Leo has behavioural problems.

Beth, meanwhile, has started her day by washing out the dog's food bowl in our sink with our washing up brush. Diet, say some hyperactivity experts, can be linked to behaviour, but I've yet to come across anyone who tips encrusted Winalot as a miracle cure. No wonder we've had to treat all the children for threadworm again.

Later, when Francis calls between interviews, I ask him whether he's had time to pay in his final cheque yet. Casually, he says that he hasn't got it yet. My husband now has no job and no money.

It turns out that his ex-employers won't release the cheque until he's got a solicitor to check through the terms and conditions letter that goes with it, and he hasn't got round to sorting this out. "Do you have a solicitor?" he asks me. Unless they were doling them out at Tesco's with the special offer Tempranillo, the answer is almost certainly a 'no'.

I'm fairly sure that at the back of Francis' mind there lingers the notion of an avuncular family lawyer, kindly, astute, and secretly devoted to us all. I blame it all on Ian Fleming. If Francis hadn't become infatuated with the lifestyle portrayed in the James Bond films, particularly 'Goldfinger,' he'd never have matured with such unrealistic expectations, if matured is the right word.

Unfortunately, the nearest we get to retaining a solicitor is the legal hotline that comes free with our contents insurance, a grown up version of the plastic toy in the cornflakes packet. But to sort out a local lawyer who is more than delighted to read the four-paragraph letter and charge the thick end of £150 for the privilege is but the work of a couple of minutes. And if they, and Francis, want a closer family connection, we can always consider adoption.

When the children get home from school, Leo spots Francis's car. "Dad's back," he says, sounding surprised. "Yes," I say. "He's working from home." "Why?" I pause. "It's just the way things have panned out." "Does he want to?" persists Leo. But we're at the front door. In the time it takes me to open it, he's pushed past me, flung his blazer and bag on the floor, and disappeared upstairs. Perhaps he feels he's got as much information as he can cope with for the moment.

Beth, meanwhile, has been presented with a Torchwood DVD by two schoolfriends. I'm really touched, and tell one of the mothers so. "Well, they were doing three for two," she explains. I can't fault her for honesty - though in this instance, I rather wish I could. And it could be worse. At least she doesn't lower her voice and add, "What with things the way they are, we thought she might be a bit short of pocket money...."

Coincidentally, I hear from two old college friends. One is married to the CEO of a huge conglomerate, whose salary is so vast that his payrises make the national press; the other to a head honcho in the Arts, whose work is that rare thing, a hit with the masses and also hugely popular with the cultural elite. Consquently, their presence is requested by everyone from Royalty to Hollywood.

Would I swap places with either of them? While a medium sized lottery win would come in extremely useful at the moment, the answer has to be no. With success comes a requirement to dress up your personality as well as your wardrobe. I don't want to go out disguised as a different character, able to slip into my comfortable, slightly shabby but true persona only when I get home again.

And, when I ask Vicky what she thinks, she has some pithy, but useful advice. "Don't worry," she texts me. "At least u have me, neither rich, nor famous, just a c*** really."