Whole month has been dominated by the prospect of two horrific events. First, Lyra’s school’s charity ball, which I’m absolutely dreading. Her school’s the blingiest of our three, loads of oligarchs and a few shipping magnate surnames I remember from when I was sporting a straw boater in NW3. Every parents’ evening demands a routine Net-A-Porter order, so I’ll either have to spend a grand in Selfridges or pretend Will and I are skiing (cue getting busted at Heartcore yoga).

I’m still traumatised by last year’s. The PTA demanded it be held in Claridges (why ruin a place with great associations?) because that’s where Eaton House does theirs, and all the PTA mothers have a complex about the Kensington preps being higher status. The raffle alone was off the scale, with people dropping 20k like it was £200. Can’t even remember what the charity was, no doubt it involved children and/or disease. What happened to secret bids? [I thought they were a thing?]??

Obviously Will and I never admit that Hector wasn’t actually planned

After the ball I had to accept the presents I’d been giving at all the birthday parties were nowhere near up to scratch, and probably permanently damaging Lyra’s social standing. I’ve known our house is sub-standard for years because the parents at her school all have pools and chauffeur their daughters in from The Bishops Avenue. Side issue: WHY is this one of the most expensive streets in London? It’s in the middle of nowhere and the houses are revolting, like MTV Cribs c.1995.

There’s one particular couple I can’t stand: the father is a cosmetic surgeon so you always feel like he’s mentally drawing dotted lines on your face, and the mother’s American and works for Google or Facebook. For some reason they invariably make a beeline for me and Will so they can quiz us on our “brave” decision to have three kids. Like we’re fucking Mormons or something. Will always gets irate and says that everyone in the country has three kids (this doesn’t make the shires any less repellent to me).

More likely the annoying mother wants a third herself, though she looks like she’d need a shedload of IVF. Even with all the free filler he’s clearly given her. How weird would that be, your husband injecting your nasolabial folds?

Obviously Will and I never admit that Hector wasn’t actually planned. Nobody questions this, because they assume Will was desperate for a boy after Minnie and Lyra. Like I’m Jane Seymour to his Henry.

Meanwhile, Hector’s nice but dim prep (as it is now known after they failed to get him into Westminster Under) is having a Sustainable Easter Fair, with a ban on single-use plastics. We’ve literally got to bring our own plates and presumably leave with a stack of cacao brownie-smeared crockery. Nauseating Classlist thread between all the not-really-working mothers about how fab it would be if their favourite “BYO Tupperware grocery van” could cater outside. Seriously, Classlist is even worse than Whatsapp. Anyway, another mother weighed in to say that the van was no go, because she knew from her own “mobile CBD water business” that you need a licence to serve food outside. OMFG! Yes, I have the same 3am panics as everyone else about whether I rinsed that Oatly carton enough for the recycling. But do I really need 92 messages about CBD water?