Supermum Lawyer Writes Debut Novel shrieks the headline in the Gazzette. My picture grins out inanely, Damaged Goods, held close to my chest.
''Most mothers are delighted if they find time to juggle work and children but Helen Black somehow wrote her fabulous new book.'
I sigh and look around the train wreck I laughingly call home.
The twins were up til 4am projectile vomiting with a force and intensity Linda Blair would have been proud of.
Quilts, carpets and curtains are splattered. The only things not covered in the contents of my children's stomachs are the bowls I left by their beds ' in case of emergency'.
I sip a cup of hot water ( we've run out of tea bags ) and wonder if other parents let their children play soccer in their PJs. In the living room.
Having scored a hat trick Twin 1 bounds towards me. He's clearly recovered but is waving his get out of jail free card - a letter from the school nurse prohibiting the return of pupils to school 24 hours after any 'episode'.
The phone rings. It's my publicist, Kesh.
'The Post want an interview,' she says.
'This morning,' she adds.
I survey the devastation and imagine myself as others must see me. 'Great.'
I turn to the children and solemly tell them that if they help me clear up they can eat ANYTHING they want for breakfast. Naturally they are fluent in the internationally recognised language of junk food and begin removing their goal posts.
'Chuck everything in the dining room,' I bark.
And with the flexibility of autistics they begin to fling anything not nailed down. Lego star ships, dirty socks, a music stand all hurtle through the air. With similar accuracy I throw myself into a ( cold )shower.
The kids demsnd their reward.
I proffer a packet of raspberry crunch cookies wondering if they count as one of the five a day.
Twin 2 shakes her head. 'Fluffernutter sadwiches.'
For the uninitiated this is the food of kings. The King, in fact, as I'm sure if Elvis had discovered these he'd have died even earlier.
Plastic white bread ( what else? ) smothered in peanut butter and topped with a liberal helping of marshmallows.
As the journalist and photographer arrive the kids scurry upstairs with their coronary inducing prize.
'So tell me, Helen,' says the nice lady from the newpaper, 'how did you get to be such a supermum.'