"I thought you were wearing jeans this morning," said Tony, who had earlier seen me dropping Rugrats at school and now found me answering the door in a linen "work" ensemble.

"That was my taking the children to school outfit," I told him (in other words, I can't manage to get myself dressed properly, on top of getting everybody else up dressed, fed and to school, so opt for jeans and jacket over nightclothes and think about what to wear when I get back).

"And what outfit is this for?" asked Tony. "Interview with the bank manager?"

"No, morning with the computer."

"Your computer is very lucky that you go to so much trouble for it," he commented. "Jeans for us but smart and sassy to sit in a cupboard and stare at a screen. Makes perfect sense."

Obviously it didn't make sense to Tony, who had called by on his way back from taking his children to school, to ask if he could borrow our baby-sitter, as their regular baby-sitter had taken to going out (outrageous), and was not available.

It didn't make sense to Tony because he can work doing odd jobs and wielding his feather duster in whatever he chooses, usually jeans and a tight enough to attract admiring glances from the women he "does for" but not so tight as to be gay T-shirt.

I, on the other hand, find that if I dress as if I were heading for a real office, full of real people, then I feel more up to actually sitting down and working and less tempted to leave tiny, cupboard office (of which am sole occupant) and from which communicate only via email with virtual people, to cut back honeysuckle or clean the bathroom.

After all - don't want to get bleach spots all over costly, linen work ensemble, whereas I wouldn't mind so much about the jeans. (Also, jeans getting increasingly tight and find I can't actually sit for long periods in them).

Anyway, gave Tony our baby-sitter's number and tried to make him go so I could get on with the work that I was all dressed up for (piece for baby magazine about alarming rise in obesity of children - who like their mothers can't sit for long periods in jeans).

"I'm off to see one of the yummy mummies," said Tony, who, it turned out was going to tackle the rust on the bath of a woman called Elena.

This being the second week running in which Tony has used the term yummy mummies to refer to people other than self, I returned to work feeling deflated, and, since no one had answered the emails I needed answering before I could really get down to work, decided to change into something more yummy mummyish.

I put computer to sleep and went up to bedroom, reasoning that there had to be some sort of work displacement activity going on and, if it wasn't coffee rounds or chatting to people by water dispenser in busy office, then it might as well be having a few changes of clothes.

I opened the cupboard and realised that a lot of the clothes therein were either falling apart (scummy mummy) or didn't fit (fat tummy mummy) so I decided to put jeans back on and have a good clear-out.

Time flies when you're not doing what you're supposed to be doing and suddenly it was time to collect Rugrats from school. So, in a bid to be yummy, quickly struggled out of jeans and into patterned Fifties-style skirt and clean T-shirt.

"Does your computer have Fifties housewife fantasies?" asked Tony, when I arrived outside classroom, nodding towards outfit. "Or is this for someone else's benefit?"