Twas New Year's Eve, 7.30pm - time for party animals throughout the UK to leave their homes and make merry with a host of friends.

"I don't suppose I'll see you much before midnight so I'd better say Happy New Year now," said The Mother.

"Don't bother to wait up, but do remember the dog needs a walk in about half an hour's time, and give her some biscuits for supper," she added.

"Have you got your key?" I asked, trying not to sound resentful or sour.

"And what about some change for a taxi home?"

"Don't fuss, I'll probably be getting a lift," she replied, and with a flash of fuchsia nail polish and a whiff of Estee Lauder, was off into the night with a friend who had come to collect her.

They were going to a New Year's Eve party. I had not been invited. In fact I hadn't been invited to any New Year parties, unlike The Mother who had also been invited to a New Year's Day lunch.

She picked up the New Year invitations during her round of Christmas parties - she was invited to three and went to two. Again I wasn't included.

When she originally told me about her plans for the Christmas/New Year period, I asked The Mother who would be looking after her dog.

"You will, I suppose," she said.

"But what about all these parties we'll be going to?" I asked.

"We?" she said. "Oh, sorry, you're not invited."

Ha! It seems that Cinderella is alive and well and living in Brighton.

Not that I would have wanted to go of course, not when the average age of the partygoers would be around 75, but there's something about not being asked that leaves you feeling pathetically unwanted and unloved.

Ironically, when The Mother moved in almost three months ago, friends said the arrangement would surely cramp my style.

"Your social life's bound to suffer, you won't have any privacy," they warned.

Not a bit of it. If anyone is cramping anyone's style, it's me that's cramping The Mother's joie de vivre.

When the phone rings it's usually for her, half the mail is hers while the other half - mine - is invariably bills and circulars, and she's always popping out for coffee or pub lunches with friends.

"Why don't you bring your friends home for me to meet? I never know who you're out with," I say like a disapproving parent.

I finally caught up with the octogenarian gadabout in the kitchen on New Year's Day morning.

"I didn't hear you come in last night," I said grumpily.

I was still feeling bilious after seeing in 2001 with the dog, half a bottle of cream sherry and a box of Thornton's liqueurs.

"Oh, I heard you," said The Mother. "You ought to see the doctor about your snoring, something that loud just can't be healthy."

She was looking as fresh as a glass of sparkling Alka Seltzer, even her nail polish was unchipped.

"Thanks for your concern," I said. "I suppose you'll be off with your friends soon for your New Year's Day lunch."

"No I won't," she said. "You're always talking about meeting them, so today they're coming here for a meal."

"Really?" I said in astonishment. "Does that mean I'm invited?"