I wore a Burberry raincoat once, and only once. I can't think of Burberry now without remembering the most embarrassing incident of my life. I've done some terrible things in my time, but this was a doosey. It wasn't my fault, it was the fault of a rogue chicken sandwich for Marks and Spencer. That sandwich curtailed a perfectly pleasant shopping trip to Fortnum and Mason; that sandwich was wrong in every sense of the word; that sandwich is the reason I can never again set foot in the Queen's own convenience store.

I was wearing a Burberry raincoat on loan from my mother. I had promised to look after it and I was doing a pretty good job, until waves of nausea overtook me on the stairs of London's finest food emporium. I was making a desperate dash for the sanctuary of the ladies' powder room, but time and tainted tikka wait for no man, or woman for that matter. It was a desperate dash; a race that I knew I couldn't win. I had already vomited in a standing ashtray on the stairs, and I knew there was more to come. Sweating and delirious, a flash of Burberry check passed through the ladies' perfumery department. It was me; me in a borrowed Burberry raincoat; but it didn't feel like me. I was having an out of body experience, and my lunch was doing the same. It all seemed to be happening in slow motion. Why did the ladies' loo have to be right at the end of the room? Why that room? Why me?

The women at each counter, powdered, perfumed and pert, glanced up as I passed. I saw their coiffurred hair, their polished nails; in my shame I saw them. The words, 'care to test' were frozen on their immaculately made-up lips, as the projectile vomit landed on the tufted Wilton at their feet. My legs were leaden, I ran as fast as I could, but not a single counter escaped. I vomited through the entire department. I saw the looks on their faces as I passed. Horror, repulsion, disgust; I might as well have wafted past wearing green eye shadow and a big squirt of Tweed.

Imagine the shame of it. I threw up in a hallowed haven of delicious scents. The Burberry afforded me no protection that day, and by the time I got to the safety of the ladies' powder room, it was a raincoat of many colours.

I didn't want to come out of the powder room. I was ashamed. I rolled up my mother's precious coat and tried to walk back the way I had come with a modicum of pride, but I had none. If you want to see a woman stripped bare, take her on a walk of shame through a perfumery department. Powder, perfume and painted faces, all contorted into vicious masks of ill-disguised loathing. They couldn't have made me feel any worse if they'd tarred, feathered me and smudged my lipstick. It was the longest walk of my life.

The raincoat was taken straight to a drycleaner, but I think it rather lost its appeal after that day. I now have a dread fear of make-up counters and break out in a cold sweat whenever I pass Fortnum and Mason. I think a little aversion therapy may be in order, but I think I'll do it before lunch, just to be on the safe side.

Aside from tales of shame and sandwiches, I wanted to talk about children today. I write about my girls often, and I do so because I know that many of the people who visit my site feel utter despair when they contemplate a life alone with their own children. I too felt despair, and at times I didn't think my girls would ever forgive me for the horrible, hurtful things I shouted at them when I was mad with grief. But, you know, they do forgive, and they do forget. Love does that. It absolves you of your guilt, it shows you kindness when the unkindest cut is gaping and bloody, it gives you softness when life is so terribly hard. The bond that is formed between a bereaved parent and a child is unassailable and pure. It is forged out of hardship and out of hurt. It is a rare and precious gift.

I value what I have. I value the love that has been forged between my girls and me, and I treasure every moment we spend together. All the negative aspects of lone parenting are negated by the devotion and pride that you feel when you think about your children. As your children grow up, they become confident and wise. The confidence comes from you, and the wisdom comes from having to understand and accept an unacceptable tragedy at a young age. When I look at Rosie, I see past her contrary ways and occasional immovability, and see into her heart. She has grown up into a poised and graceful girl with a loving and thoughtful nature. Her compassionate nature and regard for the feelings of others is a constant source of pride to me, and when she is bullied at school or hurt by one of her friends I feel her pain as deeply as if I'd been cut by a knife. Rosie has seen things that no little girl should ever have to witness, but despite everything, she has emerged with a wonderfully balanced view of the world. She loves her sister and is fiercely protective of her, and she's also immensely proud of me. Alice makes friends everywhere she goes. She's open and loving, fragile yet robust, and I think she will grow into a stunningly beautiful young woman.

I like to include my girls in as many aspects of my life as I can. They know we are a threesome, a unit, a family. They know we share something special. It's us against the rest of the world and we're not afraid of anything. I ask their opinion about all kinds of things; it's important to me to make them feel included, and it's important to them to know how much I value their opinion. It's such a small thing, but when I come back from a shopping trip, I always ask Rosie and Alice what they think of my purchases. I know I don't look anything like Fergie, from The Black-Eyed Peas, in my new White Stuff trousers, but Rosie thinks I do, and if a pair of trousers can make my daughter proud to have me as a mother, then I'll happily do as she asks, and wear them to the school parents' evening.

My girls and I share the same sense of humour and the same taste in music; they love The Cure, The Foo Fighters, Blackadder and edited highlights of Little Britain. They like what I like; we sit together, we eat together, we laugh together, and when we cry, we never cry alone. Death doesn't have to mean the end of everything, it can also mean the start of something wonderful. You can turn a negative situation into a positive outcome. You can make your children happy again, and they in turn can bring joy back into your life. It's a long, hard slog, but ultimately so worthwhile. My message for today is this: Don't give up; don't lose heart. Just believe in yourself and believe in your children.

As I write this Alice is off playing at a friend's house and Rosie is looking after a little boy called Harry, which means that I'm free to finish my journal in peace, or Peas, if you believe Rosie..

Pretty much a perfect end to a Sunday in my book.


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