Spring is sprung, bringing a dash of hope and a plate of menopausal pancakes

I went out on Friday night, to a beloved friend's 50th birthday party, and I think it is going to be the last time I do.

- Lucy Mangan

Monday I went out on Friday night, to a beloved friend's 50th birthday party, and I think it is going to be the last time I do. Nearly 72 hours later I still have a hangover. I'm exhausted, look like death and everything hurts.

And the thing is, I wasn't even drinking. I had two Cokes. It's now the going out and meeting people - even people I want to meet! People I know and really, really like! - after 7pm that almost kills me. All the standing up when my body is expecting a sofa. All the being not at home. All the not knowing quite where the loo is. All the not being in stained clothes and slippers. All the having to get home afterwards. I cannot, not any more.

It was an excellent party. But it was definitely the last. I'm glad I went out on a high.

Tuesday Shrove Tuesday. I am making pancakes. "Jesus Christ," I mutter, appropriately and yet not. "Can't I just confess my sins? Walk to Canterbury with dried peas in my shoes?" But no. These days it's bloody pancakes. I am making them for my son. Savoury first, then sweet for pudding.

"Thank you," he says, as I slide the first one on to his plate.

"You're not welcome," I say, sweating with tension as I stand at the hob to start another one. "I hate making pancakes."

"I know," he says. "You should let me this year."

"No," I say. "This is my annual attempt at mothering."

He looks at his plate. "Aren't... aren't pancakes... just traditionally, you know... supposed to be flat?"