In horror I looked in the mirror searching my face for a bushy beard.  Most of you know that I have a strange love for stick on moustaches.  But, having actual hair growing out of my chin?  That birds could nest in?  That’s another matter entirely.  There was nothing there.

Then he said “Only joking!” with a huge grin, obviously revelling in my panic.

The art of joke telling aged 5 … oh how we larrfed.  Well, he did, I was busy thinking about Walter.

Walter is a rogue whisker who has plagued me for the last 6 months.  Yes, a whisker, like the ones prickling the chins of witches in story books.  I can pluck Walter on Monday and by Wednesday he’s back.  What’s all that about?

Whilst I’m sharing my facial downfalls … Being very fair, of hair, and someone who could easily pass for a German I do have, I’ve noticed, a very light moustache.  I said VERY light.  Just hair on my face like everyone else.

It’s what’s called ‘normal’.  I watch Location Location Location each season, not for the geographical property knowledge but to see what stage of growth Kirstie’s moustache is in; Full, half, shadow or freshly waxed.  I use this as a benchmark, so I know what constitutes a ‘problem hair area’.

So, Walter aside, this ‘normal’ hair which could constitute a moustache if it were not normal, it doesn’t bother me, but perhaps in certain lights maybe, just maybe, I look like Hulk Hogan and no one has told me.

Do I need to be doing something about it? Please share your facial downfalls, make me feel better … PLEASE

Had it not been for the small child lying on top of me arguing with his sister I would have thought I was dreaming.

It was Teacher Friend Mother of 3 who sounded slightly too chipper for 7.20am.

TFMo3 – Do you have £20 and any strong views about animal activism?

Me - What?

TFMo3 – Do you have £20 and any strong views about animal activism?

Me – Why?

TFMo3 – I can’t tell you.  What are you doing on Wednesday night at 5pm?

Me - Nothing.

… and with that she hung up.

Thoughts passed through my mind of how I would get a banner together that said ‘Save The Badger/Whale/Lesser Spotted Jabberwocky’ by Wednesday.  Would I need a t-shirt too? What was the £20 for? Maybe to buy chains so I could chain myself to something.

Later in the day I discovered that I was in fact going to the circus on Wednesday.

I’ve never been to a circus before, so I will reserve judgement on whether I shall be sporting a ‘No more circuses’ bandanna in the near future.  I checked out the website for their animal care information and was happy to see they have all their certification … however I’m not sure what sort of certification is needed for this sort of moustache and shifty sideways glance?

The first time we played he asked “Does your person have eyebrows?” I had to explain that all the people had eyebrows.

Every time we play he asks me if my person has a ‘Miss Nash’ which is the name of his old nursery teacher. He means a moustache.

It doesn’t matter how many times I correct him he still says it.

And it doesn’t matter how many times he says it, it still makes me laugh.

The 5 year old was sat opposite and we were talking about school, crunchy nut cornflakes and whether the 3 year old would make it upstairs for an emergency poo or not. Fairly standard breakfast discussions round our way.

It was quite pleasant; Supping my tea and shovelling my Weetabix whilst applying mascara.

I wasn’t concentrating on what I was doing (see multi-tasking above) when the 5 year old shouted “Mummy, you have a moustache”. Sure enough when I looked in the mirror, I had some sort of ‘remnant of dark eyeshadow moustache’.

When I said, “No look, it’s just a make-up smudge” and tried to rub it off I simply made it bigger … in the style of a Mexican bandit.

Clearly shocked to see her mother turning into Freddie Mercury before her eyes she shouted “It’s still there. Mummy, you have a big moustache” then got up and wandered off. Probably to tell her father he had married a man.

It was then that I vowed to clear out my make-up bag and get rid of all the half crumbling eye shadows and bits of old eyeliner pencil.

I cleaned myself up and thanked the 5 year old for telling me. I could have quite easily pootled off on the school run and then onto work without being any the wiser. Only last week I went to work and realised that I had, yet again, forgotten to do my hair when I was greeted in the work toilet mirror by a Leo Sayer lookalikey.

It’s OK though, because when I asked the 5 year old, my new image consultant, if she thought I’d ever have a real moustache, she said “No, only people without a house get moustaches”.

Phew. Better keep paying the rent then.

A photo shoot sounds exciting, especially when you’ve never experienced one first hand.

I had visions of a Hello magazine ‘At Home With The Drivers’ style shoot … Me draped on a chaise longue, looking svelte, wearing a long floaty dress (and THE magic pants) … the children, pristine and happy, looking on admiringly … the husband wafting me with a large palm.

It won’t surprise any of you that have been reading for more than a few weeks that it was ABSOFOOKINGLUTELY nothing like that.  I can verify that a photo shoot with two adults, a dog, a teenager and two bickering children is worse than applying to Wife Swap and finding out you’ve got Hannibal Lecter as your new husband.

We were told to wear autumnal clothes as the interview will be in the November issue.  Wearing our long sleeved tops we went out into the Summer sunshine and pretended to play gaily in the garden for a ‘natural shot’.

It was natural in that the 3 year old wouldn’t cooperate, the 5 year old wanted to growl and the dog wanted to slaver all over the photographer. The teenager, who was the reason for the article in the first place, was exemplary.  If I apologised to the, very patient, photographer once I apologised 500 times.

When asked to move from playing cricket to sitting on the slide with his sisters the 3 year old declined.  After much cajoling he agreed, but refused to smile.  When asked to go back to playing cricket he cried.  If he was asked to be in close contact with the 5 year old where they might, god forbid, have to touch he started shouting like an old shouty person.  I was so proud.

The only thing that kept me going throughout our 90 minutes from hell was the fact that at 7pm we would be leaving MarMar in charge of our children overnight and going to stay with my sister so we could go out to get shitfaced celebrate my birthday.

Eventually we went inside where all five of us pretended to be happy, if not slightly sweaty on the two seater sofa.  The 3 year old tested the theory that if you repeat yourself 50 times a minute you can make your parents ears bleed as he asked if he could play Mario Kart.  The husband saved the day by muttering through gritted teeth, “If you all smile I’ll buy you all an ice cream”.

I didn’t get to see any of the pictures but I can guarantee that I, being un-photogenic, will have looked like the elephant woman.  There is evidence below that proves that I am only at my best if I am sporting false facial and chest hair.

Note that I had to state ‘false’ there … just in case any of you were wondering.

The women behind the counter were the doubles of Majorie Dawes and Waynetta Slob (but in uniform) and looked like they had spent the afternoon polishing their sovereign rings whilst smoking out the back.

I asked about swimming lessons, they gave me a form to fill in for each child and told me we’d be added to the extensive waiting list.  When it got to the address I explained that we were moving in a few weeks and that although I knew the house number and street name I was unsure of the postcode.

They looked at each other and  both said in shocked unison “You don’t know the postcode of your house?”.

I reiterated again that I didn’t because we hadn’t moved yet but that if it was REALLY important I could bob back tomorrow.  They raised their eyes to the ceiling then back at each other.

The one who looked like Majorie Dawes leaned in real close so I could almost feel her moustache brushing my cheek and said “No matter, we can do without”.  Then she pointed at the form and really slowly said “By the way D O B … that means date of birth”.

Then Waynetta said in an accusatory fashion “You do know what date your children were born don’t you?”

The children who had, up till this point, been running round the foyer were now stood next to me giving the ladies suspicious sideways looks.

Wanting to get away from the increasingly bizarre double act I pretended not to hear and continued to fill the forms in realising that to speak would only stoke the fires of weirdness further.  When I’d finished they scrutinised each form from top to bottom.  I can only assume they hadn’t seen joined up writing before.  Then we were dismissed.

I do hope that by the time we make it to the top of the waiting list the swimming lessons clash with Majorie and Waynetta’s shift.