I HAVE a meeting in Glasgow which I'm a little nervy about. As it's the school holidays, and J is at work, I'm taking the children with me and handing them over to my mother when it's time for my meeting. You have to do adult things occasionally, even though children seem to believe that their seven-week break should be a whirl of beaches, funfairs and aquariums. They don't figure that hair still needs to be cut, teeth inspected and provisions bought without a heated debate about whether we "need" Party Ring biscuits.

It's good for them, dammit, to realise just how ordinary life really is, and discover that a vast proportion of an adult's existence involves hanging around in the post office. Letting them believe that we have just as much fun as they do would give an inaccurate picture of growing up. Think how disappointed they'd be!

So we're in Glasgow, and I'm finding it hard to make the mental switch to that of a calm, professional woman who knows how to conduct herself in meetings. I also fear that I'm a little sweaty from keeping tabs on the children in John Lewis where they ran amok on the fitness machines. In fact, I suspect that my demeanour also says: "I have just spent 45 minutes being badgered for comics in Forbidden Planet. My bulging shoulder bag is not being used to transport neatly-ordered paperwork but a pile of ratty puzzle books and felt tips which my children required to amuse them on the train and which have now shed their lids." There is also a half-eaten giant chocolate coin in there.

I'm not sure why, when flung into a professional situation, we either try to pretend that we don't have children at all or, if we do, that they do not impact on our lives one bit.

J tried this once, when our sons were babies, telling himself that there was no reason on earth why he shouldn't march into Tiffany's to buy me a locket (um, apart from the fact that he couldn't afford one). An escalator took him to the floor he wanted. As he ascended, telling himself that he had as much right to be there as the posh buggers who shopped there all the time, he glimpsed his reflection in the mirrored wall, registering the smear of baby vomit on his shoulder. Once on the shop floor, he still had to go through the charade of pretending to look at everything, humming and harring, before lurching outside and hurrying home.

"How long will you be with that woman?" my son asks now.

"Approximately one hour, 32 minutes and seven seconds," I reply.

"That long?" he shoots back. I should be accustomed to having to predict the duration of anything I wish to do. Recently, as J was out for the evening, I had no option but to take the children to my saxophone lesson with me. I explained that they could read or watch TV at my teacher's house, and that it would be fantastic fun.

"How long will it go on for?" groaned one of my sons.

"Eight years," I said.

"Uuuurrrr ..." he yowled, collapsing dramatically as if in the throes of acute appendicitis. Have I ever barked, "How long will you be?" during the billions of times I've loitered in drizzly play parks? Do I snarl, "How long will we be here?" in Forbidden Planet? No, I peruse the shelves, enthusing over Dick Tracy and Green Lantern, all the while wondering when I'll get the chance to "refresh" my make-up for the meeting and squoosh on some perfume in Frasers.

It's time to go. I can sense a blotchy neck-rash revving up and wish I'd worn something that comes higher up, like a balaclava. I remind myself that before I had children I had meetings all the time. That's what adults do. They meet in smart restaurants and talk business. And sometimes - although hopefully no-one knows - they do this with an outsized melting chocolate coin in their handbag.

Fiona's latest novel, Mummy Said The F-Word, is on sale now