You know one. I know one. You may even be one. Me, I'm as for from being a Yummy Mummy as my stomach is from a washboard. We've all sat next to one in the baby clinic, or baby gymkhana as I prefer to call them, feeling cowed and inferior, and trying to hide our chipped nails under our spreading denimed thighs. Who else but a YM could arrive at 9am with her baby in white fake fur wearing a Chanel ribbon round her bald head?  My baby is mostly wearing Weetabix, which it appears she has shared with the back of my slightly stained maternity shirt.  Who else but a YM would whip out a platinum Gucci bottle when I whip out my distended and veiny breast?  YM's baby is sleeping through the night and says "byebye" - my baby sleeps through Eastenders while I try to shave my legs over the sink, and shouts"dadada" at every passing lady (don't ask).

So how do they do it?  Well, I know the answer - are you ready for this? - they cheat.  These poor Yummy Mummy's are in fact no different from you or me; the only difference is that their fear of getting it wrong is even bigger than ours. Instead of being grateful that they are actually getting through the day without serious injury to anybody or thing, and letting all else go to the dogs, these mummies are so terrified that they are going to be judged as lacking in some department that they hide behind this veneer of perfection.  All it takes is a friend like me to look after the baby while YM has a terribly important appointment (with John Frieda) and hey presto!  Some pressed linen trousers and 60 second drying nail polish later, she looks the part and I look, well, the pits.  But I know that YM is in fact in awe of my rapport with my baby, and the fact that I am secure enough to leave the house with my husbands oldest jumper and yesterdays make up still on, and is worried that in fact I will judge her due to her inability to get those perky little boobs to feed her child - so why don't we stop judging?  You know and I know that YM is just a slightly cleaner, but slightly lonelier mummy than us, so why don't we admire her Fendi and then invite her to let the baby chew on her bag for a while?  While she enviously watches me breastfeed, maybe she won't notice if I discreetly remove the slightly laddered pair of tights that is stuck to the back of her cashmere jumper?  And we won't tell her - let her at least be safe in the knowledge of sartorial splendour.