It is Mummys 39th birthday. She is staring down the barrel at a future of people asking if she wants to come to their yoga class, and book clubs, where everyone is wearing statement scarves and they are all tiddly after a glass of Pinot Grigio. But Mummy does not want to go quietly into that good night of women with sensible haircuts who live for their children, boasting about Boy Child and Girl Childs achievements. Instead, she clutches a large glass of wine, muttering FML over and over, and then remembers the gem of an idea shes had