A WEEK of rain interspersed with only brief spells of sunshine puts paid to husband’s longed for day at the Royal International Air Tattoo.

The car is loaded the night before with the barbecue and Jaffa cakes. E-mails between husband and his male companions have been flying back and forward all week faster than a really fast fighter plane. "I’ll bring the burger buns"; "I’ve got the cider"; "I’ve got the hot dogs". A culinary outing this was not but the chance for four men to sit in a field, eat meat and see who could be the first to name each plane as it flew over. The whole experience smells of testosterone.

Anyway, an early morning text reading "Fairford cancelled" shatters the dreams of these men and they realise that instead of spending the day in a field they are going to be roped into taking the children swimming.

All is not lost as our summer party that evening gives the men a chance to drink the cider in, frankly, far more salubrious surroundings than a field.

I have now taken to borrowing my daughter’s make-up in preparing for a party.

Although under 10, she already owns a far more impressive collection of the glamorous stuff than me and is actually rather better at applying it.

True, not all of it is to my taste – I can ignore the lip gloss that makes you look as though your lips are dripping wet – but the eye shadow is far better than anything I own.

The party goes well and as I can recall every detail the next day I conclude that I must have been in a reasonably sober state of mind. Make a mental note though never again to demonstrate to friends that I know every move to "Time Warp" on the dance floor.