To say I am impressed by the chic of other mothers at the playground is an understatement: amazed, flabbergasted, utterly and longingly envious are perhaps more accurate. I look down at my clothes and see the pale smears of yoghurt and toothpaste, the dusty marks from little shoes banging against my thigh, and scuff marks on my trouser knees from crawling around in the sand, all worn like the scars of a soldier at war.

When friends with other lives come to visit, I cast forlorn glances at their stylish ensembles, and think sadly to myself how pointless it would be to buy such a pretty and expensive jumper, as it would only end up with chunks of porridge in its chunky cashmere knit. My battle dress is drawn from a narrow section of my wardrobe, which, these days, is rarely found hanging neatly alongside its more glamorous and delicate compatriots, but instead heaped over my bedroom chair and chosen for its machine washable qualities and ability to protect my decency whilst crouching by the railings of the duck pond in the park.

My envy goes beyond clothes. These other women, these high-heeled Madonnas, wear make-up, have manicured nails and complicated braids twisted into their hair. How do they do it, I wonder, when my two-stage ‘beauty ritual’ consists of a modest pulling my in-much-need-of-a-trip-to-the-hairdressers hair into a messy knot and brushing my teeth before leaving the house each morning. Exfoliating and moisturising belong to another age. And the high heels? Shoes these days are determined by being comfortable and hardy enough to march around the streets for two hours each day, whatever the weather.

Back at the playground – one child, they must only have one child, I say to myself reassuringly. Then I remember a line I read somewhere about the aesthetics of motherhood. There is a chic in old jeans and slightly stained and rumpled t-shirts, too, right. I meet the eye of another woman equally stained and dishevelled. She must also have twins, I think, or at least two children close in age, and offer her a comradely smile: she is on my side.

Silly to parade at the playground, I think smugly. Who are they trying to impress anyway, my three-horned, yoghurt-stained, green-eyed monster mutters cruelly under its breath.