The Motherhood Walk of Fame. Shari Low

was nothing like penis envy to upset a bloke’s equilibrium.

      Mark actually really liked Sam. But then, liking Sam was easy. He was sweet, great company, utterly without ego and he brought lavishly expensive pressies when he came to stay. He and Mark got on well and had loads in common (apart from a familiarity with my reproductive organs). A mutual love of football and beer and man-to-man avoidance of any conversational topics that included emotions, feelings or gossip seemed to have developed into a mutual respect for each other. It was all very modern and adult. Mark had even demonstrated his admirable lack of jealousy once again by suggesting that we ask Sam to be Benny’s godfather. Sam was thrilled–and I’m sure one day Benny will echo that sentiment when he realises that his godfather has direct access to hordes of hot chicks.

      ‘Ma’am, can you step forward please.’ Hallelujah! My back was breaking with the strain of carrying three stones of little boy and what seemed like the entire aircraft’s carry-on luggage. The rather formidable gentleman checked our passports, scanned things, tapped his computer, took some kind of weird photo and fingerprinted me. I refrained from pointing out that I was coming to crack Hollywood, not the bullion safe at Fort Knox.

      We trundled through to baggage reclaim, grabbed a trolley, dashed to the carousel and dragged off our cases. By the time I’d loaded everything up, I couldn’t see where I was going and, bloody, bloody arse, my trolley had a wonky wheel and kept veering to the left.

      I dragged it through customs, Benny awake and on my back now, Mac sitting precariously on one of the bags. I’m sure the customs officers would have stopped me if I hadn’t looked like I was three seconds away from demented hysteria.

      I got another five yards up the steep walkway. What sick bastard designed a corridor so that people had to push luggage-laden trolleys UP a hill? Just when I thought I’d got the hang of it, Mac swayed to the side causing a full-scale dissolution of the suitcase mountain.

      Bollocks. I pulled and heaved everything on again, then started back up the hill. Around the corner…Crash. Everything back off. My hands started to shake. Benny started to moan. Mac…well, Mac didn’t give a toss but that’s only because he has the thirst for adventure of an adrenalin junkie on speed and this whole new experience was whipping him into a frenzy.

      A frenzy…Oh no.

      ‘Do you need to go to the toilet, Mac?’

      ‘Nope.’

      Fingers crossed that he wasn’t lying or being overly optimistic. But I speeded up just in case.

      I loaded everything back on and pushed upwards. Round another corner, one last burst of energy and…

      Sam. He was standing against a railing looking like he’d just stepped out of Man at Armani. He smiled and opened his arms. Mac ran into them.

      ‘Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam!’ he screamed, delighted.

      I reached two things at exactly the same time. Sam and the end of my tether. As he reached over to envelop me in a hug, I burst into tears. And not pretty Demi Moore/Ghost-type tears. Not even mildly sweet Kate Hudson tears. I’m talking full-scale Gwyneth Paltrow, nasal fluids, racking sobs, off-the-scale-in-humiliation-and-embarrassment tears. Sam looked horrified, but that might have been because my make-up-smeared, tear-drowning face was in contact with his two-thousand-dollar jacket.

      ‘Hey, hey, what is it? What’s wrong, honey?’

      ‘Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam, we’re going to see Spiderman!’ screamed Mac. ‘Spiderman, Spiderman, does whatever a Spider can…’ wailed Benny.

      There wasn’t a single person in the building who wasn’t looking at us. I pulled my head off his clothing.