The Cows: The bold, brilliant and hilarious Sunday Times Top Ten bestseller. Dawn O’Porter

then, we started making babies. (You get the picture by now. By babies, I mean writing blogs.)

       I found my voice online and that helped me find my voice inside. I wrote and wrote, and every day, without fail, I posted something. Whether it was something I was feeling, or a reaction to something in the news. And then, I made everyone I knew read it. I had flyers printed that I put on cars and through letterboxes. I emailed the link to every editor of every paper and magazine, and I posted the link on thousands of people’s MySpace pages. It became my life; it became an addiction. If I wasn’t writing, I was promoting. I didn’t need editors of newspapers to notice me, I was getting an audience all of my own. And look at me now. I have one of the longest running lifestyle blogs in the UK. www.HowItIs.com started sixteen years ago next week and it’s still going strong. Over half a million people read my blogs each day; that’s a bigger readership than most print publications.

       I’m telling this story for anyone who has a voice but doesn’t know how to get it heard. You don’t have to be a social butterfly, you don’t have to be charming, overly confident, beautiful or thin. All you need to have is something to say.

       The Internet is the love of my life, because it allows me to be who I want to be. Words that would get stuck in my mouth tumble out of my fingertips with total ease. I’m not sure what I would have become if I didn’t have this as an outlet. And you know the best bit? I can connect with hundreds of thousands of people every single day, without even having to say a word. So go for it, post your feelings online. Even if no one reads it now, there is a little piece of you out there that will last forever, it’s kinda magical!

       Cam x

       Tara

      ‘Mum, the cotton wool keeps falling off,’ says Annie, as we walk up to Trudy’s door. There are two birthday helium balloons tied to the handle and a little Post-it note saying, ‘LET YOURSELVES IN, PRINCESSES’.

      My head is thumping from too much booze and almost no sleep. I can’t get the image of that guy’s face out of my head, his camera aiming at me like a gun that was loaded with shame. And Jason still hasn’t texted anything since before I got on the train; how did I get that so wrong?

      ‘Mum?’ pushes Annie. ‘I feel silly.’

      I turned up to my mum’s house at eleven thirty this morning armed with an empty cardboard box, a Pritt Stick, a sheet of orange card, a piece of elastic, a white hat, some white tights and six packets of cotton wool balls. It’s amazing what you can muster from a Tesco Metro when you have to create a fancy dress costume for a six-year-old. I cut a hole in the box for Annie’s head and covered the whole thing with cotton wool balls. I made a carrot nose out of the orange card and elastic and with the tights and the hat, she looks great. OK, not great, but the best I could do.

      ‘Snowmen are round, not square, Mummy.’

      ‘Annie, it’s OK. You look snowy.’

      ‘But why am I a snowman, it’s the summer?’

      ‘There was a snowman in Frozen, wasn’t there?’ I say, which doesn’t seem to help.

      We go in. It’s clear the party is happening in the garden; the shrieking of excited children is tearing through the house. I should have taken more Nurofen.

      The house is nice. A very large Victorian terrace with tidy bookshelves, a massive TV and a posh navy sofa with a big doll’s house in front of a bay window. I’m surprised Amanda has such good taste, and her husband obviously earns loads because, apart from two large chests of practical-looking drawers, all with neatly written labels describing what toys they contain, the place looks impressively un-IKEA.

      ‘Annie, Annie,’ yells Trudy as she runs excitedly into the living room, followed by three other little princesses in their perfect, shop-bought fancy dress frocks. I feel instantly sorry for Annie. She looks ridiculous in comparison.

      The other girls take her hand and drag her outside into the garden, where a small bouncy castle is being challenged by around fifteen extremely excited six-year-old girls. To the left of it is a long table with a blue tablecloth and plate after plate of blue and white foods. I want to eat all of it.

      At the far end of the table are about twenty adults, men and women. Mums and dads. Why do I get so nervous in these situations? My hangover anxiety tells me that I have been the topic of conversation until now.

      ‘Hello,’ I say, approaching the table.

      ‘Tara,’ says Amanda, coming over all friendly, as if the uncomfortable moment at the school gate never happened. It’s a little unnerving. ‘Wine?’ she says, offering me a glass of white. I swear everyone has stopped talking and is smiling at me in that awkward way that people at parties do while they are waiting for you to make eye contact with them so they can say hello. I quickly look around them all, and mutter hello so they can get on with their conversations. ‘Well?’ pushes Amanda, waving the glass of wine under my nose. I think for a second, but my face must speak volumes because she retracts the glass and says, ‘Too early to drink?’

      ‘Oh, no, never too early. I just had a big night last night. Feeling a bit shaky.’

      ‘Oh come on, hair of the dog, it works wonders,’ says a man in a blue shirt approaching us.

      ‘This is Pete, my husband,’ she says. Something in her face shows me she is angry with him.

      ‘Hi,’ I say, reaching my hand out to meet Pete’s. He is tall, with a mouth that takes up a lot of his face, and really flirty eyes.

      ‘I could whip you up a Bloody Mary,’ he says. ‘I was a bit shaky myself this morning. I’ve got some already made up in the fridge?’

      ‘You know what, that would be perfect. Thank you!’ I say, as he goes inside.

      ‘Annie’s costume, it’s … it’s brave.’

      ‘Thanks, Amanda,’ I say, taking that as a compliment and making it clear I have her name right now. ‘I like to encourage her to be her own person, rather than just do whatever everyone else does.’ We look over at Annie. She is stepping out of the box and into a princess dress. ‘It doesn’t always work.’

      ‘Sure.’

      We stand together, pretending to be engrossed in what our children are doing, trying to think of something to say, but something negative is in action between us. It’s cosmic, out of our control. I don’t have the energy to fight it.

      ‘Here you go,’ says Pete, handing me a Bloody Mary and breaking the silence.

      ‘Wow, celery and everything. Cheers.’ We chink glasses, and I take a big sip. It’s delicious.

      ‘OK, well, have fun,’ Amanda says, walking away, as if she has hit her limit on what she can handle from me. ‘Pete!’ she says, ordering him away. I can’t help but notice him glance at my tits as he goes.

      ‘Hello, hi, hey, hi, hello,’ I say, walking over to the table of food and the small crowd of people around it. ‘Mmmmm, bright blue cupcakes, yummy,’ I say, taking a paper plate and loading it full of food. Everyone is looking at me with ‘isn’t she fascinating’ faces. There are as many dads as mums. I feel very conspicuous. Very solo. How is it I can be so confident at work, but put me in a group of parents and I want to bury my head in the birthday cake?

      ‘A Bloody Mary and carbohydrates, that can only mean one thing,’ says Tracey, Gabby Fletcher’s mum, coming over to me. We’ve chatted a few times before; she’s generally quite friendly but also has that air of primness about her that so many women seem to get when they get married and have kids. Even the wildest ones, like Sophie, even though she doesn’t have children. They used to be hard drinking, slutty drug munchers, but now they’re boring, safe, and married to men who would implode if they knew the things they