Do you ever wish you'd married a rich man, just like your mother always told you to? I know I do. Don't get me wrong, I adore my husband, but there are days when I long for a knight with a shining Amex to sweep me off my feet.
Admit it, I'm not the only one to indulge in Pretty Woman fantasies. What woman doesn't occasionally wish she could swap stilettos with Colleen Rooney? OK so you might have to snog Wayne, but just think of the shopping.
Forget all that feminist mumbo jumbo, I don't want an equal partnership, I want a man to take care of me, and generously to boot.
It was having children that really opened my eyes to the attraction of a well-heeled hubby. Up until then I had no problem with being a career girl, in the office till all hours, staying late to hit deadlines and go drinking with my colleagues.
Once babies arrived though, it was a different story, and I began to admit that perhaps my mum might have had a point. Suddenly success in the office turned sour, as hours spent at my desk meant missing precious moments in my babies' lives. I didn't want to be bitching around the water cooler while my son took his first steps, or in a meeting when he spoke his first word.
From the moment I gave birth, I realised I had missed a trick by marrying for love, rather than cold hard cash. My new pin up was a man with a bulging wallet, and sweet nothings count for just that when there is a mortgage to pay.
I can't help but envy friends who have hit the jackpot in the spouse lottery. Those women whose husband's glittering career keeps them in the style to which I would like to be accustomed. Not for them balancing work and home, the moment they give birth (in a smart private hospital natch) they morph into the pampered yummy mummy I long to be.
I don't want to make sacrifices to be a stay-at-home-mum, I want to do it in style and the only way to do that is to bag yourself a rich man. I have one friend, a gorgeous girl and a sickeningly perfect mother, but then she should be as she has no less than three full time staff to help her run her three children. Of course she can afford it as her husband is a banker.
She gave up work the moment her bump showed and hasn't looked back since. When it's birthday time I rush to the supermarket after a mad day in the office, just in time to grab the last battered cake from the bakery shelves, while she spends days crafting stunning confections that would make Jane Asher proud and planning elaborate party games.
While she wafts from the gym to coffee mornings, gorgeous children in tow, as her hubby slaves to keep her happy, I am stuck at the keyboard amusing myself with 1950s style fantasies where I hang up my Apple Mac to pin on a pinny. I day dream of spending my days at the park with my toddling twins, rather than glued to a glowing computer screen. It is a wonder I don't actually turn as green as the hulk in her presence.
It may not be politically correct to admit it, but I'll bet this month's mortgage that I am not the only working mum who secretly longs to upgrade her other half into a more solvent suitor who could pay for her to step off the career ladder for good.