9AM — Highgate.

This is miraculous.

Last night I said "EVERYONE up at eight! We are LEAVING at nine."

Indeed, I believe I barked it, or at least I produced the growly, yappy sound I always imagined they mean when sergeant majors "bark" things in books.

Never for a second did I imagine that this morning everyone WOULD be up at eight, or that we would ACTUALLY be up at nine, it was merely a self-defence tactic, so that when everybody rises at midday, takes three hours debating the blistering effects of various footwear, gets lost in the toilets at Victoria and then complains when we get to Brighton just as the whole city is closing, I would have some comeback.

But, by George, I'll be blowed, and knock me down with a three-foot inflatable crocodile, we are up at eight and leaving at nine.

It seems where trips to the seaside are concerned, I have authority I didn't know about.

Where normally my attempts at proactive leadership are met with the sort of looks they gave Lucinda on The Apprentice, and are still giving Boris Johnson (it's a blonde discrimination thing), today I have the power.

I intend to carefully ration everybody's fun so that they don't use it all up playing I-spy on the train, and I have packed a bag of exciting sandwiches to keep us going until lunch.

They provide an interesting snapshot of our fridge contents, containing respectively peanut butter, pesto, and Indian lime pickle. I am a brilliant mother/Scout master and everyone should be grateful.

10.20 am — Victoria

Nobody is grateful.

Everyone has taken off to M&S in search of better sandwiches, and my heels have blistered just from the tube journey.

The train leaves in seven minutes, Vlora is still in the loos battling with the remains of the food poisoning she picked up in Spain last week, and I think everyone else is hiding just to toy with my blood pressure.

We won't get good seats.

We'll have to split up and shout across commuters, and everyone will hate us!

10.40 am — On the train

We have good seats.

The commuters around us have definitely been less lucky (My flatmates and I can't journey anywhere without having to apologise to everyone in the vicinity as we leave.

If I'd really thought ahead, I would have had Southern Rail put a special announcement over the Tannoy).

I have become my mother, saying, "look everybody, cows" at regular intervals.

Except that there are very few cows along the London to Brighton line, so I've had to resort to "look everybody, Battersea power station."

11.45 am — North Laine

The great thing about bringing your friends to your (almost) home town is that you get to pretend to be a shameless tourist.

I am posing for a photo next to Banksy's kissing policemen and later I fully intend to stick my head in one of those comedy pictures on the pier.

I might even buy a novelty souvenir — "I went to college for two years here, and have no need for this lousy t-shirt" – and there's nothing you can do to stop me.

2.30 pm — Lunch

We have managed to stick amazingly closely to my itinerary, an impressive feat considering the itinerary exists only inside my own head and not, as everyone suggested it should have been, printed onto stapled sheets and handed out a week ago for everyone's perusal.

Lunch in my favourite dainty tea shop the Mock Turtle hugely successful, but for Vlora forgetting the food poisoning, eating two enormous scones with a pot of clotted cream and then throwing it all up again in the toilets 10 minutes later.

But even the most regimented of schedules can't account for unforeseen circumstances of this kind, and I blame the M&S sandwiches.

5pm – Beach

Schedule out the window, I've bought a dressmaker's dummy.

Her name is Gertrude and she is a welcome addition to the beach party, albeit in two halves.

We look like a performance art installation with her blank torso sitting among the eight of us on the beach.

Sometimes I think maybe we are a performance art installation. The others decide to bury me in pebbles, which I'm sure has nothing to do with the itinerary.

11.45 pm — Bus home

In the last five hours, we have eaten a portion of fish and chips each, another portion of chips on the way to the station, two pieces of chocolate cheesecake, a packet of flamin' hot Monster Munch and several more M&S sandwiches, and been told off in a pub for being too noisy.

Gertrude has been dressed in a t-shirt for modesty's sake, and carried through London Bridge Station like a battle trophy.

The sea breeze has turned my hair into a big salty mat of sculptured blonde straw, possibly with the odd chip fork perched in it like a nesting chick.

As a result of looking like Boris Johnson, I have lost my authority again.

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