BEING a parent is great, but sometimes not being a parent is just as good. We all need to be completely and utterly selfish once in a while and for me that means a weekend once a year - or perhaps twice if I have been a very, very good girl - when all parent-like thoughts are banished from my brain.

I don't peer excitedly into potties and give standing ovations when someone does a poo, I don't slave over a nutritionally balanced meal only to have the unhappy eater chuck bits of it at the cat before plonking the rest on his head, and I certainly don't sing the Tweenies' theme song in public or spontaneously burst into my uncanny impression of Pingu (it's all in the breathing) whenever a tantrum looms large.

Instead I leave the Munchkin with his dad or grandma on Friday lunchtime, weep uncontrollably for about ten minutes and then flick off the switch marked "mum" in my brain and indulge in two days of completely unmum-like behaviour.

And that is precisely what I did this weekend. Friday afternoon saw me zooming up the East Coast Main Line to meet up with my best chum at the Edinburgh Festival for two days of non-mumness.

In between watching a balloon bender make a poodle, a group of bright young things singing Sondheim and a gay Bengali GP-cum-comedian bringing the house down at the Cafe Royale, I made a list, which mysteriously got less and less decipherable as the evening progressed, of all the things I could do without the Munchkin in tow.

So here in no particular order is my cut-out-and-throw-away guide to unmumiousness behaviour:

u Having a lie-in. That's right, I stayed in bed; 6am simply passed me by (as did 7, 8, 9 and 10am) and my usual rude awakening of a small stinky boy leaping gazelle-like into the air and landing like a tonne of bricks on my back was exchanged for a timid knock on the door and the offer of a nice cup of tea and a bacon butty.

u Having a bath. My morning ablutions are usually completed with a running commentary from the Munchkin. "Mum's bum, mum's bum" he yells as I struggle to get my knickers on while he slaps and pokes at my wobbly bits, and "boobs, boobs, boobs" as I fall into the shower for a ten-second wash and brush up. But as a non-mum, I went to the loo without an audience and luxuriated in a deep bubbly bath for the best part of an hour. Yes, I looked like a prune, but at least I was a clean prune.

u Chatting with friends. It was a strangely liberating experience to find that I could actually hold a conversation for more than five minutes without punctuating my contribution with remarks like "don't put that in your mouth sweetheart, it's nasty" and "if you don't want a wee, stop playing with your winkle".

I did of course manage to mention how marvellous my son is during virtually every discussion we had, which is quite something when you're talking about hill walking in the Highlands, but that was just a bit of latent mumiosity bubbling to the surface.

u Having a drink and a bite to eat. You know you have really left your parenting skills at home when you bumble into a bar for a spot of lunch at 1pm and don't return home again until Saturday night has become Sunday morning. My only excuse is that the waitress just kept bringing us drinks (damn her!) and it seemed rude to refuse.

u Travelling on a bus. This might seem a tad obscure, but in my usual day to day life I would rather go on a polar expedition than on a bus because it is logistically impossible to get on one with buggy, baggage and boy, I never have any change and most of the time I'm not entirely sure where I'm going. During my non-mum weekend however I was jumping on and off buses like a real public transport pro, and I even managed to get through the journeys without pointing out the window and shouting "bus" whenever we passed another vehicle or "woof" at dogs out for a stroll.

Come Sunday afternoon of course I am desperate to flick on the mum switch again. Drunken debauchery is all well and good, but after two days I'm ready to swap boozing the night away and dancing till dawn for a mug of hot chocolate and an early night with a good book.

And anyway, while living the high life is great, a big smackeroo from a smelly, grubby-faced boy is even better.