The good thing about being a classical theatre actress, voice-over artiste, one time stand-up comedian, ex soap star and now, of course, columnist is that I get invited to a cross section of seasonal shindigs with varying degrees of glitz. However, my current job of breastfeeding new mum precludes the partying spirit or any other spirit for that matter.

Alcohol consumption passes through to the baby, it slows down the milk-producing drug oxytocin and can stop the digestion of vital minerals that the baby needs. All of which is incentive enough to imbibe no more than one lemonade shandy per party. But it beggars the question: what's the point of going? Any dream I had of having to persuade disbelievers that "Yes! I really did have a baby 13 weeks ago" have long gone. I've failed to lose so much as a pound in three weeks, and it's not as if I'm not trying.

Last week I trained twice with Melinda Nicci, who proclaimed that the 12-week postpartum probation period was over and the "hard work must begin". Once the endorphin rush of a non-stop cardio workout, including lunges, kick-boxing and abdominal crunches, had worn off I began to question how the hell all these skinny A-list mums have the energy or inclination to do this every day.

So, to party sober or not? To party with baby weight or not? I've prepared just in case the mood takes me. Trusted babysitter (husband) on standby, I've bought the legendary Dr Motha girdle from Agent Provocateur which manages to be sexy in a 50s way but also holds the wobbly bits in like a corset of steel. I've also invested in a good underwire bra to upholster the remnants of a once magnificent cleavage.

But hang on a minute. On a second glance through the invites, here's a bash that I will definitely attend: the Christmas reunion of my local National Childbirth Trust class. Dress code: slightly stained, crumpled tracksuit. Hair: bed head. Makeup: non-applicable. The plus one is the baby and I've milk on tap so don't even need to splash out on a bottle.