multiple personality disorder

Hi, sorry I've been away spending time with the unpacking fairy. It's all nearly done now and I've been channelling my inner Hausfrau (Bertha) to try to keep it looking nice. Bertha is just the latest in a growing list of alter egos to help me keep my life together. Clearly there's Amy Waif, the army wife, and also Rebecca Bryan the fearless novelist, and now there's Bertha, too. My problem is that none of them really get on. Rebecca thinks Amy is a bit flaky. Bertha thinks Rebecca should do a little less thinking and a little more hoovering. Amy is a bit scared of Rebecca and Bertha and would rather avoid challenges of the intellectual or cleanliness variety and go out for a nice latte and bit of chocolate tiffin.
Frankly, it's all getting a bit confusing.
This morning Amy leafed through the Avon catalogue and ordered a new lipgloss, only to be elbowed aside by Rebecca, eager to get on with university induction, but by the time Rebecca got home, Bertha was ready with the Mr Muscle and the cleaning rota. I have to admit that by eight o'clock Rebecca and Amy had patched up their differences and decided on a bath and a glass of wine instead of the hoovering...
(I'm holding out until next month to buy my robotic hoover - but next month is now just days away, hurrah. Can't blooming wait.)
So, yes, multiple personality disorder aside, everything's fine. I'm now a mature student, single parent (almost) and reluctant housewife.
The other people on the course are far too young to be let out of the house without parental supervision. One of them asked me if I had always written, and I said no, only since I had kids, ten years ago. A look of befuddlement flitted across her eager young brow and I realised that ten years ago she was probably still in primary school. I tried to be friendly with them all, but I am quite probably as old as their mums, so there wasn't much point. There is one other mature student (who was wearing a very nice green jumper, must ask her where she got it from), but she's poetry, not fiction, so I won't see too much of her. So I'll have nobody to moan about homework and school trips with. I'm quite sure the others on my course will be far better writers than me (I am a bit downmarket, stylewise - more Lidl than Waitrose), but luckily they won't dare criticise my work because it will feel like they are insulting their mothers, so I think I'll get an easy ride.
Tomorrow I have to go in and show someone my first degree certificate. It's nearly twenty years old...