dulwichmum

Lambeth

2008-07-08T21:01:00.003+01:00

I risk my life each day when I travel through the London Borough of Lambeth on my journey to work. Brixton is genuinely one of the scariest places on earth (gasp).

To be completely honest, although I adore driving my gleaming luxurious Audi Q7 to the City of Westminster, and take great pleasure in the fact that I can afford to pay the congestion charge to reach my personal parking space (this super toll has substantially reduced the volume of traffic in my way), occasionally I become concerned about the environment (sigh)... Sometimes I actually catch the number 3 bus to work,as I did this morning (OHMYGOD).

I remained downstairs for the duration of the journey, surrounded by beer swigging Russians, dangerous dogs, harassed mothers wearing uncomfortable acrylic thongs and unsanctioned exuberant young children, leaping off the seats like fleas... I noticed a couple of Danish tourists (obviously campers from the frightful site at Crystal Palace) sporting great tufts of orange underarm hair, sprouting out above the arm holes of their flimsy cotton vest tops! I feared I might inhale my own vomit...

The bus stopped for a moment to allow passengers to alight outside a vile kebab shop on Brixton Road. There was a yellow tinged Metropolitan Police sign stuck to the inside of the window printed with the words "Safe Haven, if you feel threatened, come inside."

You do realise that this fast food establishment did not sell free range or organic fayre? Yet, I felt so traumatised that I actually perceived the vile establishment to be a comparative a place of safety!

Why would anyone who wears their underarm hair as a badge of honour choose to holiday in this civilised city? There is nothing for them here. Despite our binge drinking culture, potentially murderous pets, uncomfortable underwear and poorly disciplined progeny, everyone depilates appropriately. We are a civilised nation...

Would anyone care to join me for a small Doner while I wait for darling James to collect me?

Fresh...

2008-07-03T21:08:00.003+01:00

If only we could all be as bright and clever as Guardian readers...

I had a fresh comment on a very old blog post today, and I hope that it entertains you as much as it entertained me!

Anonymous said...

"Dulwich Mum,

You're such an arrogant and boring snob who is so up herself that she cannot relate with human beings!
Now I'm not saying one shouldn't have ambition, pride and principles as they are the fundamentals of life but to assume that you're daughter Freya will endeavour to do what you do not want her do simply because of who she might mix with in Dulwich Village Infants School is abhorrent!
Fact:- Many parents like yourself who have more money than sense are the ones whose children end up on Class A drugs, act yobbish when inebriated and utilise their bodies like mattresses!
Read "The Guardian" newspaper for you will definitely learn something, if and only IF your pea-sized, chablis soaked brain can absorb it!!!!!
02 July 2008 23:50:00 BST"

Chatter

2008-06-30T20:01:00.004+01:00

I returned from work this evening to discover that my perfect poppets had been joined by their little chum Tushar for a play date. The jolly troop were about to embark upon a game of spies, but no agreement could be reached regarding which characters to play:

"My name is Blonde, James Blonde," announced six year old Max (diddums!).

"That is not his name," screeched Tushar, helpfully.

"Do stop procrastinating, or we shall be called for supper, and run out of time for play..." scolded my five year old jewel Freya.

I heard her use the words "nonchalant" and "exuberant" appropriately only yesterday (OHMYGOD!).

I am so confused. I am proud, and yet I fear for all of our futures.

God I need a drink...

Hail King Gordon of all Brown

2008-06-25T19:30:00.005+01:00

Our perfect Prime Minister, Gordon Brown, has been at the helm for one whole year (sigh). I have the biggest crush on this man (OHMYGOD!). He is clearly so very uncomfortable in the shallow, dishonest, self obsessed world of politics, spin and insincerity. If he makes a mistake, he is not proud, he backs down, he says he is wrong. He seeks advice from experts and I imagine that he has lots of Excel Spreadsheets and a huge calculator on his desk.

I am delighted by the fact that he is not photogenic, Gordon is not some shiny wet boy sporting a cycling helmet and a bottle of Evian, followed on his micro-scooter by a 4x4 crammed with body guards. I can imagine David Cameron as a boy, with his sick note for matron, hoping to be excused from contact sports. I can just see him drinking organic soya decaf latte (gasp). Master Cameron is just not very manly and in my opinion is better suited to a career in estate agency.

I would love Mr Brown to be my boss. I imagine that he is a perfect manager, uninterested in office gossip and spin, just keen to get on with the job in hand. He is busy running the country, concerned with global warming, the rising cost of fuel, and the war in Iraq.

He is not one of those fathers who climbs into the birthing pool next to his labouring wife and makes a nuisance of himself, hyperventilating and hogging the entinox gas.

I imagine that he wears lovely carpet slippers and a v-neck, cable knit, cardigan with chunky buttons (I once knew a vile politician who kept a sun bed in his office). I don't know my right wing from my left wing from my west wing - honestly. I haven't the last clue about politics, but Gordon is a real man and long may he rule (swoon).

Most wonderful book ever (apart from mine, clearly)

2008-06-19T21:55:00.000+01:00

I have made a special friend via the internet (don't panic, I am not being groomed by a paedophile). She moved "up North" not so long ago, but loves London almost as much as I do (sigh).

I could never EVER leave Dulwich. OHMYGOD!!! (said clutching chest and gulping back entire glass of chablis.)

"Do Ocado even deliver that far out of town?"

Well anyhow:

I met wifey a couple of weeks ago at the longest Champagne bar in Europe. We had more than one perfect bottle of ice cold Krug, followed by Sevruga caviar, blini and sour cream. What a night! I don't remember coming home (gasp).

Is it a good sign when your agent pays the bar in advance?

Judith looked as though she felt guilty.

I shall teach her everything I know. I never ever feel guilty when someone else is paying...

My lovely friend has written a super book, and I think that we should all order a copy on Amazon toute de suite! Otherwise the agent wants his money back...

Scary lady

2008-06-16T21:03:00.000+01:00

My poppets are frightened to leave the house. All across Dulwich, enormous posters and banners are on display, advertising the fact that the Antiques Roadshow is coming to the Dulwich Picture Gallery on Thursday 19th June.

"It is that scary lady again, the one off the film about the 101 Datamatians," they cry.

"She is coming to Dulwich, it says on the poster."

"No, no, darlings. She is simply a TV presenter who has taken her Restylane habit too far," I soothe. Her image should serve as another warning to all of the ladies of Dulwich.

Did I mention that my newly threaded eyebrows are simply fabulous. I may just totter along to meet Ms Bruce in order to pass on my tip!

Bounce

2008-06-12T09:11:00.007+01:00

My mother, Brenda, has been so very down of late, she says that she is feeling old:

"Your grandma was younger than me when she died, and your grandpa too," she sighs. "These old bones of mine will not hold out for much longer..."

"Oh mother! Grandpa tried to drink the Guinness Brewery dry when he worked there."

"He worked hard all his life and caught the yellow jaundice and died young," she laments. "None of our family ever live to see old age."

"Alcoholic Liver disease is not a viral infection mother, and Grandma Margaret had fourteen children. She died because she fell of a ladder trying to attach a television aerial to the roof. It was nothing to do with her age. You will live forever mother..." I console, while making her a nice cup of Barry's tea.

"People care more for their pets these days, than they do for their old relatives," she sobs. "They even spend money on research, inventing special dog food to give their mutts more bounce. All they invent for old folk is Tena Lady and HRT. Life is so unfair..."

"Hang on," wiping her eyes, she stops suddenly and picks up a copy of the au pair's Now magazine. "What supplements do you suppose that Lulu and Jane Asher take? I am sure we are the same age and they look grand."

"Botox and Rystalene are not supplements mother" I soothe, pouring some Hennessy into her tea. "Alcohol is far more effective darling. It works on every muscle in your body, not just your face."

Overgrown...

2008-06-08T19:24:00.003+01:00

I am having the most frightful time. It is so difficult for me to articulate my pain, explain my hardship (sigh).

I recently went to visit an esteemed eyebrow guru (have you any idea how difficult it is to get an appointment with this woman?). She is known simply as 'The Eyebrow Queen.' It is well documented that the skillful definition of the arch of an eyebrow can completely redefine the face.

Apparently, clients have been known to weep with gratitude post treatment! I am incredibly refined, not prone to outbursts of emotion, I had no intention of letting myself down, although I had planned for a minor smirk of delight when she unveiled my new look. I attended the appointment, not realising that it was in fact a "pre-depilation consultation." I was informed that my brows are "terribly 90’s," OHMYGOD! Apparently they are far "too fine" and require "radical updating" (gasp). Prior to any remedial work, I am to let them grow wild (for at least 3 weeks) in order to have them ~~ripped off~~ re-shaped by the ~~jumped up little minx~~ artiste (that brings a tear to my eye I can assure you)!

In the mean time my eyeshadow looks vile, my eyebrows are fluffy and unkempt, my lids peppered with random sprouting wisps of hair. I am forced to wear enormous fashionable sunglasses to hide my work in progress brows – I look like a ware wolf disguised as a welder…

Please pray for me and hope I have the courage to endure. I am usually so meticulously turned out. I must hide my favourite Tweezerman in the depths of my dressing table drawer until this whole process is complete. I must resist any maintenance at all. I have polished off an entire bottle of Rescue Remedy (not to mention 2 bottles of Chablis and half a bottle of gin) this weekend alone. Only one week of hardship left, I hope I can survive. Whatever next?

The F word

2008-06-05T20:58:00.000+01:00

Gordon Ramsay uses the F word far too freely in my estimation, it suddenly seems as though he is constructing entire sentences out of the frightful coarse word, as opposed to tossing it randomly into conversation (OHMYGOD!). Gordon suddenly appears desperate to be perceived as hard, he is beginning to sound as contrived as Jamie Oliver and that other fake common person – Nigel Kennedy (gasp).

I watched his little cookery show the other night and was forced to retire to bed early afterwards with two Nurofen plus and a large glass of Chablis. If I was his mother I would slap his legs…

Shades

2008-05-31T22:02:00.001+01:00

The big boss lolloped into my office on Friday morning without so much as a meeting request on Outlook.

“Bea darling,” he bellowed, “since you have begun this column thingy at The Telegraph, I have observed you behave like a diva about the office. I do hope that your new commitments will not cause any conflict with your work here…”

OHMYGOD!

The persecution of Petite Anglaise and Girl with a one track mind have been at the forefront of my thoughts for the last few days… I am so paranoid about the entire issue of appropriate internet use that I no longer so much as answer my work email at the office, I have discussed the matter with my incredibly masculine agent (purrr). I would hate to lose my job, where would I go to hide on my perfect children (gasp)?

“What are you saying Mr Hargreaves, have I done something wrong?” I sobbed as I slipped into my 3 inch heels beneath my desk, and tottered across the carpet into his waiting arms.

“Well I can’t help but notice that you constantly wear dark sun glasses of late, even inside on these overcast summer days. What are the clients to think? Writing a column for a web site hardly qualifies you to behave like Posh Spice! It will surely cause you to aquire a reputation for vanity…”

“Oh Felix,” I wailed, “I have a perfectly logical reason for obscuring my eyes, I am aware that I look like a welder in these frightful enormous glasses… Do you think that I chose to look like vile Victoria? I can take them off and show you, it is a mess under here I tell you, a mess.”

“Oh no dear girl,” he replied putting one flabby arm around my waist, “I had no idea that James was such a cad.”

“He is so very abusive of me Mr Hargreaves, he never notices me at all. I was hoping that if I allowed my eyebrows to grow wild for a month and then had them re fashioned by an expert threader that James might find me more attractive… in the mean time my brows have all of the charm of Desperate Dan’s chin, it is best for everyone at the office if they remember me as I was for the time being.”

Mr Hargreaves looked puzzled and apologised profusely before backing out of my office apologetically. I really do hope that all of my effort is worth it (sigh). I couldn’t bear it if anyone considered me to be superficial…

Truth

2008-05-29T07:12:00.007+01:00

Perfect Max insists that he is now too old for Bob the builder and tiring with Sportacus. My tiny man requests to spend his thirty minutes per day, TV ration, on Raven, Kerching and even Tracy Beaker (OHMYGOD!).

I arrived home last night to find my darling son engrossed in an episode of some frightful children's TV programme - the horrid pre-teen characters were describing how they had found out about (and they spelled it rather than say the word) S-E-X. I almost expired.

Max turned to me immediately and asked: "Mummy, what is S-E-X?"

"I really don't know darling, your father never tells me anything," I laughed nervously - congratulating myself on how very cleaver I was for coming up with such a super answer. James stalked in through the front door behind me, just in time to be asked by Freya:

"Daddy, what is S-E-X?"

"I genuinely can't remember, it has been so very long indeed," he barked, turning to glare at me...

Isn't he hilarious?

I popped straight over to Dulwich Books on the way home from work this evening and bought my poppets a copy of "Mummy Laid an Egg", a super sweet illustrated paper back that explains the facts of life. I would hate for my darling babies to grow up as innocent as I did. My mother Brenda still insists that she found me under a cabbage, I sometimes think that it would have been better for all concerned if this were true (sigh).

As we leafed through the lovely book this evening, I was calm in the knowledge that I am educating my munchkins appropriately.

"This is the really real truth, isn't it mummy," said darling five year old Freya. "Not like all of that rubbish that you tell us about the tooth fairy and Santa." Max lost his first tooth earlier this week, my babies are growing up before my eyes (sniff).

European horror

2008-05-25T11:02:00.000+01:00

I could not let the horrors I have witnessed on my TV screen go unmentioned (OHMYGOD!).

It has become clear to me that urgent action must be taken (gasp).

As a civilised nation we can no longer afford to be complacent when we have personally witnessed such heinous and depraved acts perform on our high definition TV screens. It is time for us to take a stand, we have a moral obligation to take urgent action, there is no place for complacency when our security and the welfare of our children are in obvious jeopardy.

Last night I sat open mouthed with horror, as the obvious threat from our clearly disturbed and traumatised Euro neighbours unfolded before my very eyes. This year The Eurovision song contest has served as a warning of an impending catastrophe.

Sweden were represented by a woman who resembled a Donatella Versace meets menacing Van Helsing lady boy. We expected them (as usual) to provide us with all of the entertainment value of a freak circus side show, but Latvia confirmed a deeply disturbed streak with their Pirates of the Caribbean and aged page 3 model combination. That woman is fortunate not to have impaled herself on her under wiring.

Bosnia presented us with a collection of gyrating traumatised brides, a washing line and an apparently drug crazed blood stained groom. The woman who sang for Poland should serve as a warning to all of those who consider a trip to old Eastern Block countries for cheap cosmetic dentistry. So many of the old USSR countries were represented by traumatised singing sex workers and sinister chick boys clearly substantiating evidence of the frightful atrocities that have taken place on this planet in the past. These people should be re-repressed immediately. They were behind a wall for a reason.

It is time to redraw the iron curtain, last night I went to bed grateful that we live on an Island, our borders must be patrolled and policed. If this was considered family entertainment, God himself only knows what they would present us with as toilet facilities.

I must go an lie down, I fear I am getting one of my heads. If there is to be any hope for the future of our darling children, these people must be stopped.

Desperate times call for desperate measures (hic)

2008-05-22T23:20:00.005+01:00

This evening as I crunched up the drive after work (that damn gravel is playing havoc with my heels, I observed our housekeeper, Albena, drag an enormous crate of empty wine bottles out towards the end of our drive (I swear that woman is related to Fatima Whitbread). Each time the recycling men career towards our house in their enormous zebra stripped truck, they displace the gravel so substantially that the Aston subsequently sinks to its bumpers.

James would no longer be satisfied if the bodywork were less than perfect (sigh). What if he were to look around for a new model (OHMYGOD)? I am forced to face the fact that there could be a problem...

Never fear! I have discovered the perfect solution (see above).

I shall simply place my order with the click of a mouse and everything will soon be fine and dandy (hurrah).

The extra inches that I bear due to my nightly consumption of half a bottle of white Burgundy (St Veran is a special favourite but Threshers have let me down so often of late) will soon be a thing of the past! Please note: I am the mother of young children - it is this or Prozac.

I am convinced that I can ride a bucking broncho and not spill a drop - I have developed a kind of steely determination. Any hint of a thunderous thigh will soon be a thing of the past!

Misheard

2008-05-17T20:41:00.002+01:00

My darling boy's perfect school had an inset day yesterday. We were forced to occupy the poppet at home, while his sweet teacher had a day of training. As working parents, we were faced with the usual childcare dilemmas, who were we to trust with the care of the perfect boy? (sigh)

Albena our house-keeper resists childcare so - in my opinion her opposition to caring for our perfect children is simply unnatural. Magda (our Polish au pair) speaks very little English and I fear that she is clueless when it comes to appropriate stimulation and home work supervision. Brenda (my mother) volunteered to care for the tiny man, but she is not be trusted as she fills my progeny with e-number and sugar soaked confections, rocket fuel for children. In the past I have returned from work to discover a pair of hysterical poppets and stressed out grandma. It took me an age to simply coax my darling cats back out of the garage...

Just last weekend, James and I were discussing our childcare conundrum in the garden when Brenda bounced out from the behind a rosebush and announced:

"There is nothing wrong with my water works."

"How very abstract mother, whate are you talking about now?" I replied.

"I heard you saying that I can't look after Max because I can't control my bladder, and it is not true."

"Oh mother, I said you were incompetant, not incontinent."

What a hoot!

Oh how we all laughed...

Pride feels no pain

2008-05-14T00:05:00.005+01:00

Life is far too short for sensible shoes.

The first time I saw a pair of "healthy" Birkenstock sandals I was completely traumatised. I stared, wide eyed, speechless, and simply could not fathom the attraction. I was on a mini-break to Munich at the time, this was clearly a German idiosyncrasy, I reasoned, like frightful Lederhosen and unshaven arm pits. Oh how I wish I had been right (sigh).

Next came "comfortable" Ugg boots (gasp), as alluring as Grandpa's carpet slippers. Kate Moss could wear her pants on her head and it would catch on... but OHMYGOD, just when you think it could not get any worse, they launch the "practical" Croc! Say no more (typed with one hand as clutching chest).

This summer it seems to be the turn of the "natural" MBT, with all of the elegance of a therapeutic built up shoe. I understand the advertising, playing on the current fashion to be more in touch with our environment. "walk like a Masai warrior" apparently it is healthy and natural (therefor sooo trendy!).

This is Dulwich dear friends, not the pampas grasslands, and nothing could be more painful than ugly shoes. After all, pride feels no pain.

Today whilst surfing about on the Internet, I wondered whatever next. Have the designers taken it so very far with the ugly shoe that they have turned their attention to ugly clothes?

Not for me girls, not while there is breath in my lungs, space on my credit card and DVF in Selfridges. I promise right here and now, nothing will ever convince this girl to wear a soya cat suit!

Laser sharp...

2008-05-10T10:53:00.007+01:00

Brenda (my darling mother) popped by this morning unannounced.

"You look so very bloated darling.
What have you been eating?
Are you constipated?" (she really is quite the charmer!).

"Oh mother, nice to see you too," I chirped, looking up from my newspaper and kissing her on each cheek.
"Gosh aren't those whiskers on your chin coarse?
Have you considered laser treatment for that?" I continued.

Am I the only girl on the planet with a mother this hurtful (sigh)?

On the face of things...

2008-05-08T23:09:00.009+01:00

Everything has become far too superficial in my estimation. People are pre-occupied with appearance, which is after all so incredibly trivial…

In my opinion Gordon Ramsay stands out in this shallow society as an example to us all. Just look at him (if you can bear it), he is a successful, proud (some would say arrogant) man, and yet, he has a face so furrowed it resembles a Victoria sponge cake that someone slammed the oven door on when it was still rising...

Has he let his extreme unattractiveness hold him back in life? No, of course not. His self esteem is high, his belief in his own abilities and qualities are obvious. He has an uncrushable spirit. My housekeeper has blanched prettier celeriac than he.

Kylie Minogue is another such icon. She struts about on stage, her fringe scrapped back off her face, evidence of her mis-adventure with Botox clear for all the world to observe. Her comedy eyebrow is ascending so far up her fore head that the poor girl looks permanently surprised!

Whenever I consider popping along to Harley Street, I simply think of Kylie and Gordon and all calm is restored. I choose to remain au natural. I shall learn to love myself as I am. I am truly low maintenance. Why I haven’t yet endured that colonic irrigation treatment that I was agonising about...

NO!

I have my monthly trim and high lights, manicure, pedicure, bikini wax, threading, my eyebrows and lashes dyed, lash extensions, microdermabrasion, coconut scrub and spray tan. I really am a simple girl at heart (sigh)...

Don't you think that some people are simply addicted to treatments? They really don't know where to stop (gasp)!

Invitation

2008-05-04T13:03:00.000+01:00

I love to do my bit for charity, well any lady with a conscience does! I have found the work of The Starlight Children's Foundation - a charity that works to brighten the lives of seriously and terminally ill children by granting wishes and providing hospital entertainment particularly inspiring.

Starlight is 21 years old this year, and they are holding a super birthday party at Maggy and Rose. It is not too late to book tickets - I am really looking forward to meeting up with all of my chums! The children will have so much fun and lets face it, a trip to Maggie and Rose is always a pleasure! See you there?

Make Story-time Special

2008-05-03T10:16:00.006+01:00

The lovely people over at Fairy have sent me this super widget (to the right) which provides practical tips to encourage our little ones to read. As a conscientious mother (sigh), this is clearly a subject about which I am passionate.

The tips to "make story time special" really are super practical. I should like to add one extra tip of my own to the list - which to be honest, is a bit obvious I feel, but needs hi-lighting nevertheless. My tip would be;

"Be sure to engage an au pair with excellent written and spoken English."

The au pair will obviously be the one reading to ones progeny. I have found that a big boned Dutch or Swedish girl (if you can bear it) can be best - as their conversational English is usually faultless. Although I think it only fair to mention at this point that Swedish girls have a reputation for engaging in noisy and athletic sex, and this can lead to all manner of unpleasant issues in the family home, not least of which is rekindling ones husbands interest in pleasures of the flesh. He could begin to feel left out, and us girls need our beauty sleep after all!

Along with a super Kipper books give away, there is a sweet creative writing competition on the Fairy site too, and my darling Max has been working on his very own entry this morning! He has penned a story of Kipper, Arnold and his friend Tiger and their trip to Little Pilates! Tiger sustains a minor injury by over exerting a key muscle group and ends up having to seek the support of a Reiki Healer. It really is the most darling tale.

Isn't being a mother the most satisfying role in the world?

Meme

2008-04-27T22:17:00.004+01:00

Vanessa of The Fidra Blog has tagged me to carry out a meme. I can never normally complete challenges such as this but I have undertaken a number of creative exercises of late, at the insistence of my celebrity agent. I have been instructed to stretch myself out of my comfort zone...

Vanessa's meme requires me to;

1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag people, and acknowledge who tagged you.

Please do not judge me due to the indelicate nature of my current reading material. Apparently I must include lots of sex in the manuscript for my book - it has been suggested that I spice it up in the manner of blockbusters by Judith Krantz and Jilly Cooper, of roller coasters such as Scruples, Riders and Sons and lovers. OHMYGOD!!!

I am a lady and a mother and the subject of sex does not come naturally to me, I am so very modest after all. I live in Dulwich where everyone is married and no-one ever has sex - not ever. I am under instruction that in order to increase my commercial appeal I must open my mind and include lots and lots of detail! I have concluded that I shall simply describe the sexual athletics of my au pairs as I do not want anyone to get the wrong impression of the ladies of Dulwich. Our chased reputation is of paramount importance to me after all.

I recently accepted delivery of a copy of The Dirty Bits for girls, edited by India Knight. This is a compendium of "the dog eared pages of our youth" - not my youth darling India - after all I was a member of The Legion of Mary! This extract was originally from Fanny Hill by John Cleland (1749). Brace yourselves;

"Her legs were perfectly well shaped and her thighs, which she kept pretty close, shewed so white, so round, so substantial and abounding in firm flesh, that nothing could offer a stronger recommendation to the luxury of the touch, which he accordingly did not fail to indulge in himself. Then gently removing her hand, which in the first emotion of natural modesty, she had carried thither, he gave us rather a glimpse than a view of that ..." (gasp!!!)

No I am sorry, not even for Vanessa... no, I cannot bear to continue. This book contains far too much information. I am a pre-menopausal lady, and I have not yet eaten my supper. I must email my agent immediately, we simply never carry on like this in Dulwich, it simply would never do.

I would like to tag my chums Potty Mummy, Frog in the Field, Pig in the kitchen, Nunhead Mum of One, Zoe, Aims and Drunk Mummy - because I love you!

Worried Parent

2008-04-21T23:24:00.018+01:00

My perfect six year old boy was recently given a new game for his Nintendo DS player by my mother Brenda. I was aware that darling Max had wanted an action game cartridge for the contraption, but I preferred for him to occupy himself playing with his Brain Training exercises or with his Lego or even reading or cycling his bicycle (sniff).

Since receiving this new accessory, I have observed sweet Max behave like Golum from The Lord of the Rings each time it is suggested that he turn the game off/share with his friend/do his homework or eat his supper. OHMYGOD!!! It has been the most traumatic experience for the rest of the family (sigh).

I am not happy at all with the influence that computer technology; games, Email, MSN Messenger, Texting, You Tube networking sites like Facebook and Bebo, appear to be having on the social development of our progeny.

Children are no longer expected to use their imaginations whilst playing, if they are attacked they instantly retaliate. These tiny munchkins are not being encouraged to moderate their responses to situations or people with whom they may have a disagreement. There are no consequences for their aggressive behaviour and they can immediately observe the vivid computer generated evidence of their destructive actions on others (dabs eyes). There are never any points awarded by these vile computer games for diplomacy.

The poppets are so very Innocent and easily led (sniff).

It is now possible to conduct relationships on-line without the need for physical contact, the ability or opportunity to interpret non verbal communication is lost. Where is the art conversation and debate? Where is the charm? I am so very depressed by the destructive influence of computer technology on modern life (buries face in enormous white cotton handkerchief)...

I am off to surf around the SheerLuxesearch engine to cheer myself up for an hour or two. I will eliminate my despair by making a couple of designer purchases online. I always find spending cash on these super sites strangely easy and quite therapeutic. I adore self-gifting (blows nose loudly)!

It never seems like real money that I am spending, I find it frightfully difficult to restrain myself. It is so very easy to get carried away but hey ho, where is the harm in a little retail therapy? It is not as though we are bordering on a recession...

Can I offer you a hot whiskey (gulp)?

The rain may pelt from the heavens, but it doesn't matter a jot that I am suffering from a heavy cold as I sit here shopping on-line!

Seek medical attention...

2008-04-19T21:00:00.012+01:00

James is in Washington (again) and I am bored, bored, bored. Tonight I have resorted to reading (the au pair) Magda's old copies of Now magazine. Vogue is cover to cover florals - and I am finding it all quite depressing (have you noticed the weather?).

Is anyone else alarmed by Dr Hilary Jones and his problem page? He is starting to sound just like a member of the Roman Catholic clergy...

Dr Hilary's column has an enormous eye-catching photo of Victoria Beckham with the headline "Posh's trousers could give you thrush!" Sweet Dr Hilary, are times that difficult? The mid fifty year old celebrity GP says that "tough fabric can irritate just where you don't want it to and allow thrush to flourish in the warm, moist environment," he then goes into far too much detail for those of us who can actually read...

Really darling?

Let's move on...

I think that it may be time for you yourself to seek treatment. You don't sound too healthy to me.

But then what would I know?

Has anyone noticed where I put the cork screw?

Praise the Lord!

2008-04-15T20:38:00.006+01:00

I awoke the other morning to find my bedroom flooded with light. Like the Ice Queen I surveyed the scene from my bedroom window, smiling to myself as the profusion of enormous fluffy snowflakes that wafted past and settled into little drifts on the terrace steps and against the perfect Farrow and Ball painted bird table below. I realised that the sweet Robin would probably be forced to endure hunger in this beautiful scene. There are indeed those who suffer great hardship because of the snow...

I was suddenly aware that I was in the presence of God!

Overcome with emotion, struck dumb in awe at the power of the Lord, tears ran down my perfect cheeks and I felt my heart leap in my bosom with joy at the realisation that I live in glorious Dulwich!

Some are certainly less fortunate than I...(have you ever been to Lambeth? OHMYGOD!!!)

Aware that my poppets would imminently demand a trip into the garden to make a snow man, I dashed downstairs, summoned the au pair and instructed her to don her thermals in order to escort my progeny outside for some fun and games (high jinks in the snow would play havoc with my hair).

I love to catch up on my beauty sleep on a Sunday morning (sigh), I really could sleep like a bear in hibernation.

Wake me up when the meek inherit the earth.

Publishing News

2008-04-10T20:24:00.014+01:00

As many of you are aware, I have been busy crafting my novel "Sex Lies & Sellotape, confessions of a Dulwichmum," which was due to be published this month by The Friday Project. So many of you have emailed me over the last three weeks enquiring about the publication date - I must admit that I am really rather embarrassed... Following the advice of a selection of super high powered, high profile agents - I was persuaded to break my contract with the publisher back at the beginning of February. The publisher has subsequently gone into liquidation (OHMYGOD!).

I feel a little uncomfortable about the whole affair, super writers who were under contract to this tiny publisher are owed royalties and many have had their hopes and dreams shattered. I cannot accept responsibility for the hardship caused by this business failing. I was wrong to have ever signed their generous contract, it was indeed scandalously generous, but sadly not to me (sigh). I should have smelled a rat when I met the portly ginger haired publisher with her Max Pax tea and office above a kebab shop. No-one refers to me as a cash cow and gets away with it!

I really must consider my position; fair royalties, a column in The Mail/contract with Penguin/serialisation with The Mail on Sunday & The Times/screen rights with Time Warner are apparently what I should expect. I have been told that a novel like mine comes along just once in every generation, this book is reminiscent of Gone with the Wind, a fusion of Bridget Jones's Diary and Sons and Lovers (but with substantially more sex).

My novel is a simple tale of sex, rags to riches, designer handbags, sex (our succession of au pairs have been insatiable), infidelity and hypocrisy, more sex (those boys from the College need a firm hand), love and hope and yet more sex (some of which is not even in a committed relationship but that part is clearly about the neighbours) in middle class south east London. It is an epic story of triumph over school gate treachery and an evil post menopausal adversary (my monster-in-law). My manuscript is a great roller coaster of a book in 110,000 words with exotic locations (Dulwich Picture Gallery, Padstow, Barbados, Disneyland Paris) and many designer costume changes.

Naturally I am now a little concerned that we will not actually find another publishing home for my work (gasp). But my celebrity agent will not compromise; Daniel Craig is to play James, and I naturally would love to play myself (prrr) although I am prepared to agree to Orla Brady. I do sooo hope that I haven't shot myself in the foot with my demands (yellow M&M's, Jo Malone scented candles, no eye contact, a tray of mojitos, white walls and carpet). It is after all, just the simple story of my domestic arrangements which is perhaps best kept secret right here on my blog...

A matter of taste...

2008-04-09T22:23:00.002+01:00

My poor distressed work colleague today insisted that I accompanied her to lunch in order that she could share her tale of woe. Apparently the honeymoon between she and her darling husband is over.

"Theodore is a tad quirky in the bedroom," she sobbed, "as all men no doubt are..." I didn't like to admit, I haven't actually had this experience myself. I am so incredibly naive and so very easily shocked, but in an effort to spare my colleague's blushes I endeavoured to appear as though I had heard it all before. Helena has only hinted at her husband's "tastes" in the past, but when she has, I have been left puzzled for weeks...

Apparently, Theodore's latest "quirk" has involved smearing himself in Swarfega, donning a pair of blue swimming goggles and making love to his wife on a linoleum floor!!!

OHMYGOD - I thought I would inhale my own vomit!

"Oh darling Helena, he has gone too far. How do you endure this degradation? Leave him immediately, the man is a beast," I cried.

I couldn't bear to allow man made floor coverings in my home.

Sunshine

2008-04-07T19:23:00.013+01:00

I must admit that I have been so very cautious about taking my tiny poppets on a holiday abroad. There are (after all) so many strange and hostile people to be encountered in foreign lands. I am tortured by fears for my young family.

It snowed just yesterday (it is April!!!), so I decided to reconsider as it would be super to cheer us all up with a lovely sunshiny family holiday. I quickly nipped online in search of a break in the Maldives or Barbados for our next half term holiday. James immediately became rather alarmed and began to rant on about the current difficulties in the money markets. He insisted;

“Don’t dare to book the Indian Ocean or the West Indies through Club Med or Mark Warner,” (I had no idea that times were so very hard). “Why don’t you try Thompson's – You might find something reasonable in Greece.”

I pride myself on being open minded, but OHMYGOD, I shall find it difficult to articulate the horrors that I have experienced online this evening… The selection of holidays for sale through this high street holiday company simply took my breath away.

In their online brochure, Thompson offer “Premier” five star resorts that it claims are “stylish and luxurious,” but not so exclusive that they feel “unfriendly.”

"Mmm," I thought, "this sounds promising"…

They claim that one resort has “an outrageously posh marina” that is filled with sleek “my wallet is bigger than your’s yachts” – I was speechless… Other features are described as “knock your socks off.” All male guests under 14 are apparently "requested" to wear long trousers for dinner (OHMYGOD, do they compel their guests to use a knife and fork too?). In the “classy” Sani Beach Club Hotel (is it named after a chemical toilet?) there is a full programme of nightly "entertainment on offer, including a dart board, bingo and karaoke."

When describing the cuisine, they claim that one American buffet style restaurant (this is in Greece!!!) in the resort was mentioned in The Financial Times just four years ago, and “with reviews like these you know you’ve hit the jackpot”. They offer “unlimited locally produced alcoholic beverages – so fill your boots,” I almost expired. I wonder if this restaurant has a notice on the wall requesting that patrons refrain from sucking their teeth?

How frightfully coarse…

I don’t think that we can risk a holiday abroad this year, or at least until the stock market picks up or they invent some kind of common/low life filter for my computer. How can I ensure that we avoid encounters with larger louts and lottery winning toothless hags from Elsemere Port on our travels.

I really am an outragous snob you know... (sigh).

Shhh, I wonder if I could pick up a super offer with Mark Warner to The Ocean Club in Praia da Luz in Portugal. I have read that there is a nice tapas bar virtually in front of the apartments too! Anything would be better than Halkidiki with Thomas Cook, clearly…

Bob

2008-04-02T22:00:00.002+01:00

We recently visited my husband's vile work colleague Annabelle at her capacious home in Chiswick. Her son Hugo adores my poppets - well of course he does, they are angels and perfect role models...

Annabelle constantly berates us for living in south east London. She savours every available opportunity to make fun of us because we live "on the front line," as she so kindly terms it.

"It is no wonder that you drive a tank. I believe that it is necessary for everyone in that part of London to tote some sort of military hardware..."

"An Audi Q7 is not in any way related to a British Army Challenger Tank darling," I protest. (Grrr, that woman is lucky I don't own a gun...)

Annabelle also enjoys sending us up for what she interprets as our hot-housing of the munchkins - insisting that we force them to study.

I have been begging my progeny to allow me to play pop music in the car of late... fearing that they will miss out on so very much with two mature parents, hoping that they would display evidence of their care free childhood and love of current chart hits when we next visit Annabelle's abode.

"No, please NO," object Freya and Max in unison, as I endeavour to sneakily introduce some Take That into their musical diet. "Let us listen to our Sing the times tables CD or our Muzzy French. Turn this frightful racket off," they chime.

By all accounts, just this week Annabelle's anaemic son Hugo has been watching music videos 0n Youtube with his Latvian au pair. Annabelle was incredibly smug. We are the angry mob by the Kaiser Chiefs is apparently his special favourite and he even sang for us (I swear that boy is tone deaf!).

"We are the hungry Bob
We read the papers everyday day
We like who like
We hate who we hate
And don't get in our way."

That child is bristling with aggression and every inch of his mother. Freya sat quietly, listening to Hugo's recital, casually occupied with her Nintendo DS Brain Training exercises (I was very embarrassed) before pointing out that Hugo was singing the wrong words (OHMYGOD!). The boy was crushed, but I smiled like a Cheshire cat for the rest of the afternoon.

Humourless...

2008-03-29T21:39:00.005Z

My perfect friend Vashi really does not share my sense of humour at all - you realise when I am joking don't you?

OHMYGOD...

I fear I shall be lying down for the rest of the week, I may even seek confession.

Vashi recently described her frustration at how her prized Persian Blue kitty had been spending far too much time in the arms of a frightful neighbour. Apparently this loathsome woman had been gloating regarding the fact that Snookums preferred to dine at number 7! How very dare she? That woman is a minx.

"What am I to do?" wailed my chum. "I am spending a fortune on fresh fish at Moxons, the cat gives me a filthy look if I even dare to dish out Hills Science. It is not the money, clearly - I just feel so damn bullied and betrayed!"

"I wouldn't stand for it a minute more. I would have him put to sleep if I were you," I laughed "and visit a taxidermist with the corpse. I am sure that someone experienced could compose him appropriately. You could position Snookums on your piano stool within view of your evil neighbour - just inside the bi-folding glass doors. She could rattle her damn pots and pans and call the cat to her hearts content - she would soon realise that the relationship was over"...

I WAS JOKING...

Common...

2008-03-26T20:51:00.002Z

My monster-in-law arrived unannounced for a flying visit this afternoon. The poppets are on their Easter holidays from school and bounded about the house under the supervision of Magda - our new Polish au pair (she cannot speak a word of English and recently bestowed me with an enormous home made sausage and some hand knit socks upon her arrival at Herne Hill train station).

To my delight Granzilla commented on the profusion of award certificates stuck to our minimalist brushed steel American fridge complimenting my darling munchkins on their progress at their selective independent schools, and elaborated about how surprised she was as;

"they learned to walk far too soon. We really never expected that the poor darlings would be bright."

"What are you saying sweetie?" I chirped through gritted teeth...

"Your father-in-law and I have always agreed that walking early is a sign that children are from council housing - well clearly they are pulling themselves up on the furniture which is positioned terribly close together in their frightfully cramped little homes. Walking early is a dreadful sign."

OHMYGOD! That woman is outrageous...

Everyone knows that my home rivals The Tate Modern for square footage. I am beside myself with disgust.

Those socks that Magda gave me look almost Missoni you know - if only her grandma had knit me a cardigan.

Open minded...

2008-03-23T19:19:00.006Z

For weeks now, my darling boy has been pleading with me to allow him to have an "Intendo DS" computer game - the perfect lamb.

"But diddums," I explained, "I have read that computer games inhibit creative play at a time when you should be learning to negotiate and share under the supervision of a grown up. They encourage fright and flight responses, violent reactions and are responsible for children behaving like hooligans. There is nothing more beneficial for a child than spending time with a grown up. Now go and find yourself a book and get the au pair to read it to you like a good boy..."

I would hate for anyone to consider that James and I neglect our parental duty like some kind of heavy drinking trailer trash. However, as a parent, one must always strive to be open minded and move with the times... (sigh).

Late last week, with the school holidays looming in front of me like an enormous abyss, I noticed this feature on the morning news! Apparently just twenty minutes each day playing with Brain Training on the Nintendo DS can substantially enhance a child's numeracy and literacy skills from the age of three onwards! How much time have we already ~~wasted~~ lost?

I scooted to Brixton on my way home from work (OHMYGOD! The risks that I take with my life for my munchkins) and purchased a petal pink machine for my baby girl, and a black manly machine for my burly boy. I would hate to inhibit my darlings' growth and development.

Lets hope it keeps the poppets happily occupied until the damn schools open up again.

Now, can I pop some ice in that drink for you?

In charge

2008-03-19T20:35:00.003Z

I am afraid that I have been unable to blog for the last few days (sigh)...

I have been so very distressed indeed, confined to my bed with a migraine so frightfully intense, I was convinced that the end was nigh. We attended our tiny flower's parent teacher meeting on Friday evening, and received a report of her "outstanding insight" into any given situation, her "articulate, expressive and artistic nature"... OHMYGOD! I fled the building, I feared the shame would kill me stone dead! Whatever am I to do (sniff)?

It all seemed to be going so very well to begin with, in the midst of the report my eyes began to wonder about the classroom, searching for evidence of my darling girl's art work. On the wall behind Mrs Darling were sweet child crafted portraits of family groups. Each child had apparently painted a perfect picture of Daddy (the tallest), followed by mummy and a small selection of siblings. I smiled to myself as I reminisced that I had painted such a picture myself in school as a child. My daddy was tall and had wore hat, my mother was smaller and there were four of us tiny sisters and our cat "Snookie."

"Which picture has my munchkin Freya painted," I purred. Mrs Darling directed us to a composition right behind us in which the mother was the tallest member of the family group (in a stripey cardigan - Missoni, clearly) followed by tiny daddy, big Freya and small Max!!! OHMYGOD! I almost expired.

"Has the child no idea of how very influential indeed her daddy is?" I cried, shocked and horrified (clutching my new Burberry Prorsum The Mason Warrior Bag to my breast).

James then pipped in with his contribution;

"Influential is one thing darling, in-charge is something completely different."

...I may never recover. James and Mrs Darling both laughed out loud. He has stopped laughing now I can tell you, the trouble in the City will keep him busy for at least the rest of the week (and they are still trying to work out who started that rumour!).

Uncle Anthony

2008-03-14T20:24:00.002Z

When I was a little girl, my uncle Anthony was young and trendy and listened to this on his record player. I thought that he was the coolest man alive...

Can you believe that this was thirty three years ago?

OHMYGOD... I am sooo damn old, and so is Uncle Anthony!

environMENTAL

2008-03-12T07:40:00.000Z

This morning I came to the obvious conclusion that the current media awareness drive aimed at children regarding environmental issues has gone far too far. My perfect poppet Max has discovered a frightful recycling game on the cbbc website just last Sunday morning and he has become obsessed, taking the protection of the environment to extremes ever since!

Perfect Max has insisted just this morning that he will have water poured on his breakfast cereal instead of milk! Apparently the methane produced by dairy cows is having a detrimental effect on the environment. The munchkin has begged us to turn down the heating and wear more clothes to keep ourselves warm, even asserting that we wash our clothes less often!!! The most outrageous suggestion of my tiny boy's campaign is that he has now insisted that I am to abstain from plugging in my straightening iron - OHMYGOD!

Naturally I do everything I can to support my perfect baby. I have decided that I will have my hair chemically straightened (what the darling does not know will not hurt him) - apparently it will save hours from my personal grooming routine each week, and perhaps the chemicals the hairdresser shall use will cause the atmosphere to heat up so significantly that our homes will all be warmer ...sigh.

Wet Wet Wet

2008-03-09T08:30:00.008Z

Giving birth under forty is sooo last millenium! The fact that I have the skin of a fourteen year old has always been a source of great pride to me, but of late, appearing to be a young mother in this locality could cost a girl her position and social standing! Ladies of Dulwich are keen to reach the heady heights of extreme career success before putting down a perfectly pedicured foot and insisting on commitment and family life...

Why is it then, that so many of these high achieving ladies appear to be so absolutely wet when then they become mothers?

Sitting in Cafe Rouge yesterday afternoon, I overheard two mature, articulate mothers conversing about the conundrum that is motherhood - as they simultaneously breastfed three children between the two of them (well it stands to reason that if they leave reproduction to the eleventh hour that mass production may be called for).

"Rufus has just started to sleep through... and before we know it they seem to think that they are putting the clocks back!"

"OHMYGOD!!! The early morning light will cause Hugo and Florence to wake and disturb their rhythm, no, it cannot be true! Can't Gina Ford intervene? Can't we launch some sort of public awareness campaign about this issue? Are we too late for a petition??"

WHAT ARE THEY LIKE?

They had more baggage around that table than I took to Cornwall for a two week holiday last summer.

When did being a mature parent begin to mean that mothers became so bloody wet?

I know, I apologise, I am not my usual happy go lucky self today. Weekends are so damn stressful, well, the au pair is off until Monday, isn't she...

NOTE TO SELF: Tell the housekeeper to ensure that the blackout blinds are in full working order on the nursery windows, and order online from Majestic Wine.

Nightmare...

2008-03-06T20:35:00.002Z

Since finding this hilarious wedding invitation online, I have been tortured by recurring nightmares. In one version I am the sobbing mother, and some minx is making off with my golden son, in another frightful hallucination - I am the bride (my monster-in-law hates me you know)!!!

This dear friends, is Dulwichmum's complete and utter ultimate nightmare scenario - after all of my hard work!

I never do anything at all in half measures you know. I always endeavour to be the best at everything, in this case - I am trying to afford my munchkins the best possible opportunities in life (I have been plying them with Omega 3 rich fish oils since birth).

In an effort to ensure that the poppets gain places at the right universities, I am already bearing their future UCAS (university) application forms in mind...

I encourage my darling boy to engage in outdoor sports; rugby, football, cricket and martial arts (I will ensure that Max is perceived as an asset to any university team) - but what if instead of gaining the title of Captain of the Rugby/Cricket Team and completing his Gold Duke of Edinburgh Gold award by 17, darling Max decides to be a martial arts instructor or an orienteering coach? OHMYGOD!

I am focused on ensuring that my poppet will play both a stringed and brass musical instrument to Grade 8 (it looks so darned "well rounded" on an application form for university, he can play in their brass band or orchestra) but what if my little man decides to join a band or ever OHMYGOD - play the oboe for a living???

My baby boy has been bombarded with Muzzy French and Mandarin (the business language of the future) since birth - enjoying after school mandarin lessons so very much indeed (I had to put the darling's name down on the waiting list at conception for this one, sigh) - but what if he decides that he actually wants to live in France or China or be a language teacher???

I am tortured. How can a mother ever feel secure that she is making the right choices for her perfect son?

I shall teach Freya everything I know. My darling four year old flower is already equipped with her own orange sticks and pushes back her cuticles regularly - I can rest assured that I am getting it right with one of my offspring...sigh.

She who laughs last...

2008-03-05T20:07:00.004Z

My darling man really is such a super powerful person... at work.

Clearly there is a strict hierarchy in place in our home, the munchkins (with their outdoor voices and tiny tantrumettes) reign supreme, closely followed by our housekeeper (upset Albena and the entire apple cart will topple) and after that there is the au pair to keep happy (the school run would be impossible without my little Polish sidekick), and last but not least come James and myself (in no particular order you understand).

Last night James arrived home from work with his obnoxious work colleague Martin, they were full of their own importance, James was feeling incredibly brave. He often finds his own sense of humour terribly entertaining when in the company of a minion, oh how he laughs...

"Things have gone down hill dramatically since they gave women the vote," he guffawed,

"well, when we allowed them to wear shoes, all hope was lost."

OHMYGOD!

Does he really consider himself superior to me in the great scheme of things?

I enjoy my shoes, I must say. Take these for example. I bought them today with James' own credit card, online. James could have a good guess at much I spent on them, and even then he would have to add a zero. Oh the satisfaction that is owning a pair of Giuseppe Zanotti Swarovski embellished sandals!

I shall use them to walk all over my man (sigh)!

A mothers love...

2008-03-03T20:37:00.004Z

My darling boy was blubbing on the top stair as I tripped up to bed last night. The poor lamb had been listening to the horrors on the news! We really must be so very careful indeed, little ears hear everything...

"Oh Mummy, why were the children in a special home in Jersey," he sobbed," and how could anyone be cruel to children with no mummy and daddy to protect them at all," he sobbed.

"I know my darling little man," I consoled, a lump in my throat and tears flowing down my perfect cheeks (I have amazing skin for a woman of my age and could actually pass for a girl of just 25).

I took my munchkin to his room and tucked him into bed before lying on the bed beside him.

"Mummy will always be here to protect you my tiny baby, I will always believe you, defend you and put you first sweetie. If anyone should ever hurt you, or touch you in a way that makes you feel unhappy, you can always tell Mummy," I assured my innocent child as we lay embracing on the bed. "Never be afraid to tell me anything my sweet boy, if anyone touches you at all, Javier (the gardener) the Parish Priest, your father, Grandpa Charles - Mummy will believe you. Just tell mummy... I will always put you first."

Then my perfect cub uttered words that every mother dreads. The skin on my face became cold and numb, I felt nauseated and confused.

"Well actually Mummy, daddy has touched me in the way you say... a way I did not like."

OHMYGOD!!! Pass the Rescue Remedy!

I scrambled off the bed, fell to the floor and reached across the room to flick my poppet's bedroom door closed with my foot. The realisation that my perfect marriage was surely over took hold and I knew I needed to protect my golden boy...

"Tell Mummy, my darling child. I shall toss the cad out on the street. Your father will never ever lay a hand on you again. I shall call the police and summon in the lawyers, you are safe dear heart - tell me all, Mummy can take it."

"Well Mummy, Papa noticed that I had used your new lipstick to draw on the floor tiles in your en suite bathroom and he slapped my bottom - I didn't like it at all. He was wrong."

"REALLY?" I replied. "Those limestone tiles are from Fired Earth and cost a fortune sweetie. They have not even been sealed yet - will the stains ever come out? And OHMYGOD - my new lipstick!!! If you ever touch my make-up bag again I shall send you to an institution called Winchester."

I really have the perfect family after all...(sigh).

I'm sooo broody!

2008-03-01T16:55:00.003Z

It's official, I just can't help myself.

You will be too...(sigh)

Fairtrade Fortnight

2008-02-26T18:07:00.024Z

I can be frightfully passionate in my efforts to support a good cause. Clearly this usually involves me getting dressed up to the nines and quaffing Champagne whilst spending stacks of my darling man’s lovely cash at an after dinner auction. I adore a good function at The Dorchester, don’t you?

It is currently Fairtrade Fortnight, and I was thinking;

“how jolly now, how terribly current, how completely right on.”

As I filled my E-shopping basket with Fairtrade goods on the Ocado website this morning, it was about as glamorous as wearing a damn hairshirt (yawn). You can rely on me to find a decadent way to be virtuous...

I managed to feel positively sinful as I spent great wads of my man’s cash on Fairtrade goodies this afternoon! I have been filling my E shopping basket on this site with luxurious underwear, and OHMYGOD - it is organic too! James adores natural fibres, and it is all in support of the best cause. I just love the silky scanties on Greenknickers.org!

Accessories

2008-02-25T20:58:00.003Z

Coasting through Brixton this morning (OHMYGOD! What a horrific journey I am forced to endure each day) in my gleaming Audi Q7 (to hell with the damn congestion charge) I noticed a woman wandering past The Body Shop wearing nothing but a pair of imitation Ugg Boots and a child's silver plastic tiara!!! She must have been older than my mother...

I don't quite know how to process this;

Was I horrified that this woman had clearly lost her mind?
Was I sensitised because this post menopausal female had so obviously lost her figure?
Was I simply shocked by her lack of ability to accessorize?
Or, have I simply realised the full implications of care in the community?

I really am terribly current with all things political you know.

In the name of God and all of that is holy!

2008-02-24T18:55:00.002Z

I shall have to go and lie down. I feel nauseated.

And to think of the money I spent on the tickets for that High School Musical Show! I am completely horrified. It seems that the little minx who plays Gabriella - Vanessa Anne Hudgens has been making another of her immoral youtube home video thingies, this time she is reported to be sitting under a Christmas tree, wearing nothing but an acrylic red thong and saying; "I want Santa to come up my chimney because I have been a good girl this year!"

Is there no end to this girls depravity? The underwear she was reported to have been wearing sounds so frightfully Ann Summers. What sort of messages is she sending to my poppets?

I shall be tossing the DVDs and everything else into the bin.

Lessons...

2008-02-22T08:03:00.002Z

I am so very experienced by now with regard to the correct way to accommodate an au pair in my home. I shall not make the same mistake twice!

Last year I purchased a cumbersome double decker bicycle in order that our previous au pair Ana could transport my poppets to school in an environmentally friendly and yet unattractive manner (I am terribly eco-trendy aware). Far from developing the calves and biceps of an Olympic javelin thrower, she became toned, slim and pert. Her skin glowed and her hair lightened from cycling in the Summer sunshine and my munchkins delighted in her company more than mine. They looked like the family Von Trap each morning heading off down my drive singing merrily.

OHMYGOD.

This year I have insisted that our new au pair drives the ugly eco Prius. I shall drive the Audi Q7 to work in London each day from now on. Public transport is so very dangerous, and with the introduction of the new £25 per day congestion charge for enormous gas guzzling vehicles like mine, it shall be my pleasure to allow everyone in the empty car park at work observe just how very wealthy I am (sigh)!

Image is everything you know, hers and mine...

Please excuse me while I pop off to the Guardian online website to catch up with my nephew Max's blog about his travels on his gap year!

Roller Coaster...

2008-02-20T19:29:00.010Z

I have been on a complete emotional roller coaster of late. Why did they invent Valentine's Day and then decide to celebrate it in the middle of Lent? I am being forced to abstain from chocolate treats and confectionery (by my fundamentalist Roman Catholic mother) just when I am entitled to receive some (grrr)!

Just a few days ago I collected our new Polish au pair from Herne Hill Station (I certainly wasn't driving to Luton airport) and just as I suspected, the minx was actually incredibly attractive despite the agency's assurance that she was plain and portly. As usual I graciously accepted a selection of gifts including an enormous home made sausage from Magda's papa, and a framed photo of Pope John Paul 11. Naturally I have tossed them into the garage on top of a groaning pile of evil eye amulets, crochet lace doilies and jars of home made sauerkraut. I would be delighted to welcome an Italian girl who could present me with a bottle of hand pressed olive oil, but I am painfully aware that Italian women have a reputation for athletic and noisy lovemaking - not in my house... never again.

Straight from work tonight I scooted to Claridge's bar where I consumed several Mojito Royales to celebrate being shortlisted for this! OHMYGOD! I can't begin to describe to you how elated I am to have been shortlisted in a category alongside such marvelous and esteemed bloggers. I am well aware that my tiny bloglet will not win; I am simply over the moon to have been nominated to stand shoulder to shoulder with these terrific ladies.

Hollywood Tower

2008-02-20T18:30:00.000Z

The Twilight Zone Tower of Terror

2008-02-16T20:39:00.006Z

“You are travelling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land of imagination. Next stop, the Twilight Zone!”

OHMYGOD! I recently attended the launch of a new attraction at Disneyland Paris. The “Twilight Zone Tower of Terror” is a re-creation of the mysterious, suspenseful world of the classic Twilight Zone television series that ran in the UK in the late 70’s early 80’s.

I have to admit – theme parks are not usually my thing, but James and I were actually invited to join a group of other bloggers (you know who you are) at the launch of this attraction, and I was intrigued as I have such fond memories of watching this TV show from my early teens (that and Prisoner Cell Block H). Yes, I have actually been to a Disney theme park without my munchkins…(I am the most dreadful mother, sob).

The Twilight Zone Tower of Terror combines powerful storytelling with a frightfully exhilarating experience. This particular function was simply not for poppets under six years of age...(sigh).

We first attended a Champagne reception in full 1940’s costume (I am a committed glamour puss afterall) at the art deco lobby of the abandoned luxury hotel, before being lead past the ruined elevator doors and into a library where we viewed the opening moments of an episode of The Twilight Zone (the music still sends tingles up my spine after all of this time!).

We were then taken to the elevator (I was completely squiffy at this point – well it would have been rude to refuse the free Champagne) where the ride creator or “Imagineer” continued to narrate the story;

“On a dark and stormy night in 1939, lightning struck the landmark Hollywood Tower Hotel and five hotel guests in an elevator were forever transported into The Twilight Zone. Today’s guests retrace those footsteps.”
I was petrified!

According to Disney legend, this hotel was at the height of its popularity in 1939 when a mysterious occurrence forced it to close. The hotel was boarded up on the evening of October 31, 1939, and so it remained until its grand reopening in the spring of 2008… in Paris! How frightfully convenient that the Eurostar goes straight there...

It was in the elevators that the mysterious occurrence took place one stormy, rain-drenched evening. As the elevator ascended, lighting struck the tower and the elevator plunged – 13 floors, carrying its five terrified passengers to certain doom. But this was no ordinary storm, no ordinary stroke of lightning. Before it reached the bottom of the shaft, the elevator and its passengers simply vanished. The hotel immediately emptied staff and guests utterly unable to contend with the baffling incident. The hotel remained as it was, untouched, undisturbed. Until now, and it has turned up in Disneyland Paris!!! Lucky us… (gulp). I really should have used the lavatory before I joined the party in the elevator.

I adore the glamour of the 1940’s but am grateful to be living today in 2008. I would never have survived such an experience in my scanty vintage gown (purchased on the internet) if it had not been for the invention of the Caesarean section and my commitment to a rigorous regime of pelvic floor exercises. I told James on the way out the attraction, I am not having any more babies, not ever.

Lesser women would have been at the mercy of their special underwear, and I don't mean their tassles!

I just hope that Disney do not turn their attentions next to the construction of an attraction based on Prisoner Cell Block H, I am afterall still haunted by fears of the Top Dog and her ironing press...

Wax

2008-02-15T12:32:00.006Z

I have just had the most alarming conversation with my new PA Samantha. Perfect Lydia is off to pastures new (and after everything I have done for that girl… sniff). I took them both out for lunch this afternoon and the horrors that Samantha described to me almost caused me to inhale an entire bowl of Tom Yam Soup. She has no idea of polite dinner conversation! (I secretly find her rather refreshing...)

I have always considered extreme bikini waxing to be the preference of fetishists, and those who engage in intimate body piercing, wear cheap nylon underwear or read The Sun. To be entirely honest, I hadn’t actually given the issue that much thought. Samantha (she says I am to call her “Sam”) tells me that not only does she have a “Brazilian”, but her “partners” all have a substantial amount of waxing too. She referred casually to male waxing as a BSC.

OHMYGOD!!!

I can only say that I imagine such intimate waxing could be considered a form of torture if it were to be carried out by marines in Guantanamo Bay, I would personally admit to anything if I were threatened with such an intimate and painful procedure. Only twice I have endured intimate depilation myself, and that was after I had been administered effective epidural anaesthesia in preparation for my caesarean sections at The Portland (standard pre-op procedure I believe). I had a simple "bikini line" waxing, nothing exotic enough to rival George Michael's angular facial hair.

I can't imagine that it looks quite natural to depilate virtually the entire area (if you see what I mean). Sam claimed that her current boyfriend insists upon it. But that must render your look virtually pre-pubescent, I argued. If James were to hint at such a preference, I would lock my poppets in their bedroom and summon the social services.

I am prepared to accept that minimalist intimate lady waxing may become more main stream in the UK (for those who sport hair extensions and nail art with crude acrylic tips), but surely our men are not engaging in this too? Please, assure me Sam is wrong.

Fashion Weak...

2008-02-12T18:46:00.000Z

I am so very busy with work at the moment. It is actually half term, and I cannot spare a minute for my poppets who are spending the break at a local daily camp. It is London Fashion Week and I wont even have two minutes to catch any of the shows (sniff). I believe that Ben de Lisi was fabulous at Claridges, I have always had a weakness for fashion...(sigh)

Strolling past Phase Eight in West Dulwich this morning (the pressure to dash is off as the roads are whisper quiet since the schools are closed) I noticed utilitarian smock dresses worthy of the Top Dog on Prisoner Cell Block H for sale in the shop window. I immediately concluded that a huge amount of their stock will be hanging around for their sale… and perhaps long after that too. The middle class mummies of West Dulwich favour well cut, feminine clothes in pretty colours and dry clean only fabrics, not potato sacks that would challenge the curves of Marilyn Monroe. What are they thinking?

On second thoughts, my new au pair arrives tonight from Poland. I tried to choose the ugliest girl I could find, but these minx’s can be incredibly cunning in their search for a good ~~man~~ family, even feigning a monobrow and the need for spectacles. I shall purchase half a dozen of the ugly smocks for Magda to wear as a uniform this evening.

You know you really should get yourself to Phase Eight ASAP, those smocks will fly off the rails by the weekend at this rate!

European Community

2008-02-06T07:16:00.000Z

"When I am eight can I have a mobile phone please mummy? All of the boys at school have them... when they are eight. Just for emergencies. Pleeease mummy?"

"What sort of emergency can an eight year old boy possibly encounter?" I asked the tiny six year old man. "You are unlikely to need to call the RAC to help you with a broken down vehicle on the hard shoulder of the M1 now are you sweetie?" I laughed as I left him in the queue next to his perfect teacher (she really is a complete darling and Max has discussed marriage).

As I tottered off up the road towards the bus stop, I noticed two boys (too tiny to be teenage) from The Comprehensive School You Pay For greeting each other on the street with a kiss on each cheek. One boy presented the other with a large paper coffee cup and off they marched towards the school sipping their hot coffee (OHMYGOD!).

Damn the influence of the media on our young people, the outrageous oestrogenisation of the environment and our membership of the European Union. Our progeny are losing their innocence far too soon. I weep for the future of Dulwich.

Young lads such as these should be smoking and drinking Coca-Cola on their way to school like normal pre-teens.

Cold turkey

2008-02-03T21:40:00.000Z

Oh how I love the number 3 bus. Every morning as it coasts through Brixton, I am exposed to all manner of opinion and chat. On Friday I overheard two women having the most hilarious conversation. They sit together every morning and look as though they could be mother and daughter;

"I wonder why people assume that poor Barbara Windsor's young husband (half her age) married her just for the money. No-one assumes she is having the time of her life with a younger man. No-one assumes she married him for sex.." said the younger woman (OHMYGOD).

"Well that's because at her age she is probably grateful for a full night's sleep - I get very giddy legs at night, I find it very hard to settle, and my pelvic floor is not what it was..." said the older lady (too much information!).

"When Michael Douglas married Catherine Zita Jones, people sniggered and said what fun he would have, and talked about his 'sex addiction.' I still have that Hello magazine you know, he is a dirty old man... He married that poor girl to prove that he still had lead in his pencil," said the first woman as she applied her mascara (she was priceless).

"Look at the poor man now, he is like a wax work dummy, having surgery every second week, just trying to keep up his young wife. Hoping not to look his age," she continued.

The older lady then joined in;

"She went out with that Blue Peter presenter with the video camera before Michael Douglas. The poor man is probably exhausted. He should have married me you know. I would have cured his sex addiction, I would have given him the full Amy Winehouse treatment, I would have forced him to go cold turkey. If he touched me I would have set my Doberman on him, randy old git..."

Charming!

I love living in South East London. The locals are so entertaining!

For Brenda...

2008-02-02T18:55:00.000Z

The link to this blog post is for Brenda (my mother) - who doesn't have a computer, and if she did, she would not read it anyway. She would not listen if I read it to her...

Does being a devout Roman Catholic mean that she is automatically incapable of common sense?

Writing...

2008-02-01T18:12:00.000Z

I am such a busy bee - I have just updated my column on the SheerLuxe Website!

High School Musical

2008-01-30T20:19:00.000Z

High School Musical is coming to London! Apparently there will be a live show in The Hammersmith Apollo in July. Darling boy Max saw the notice in my Evening Standard and he danced around the house with glee;

"Freya will be delighted," he shouted... "And I will come too because mummy can't leave one of us behind," he exclaimed.

"Don't worry diddums," I soothed, "Freya doesn't want to go to see the show, she doesn't love Troy anymore - not since he kissed Gabriella in High School Musical Two, isn't that so my baby munchkinette?" I asked my tiny infant Freya.

"I never loved Troy, not ever anyway," hissed the darling tot, tossing her Troy toy into the back of the toy box.

"I don't mind a bit if I must go to the special show," pleaded burly Max. "I don't want to be left alone at home. I shall simply tell the other boys at school that you made me go, that my sister wanted to go, and so I had to go too."

"But my baby man," I explained, "your perfect sister doesn't want to go, please do not concern yourself so," I reassured.

"But the boys at school would understand," begged Max, "because my little sister wants to go"... big wet tears filling his eyes.

Tonight I bought the tickets on the Internet - well sweet Freya asked me what she could buy with "the big silver coin with the corners on it," that her brother had given to her from his money box - in exchange for saying that she needed to go to the show...

My darling boy was sleeping soundly in his top bunk tonight with Freya's High School Musical dolls lined up on the pillow beside him. He really is the most perfect and most cuddly and cute of boys. I love that little man so very much indeed.

How ever will I survive when he grows up?

Selfish

2008-01-27T19:59:00.000Z

It upsets me so, that James seems to be under the impression that he is the only person in our entire household that experiences any kind of anxiety or stress. Indeed yes, the stock market has been a tad turbulent over the last few days, but he hasn't even bothered to acknowledge that I had had a frightfully stressful day on Friday.

My spring detox started so very well indeed. I lost almost twelve pounds on the Atkins diet since the beginning of January. My breath smells like the devils own lavatory, but I have been positively wasting away (an entire size smaller in my white jeans). Then suddenly last weekend, the weight loss stopped abruptly, indeed I piled on a couple of ounces (gasp).

I have heard some of the mothers at the school gate extol the virtues of the new gym on Lordship Lane (apparently Pilates is terribly fashionable), I decided that some gentle exercise was required, so off I went on Friday morning. The young lady who provided my induction (most of the appliances on display looked like equipment fit for a dungeon) analysed my diet and had the cheek to claim that I should forgo my nightly tipple!!! (OHMYGOD!).

"But I am a mother with young children," I pleaded, "it really is best for everyone concerned that I am slightly ethanolic at all times when at home."

Later that same afternoon, lost in my thoughts, I drove to the supermarket in Beckenham. I have heard it said and I must agree that Tesco was only invented to keep the riff-raff out of Waitrose and I needed some time to gather my thoughts. When I tripped up to the checkout with my enormous handbag and a trolley brimming with organic fare, would you believe that in my troubled state I had forgotten my purse? I almost expired with an anxiety attack.

Naturally I telephoned James and insisted that he left work early and caught the train straight to Beckenham in order to pay the bill. I sipped coffee in the managers office as James came to my aid (as a gentleman should).

James has been sulking all weekend. Honestly, he is so damn self centred at times, he only thinks of himself.

Freedom...

2008-01-24T20:27:00.001Z

Parenting is so frightfully stressful...

From the time I wake up each morning, my heart pounding in my chest, until long after the munchkins are tucked up in their sweet beds, I am completely stressed out. I long to feel secure that I am making the right decisions regarding my darlings' welfare, but at times it seems that simply everything is slipping out of control. I could spend my days cowering in a corner, taking deep breaths into a brown paper bag.

I am aware that my poppets must be afforded the freedom to grow, to explore and acquire new skills in order to flourish. It is so damn difficult to determine when is the right time to loosen the reins and allow them a little more freedom. Every decision I make is so stressful, they are my babies after all.

I knew that this day would come, when I would be forced to step back a little… Yesterday afternoon without warning, perfect Freya announced that she would like to take violin lessons (...gasp!).

I realise that it is imperative for the tot to learn to play a musical instrument to Grade 8 if she is to eventually gain a place at a Russell Group University (sniff), but what if this is all too soon (the tiny infant is not yet five years old). Perfect Freya is still so very impressionable. I would hate for her to develop a genuine passion for music, to discover an aptitude and find herself irresistibly drawn to a musical career. She could find herself chasing the dragon and injecting crystal menthe like Amy Whitehouse and Pete Doherty or speaking in a a dreadful accent like Nigel Kennedy. She could even end up living in poverty, playing the French horn for the London Symphony Orchestra OHMYGOD!

Have you noticed the state of the stock market? A girl can't rely on her trust fund you know. Now where did I put the Rescue Remedy?

The best place to be a child - Disneyland Paris

2008-01-22T21:20:00.000Z

Isn't it simply amazing - the quality of the images I can capture with my Blackberry!

Disneyland Paris

2008-01-22T07:12:00.000Z

Last Thursday morning at 7 a.m. I departed for Paris. I must admit that I was not at all impressed to find myself tripping off to Disneyland Paris sans enfants... The munchkins have been begging to go for an age, but I have never been convinced. I considered trips to theme parks NOCD (...sigh). Do the restaurants even serve organic fare? Would we be forced to bring our own banana chips and raisins?

When my big boss suggested that myself and my colleagues joined him for our annual "team build" at the resort for two nights - I felt sure that he had lost his mind. How dare he expect me (a busy mother of two young children) to leave the bosom of my family in order to spend time with him in a luxury hotel - at a resort that my munchkins dream of...

I immediately demanded a reply to the obvious question; "is there a spa?" (It is so very hard to find time for oneself as I work full-time you know).

Relaxing in Club Class in my plush armchair on the Eurostar from St Pancras, I noticed a family with two young tots drinking cans of Iron Bru with their breakfast - indeed their parents were drinking wine! The daughter "Prada," and son "Christian" (Dior no doubt) both with pierced ears, dummies in their mouths and Wheelies trainers... OHMYGOD.Their mother had an angular harsh colourful hair style and Juicy Couture velour tracksuit, daddy was head to toe Burberry check with fake Louis Vuitton luggage.

I envied the unconditional approval these sweet energetic children were shown despite their lack of table manners and athletic sofa gymnastics. I am sure that my poppets will develop nervous dispositions - I force them to be so very restrained. I suddenly felt overwhelmed with sadness as I realised that I afford the darlings all of the freedom of battery hens. School holidays and weekends consist of trips to the Imperial War Museum, The V&A, The National History Museum and the park. I would certainly never sanction a trip to Disneyland Paris on a school day.

The children I observed appeared so very happy surrounded by love and approval as they played. They were not even subtly chastised or restrained. They will grow up to be adventurous, self assured and be self-confident - how will my darlings fair in comparison? OHMYGOD, the munchkins could grow to be a pair of nervous bassoonists!

I completely enjoyed the team build - I didn't attend a single session actually but spent a great deal of time on The Twilight Zone Tower of Terror, Rock'n'Roller Coaster and Crush's Coaster for two days. I bought my darling infants lollipops the size of frying pans and didn't even unpack my straightening iron once! I danced in the street parade with gay abandon, kissed Mickey Mouse and Woody and had a complete ball. Happy and relaxed children were to be observed everywhere, being celebrated and enjoyed, not tutted at or criticised for being excessively exuberant. The trip was a revelation and a complete pleasure.

When I took my seat on the Eurostar for my return journey, I was feeling enlightened, relaxed and enthusiastic, I had already resolved to return with the babies. My hair sat in sausage curls about my shoulders - not a touch of make-up on my face, I was like like a mother reborn. Not long into the journey I overheard the conversation a seven year old was having with his mother "Look mum the frogs cook their cucumbers" OHMYGOD! This child clearly had limited knowledge of green vegetables, he was describing his serving of courgette! I observed young "Beckham" chomp through three bags of Monster Munch as the train hurtled through Dulwich on its way to St Pancras and I felt my old self beginning to surface.

Disneyland surely is the best place to be a care free child. But clearly there is a balance to be struck...

Babysitter

2008-01-17T21:38:00.000Z

James brought his colleague home for a quick drink last night (ginger beer) en route from Gatwick following their business jaunt to Dallas. Martin has recently remarried, indeed, I met his new Japanese wife recently at their work's Christmas party (I was busy having a pedicure when they got married). Martin is aware that I am not happy about his new younger wife...

"Isabella and I were sooo over" he bellowed in a German accent. "Our relationship was finished the same day she conceived the twins. She let herself go, she breastfed like a fresian and lolloped about the house like a great hippopotamus..."

OHMYGOD! I almost inhaled my own vomit.

"They say couples grow to look like each other over time" I spat, glaring at his gut.

"I am well aware that you do not like Mayu, but don't pout so, it doesn't suit you. Are you afraid that James will trade you in for a younger model liebling?" he gloated.

The plank went on to describe how he "babysits" for his boys "at least once a week" to give "the old girl a break."

How dare he?

How positively frightful!

The beast (with a capital F).

"I wasn't aware that a father could babysit his own sons... I thought that was called parenting OLD MAN," I repelled.

How disgracefully cold! How dare he consider himself to be a parent with such distance placed between him and his perfect sons. I shall send Martin's ex-wife Isabella a 'Friends request' on Facebook toute suite. Our boys are scheduled to start at boarding school together just next year.

You know I think I shall investigate the benefits of colonic irrigation further...

Popular? Me???

2008-01-15T18:37:00.000Z

I am terribly modest and refined you know. I would hate for anyone to ever consider me to be ostentatious or a show off.

But, I simply had to tell you that I have been nominated for an AWARD by the Liberal Democrats (OHMYGOD - there are eyes simply everywhere!!!). And there was me thinking that no-one ever reads my tiny bloglette...

Just last weekend The Mail on Sunday kindly nominated my online diary as "Blog of the Week." Those two things in isolation may not mean a lot to you dear reader - but I was young and single once you see, and well, so was Mr Charles Kennedy, and if a tabloid (heart pounding loudly in ears) were ever to find out, er... a person's social standing could be trampled into dust (not mine clearly)!

I so love awards though, and it would mean I could justify a new dress...

Look here Charlie Baby, I want the award or I shall be emailing my new friends at The Mail!

Chamelions...

2008-01-14T21:20:00.000Z

Image is everything in Dulwich you know.

I love to see my darling munchkins appropriately attired, indeed I can gain a few pounds in weight over the Christmas period and still manage to splurge a small fortune on clothes when it is for my tiny poppets.

I take such pleasure in ensuring that the darlings are perfectly turned out, the social pressure to conform to the right image when browsing the boutiques of East Dulwich can be crushing!

Each Saturday afternoon, careering down North Cross Road on their scooters (for their weekly visit to Hope and Greenwood sweet shop), I ensure that the poppets look the part. The mummies of East Dulwich are incredibly eco-aware. If they are not queuing outside William Rose the butcher on Lordship Lane wearing their husbands fleeces and lugging their eco shopping bags stacked high with organic vegetables, they are reading The Guardian at the Blue Mountain Café wearing their husbands Crocs or sparring in the St Christopher's Hospice Charity Shop over a pair of children's striped acrylic tights. There is only so far that I am prepared to go to blend in…

I would hate for anyone to consider that I had inappropriately accessorized. I purchase clashing coloured T-Shirts and cargo pants for my munchkins from lovely designer Internet sites, smear them in strawberry jam and spaghetti hoops (allowing adequate time to soak), and instruct our house keeper Albena to wash the clothes on 90 degrees in order to ensure appropriate fading, shrinkage and bobbling.

Indeed, we really are quite the social chameleons! I thus manage to ensure that my family achieve the eco-trendy charity shop look to perfection. I never ever conform to this look myself though - clearly! I admit that I wear James Jeans when shopping in East Dulwich, but they are from my closet obviously - not belonging to James at all!

Computer Games Alert

2008-01-11T22:36:00.000Z

I came across the most interesting article in The Daily Mail the other evening, well it was the only thing available to read at the consultant's rooms. Usually, I would only ever allow myself to be observed reading The Times, anything less would simply never do...

The article claimed that children should not be allowed to play with computer games until the age of seven because the technology is apparently “rewiring their brains”and “shortening the attention span and harming the ability to learn.” A psychologist has stated that computer games fuel the development of the basic fight or flight response rather than considered reasoning – OHMYGOD!!!

My darling man and burly boy Max have spent so much time of late playing the High School Musical game on the Wii, taking turns to sing the solo’s and duets, being awarded scores from the console for their efforts. The competition between father and son is frightfully intense… I simply can’t allow this to continue. Clearly if the playing of such computer games goes unchecked a career in musical theatre beckons for my darling son…

OVERMYDEADBODY!!!

There is only room for one drama queen in this household. From now on Max shall be encouraged to play with his Sodoku PC game, Power Rangers and Lego. As a mother, I am ever vigilant to the wrong influences after all. Have you noticed the price of Touche Eclat alone?

Spelling Test

2008-01-09T07:00:00.000Z

Darling James has made fun of me on so many occasions... He has accused me of 'competitive parenting', of being a 'pushy parent,' of 'dulwichmumitis' - of taking parenting issues far too seriously... moi? Does he suppose that I have committed these sins alone?

James can be terribly competitive himself. He is such a dulwichdad you know!

My perfect man returned from a birthday party on Saturday with munchkin Freya. It seems that upon her return to school today (yes 9th January!) sweet Freya will begin the Spring term with a spelling test (the poppet will be five years old soon and in the blink of an eye we will be filling out the UCAS forms for her medical school application). James has decided that his darling doll is to pass the test at top of the class. My jewel will be required to spell the full list of thirty five words that she learned to spell up until Christmas.

Golden boy Max is happy to complete his reading homework each night (in return for a a blue cola flavoured Starbucks lollipop each Friday). Baby Freya however says "I don't like lollipops and I don't need money. I have everything I need" as she plays on here Muzzy French CD ROM.

Papa is less than happy. My man is ~~terribly immature~~ incredibly competitive and rather ~~devious~~ ingenious when he puts his mind to something. Yesterday evening he suggested to sweet infant Freya that he will help her to cheat to pass her spelling test "top of the class." My innocent flower said "Cheating is wrong daddy," but my munchkin was actually intrigued.

"Wouldn't it be easy to pass the test if you had a list of the spellings with you to read, a list that the teacher could not see?" suggested James.

Freya frowned and agreed that it would be very wrong to have such a list, and was transfixed as James demonstrated to the tiny poppet how she should stare at each word for a very long time and take a "photo" of it to keep in her head!

My two darlings spent the evening "photographing" words and again this morning!

Aren't clever daddies simply amazing?

Shouldn't simply every child have access to such a wonder parent?

James claims that he is playing to Freya's strengths. I am however convinced that James is actually encouraging my baby girl to be devious...(sigh).

I wonder if I am actually jealous that I did not think of this idea first?

Baby?

2008-01-05T21:23:00.000Z

I have never been so humiliated in my entire life...

I shall try to explain exactly what happened to bring me to this conclusion, it will not be easy...

This year, my mother Brenda accompanied us for our annual Christmas holiday jaunt to my mother-in-law's house in Wales. Brenda hates the fact that I have a mixed marriage, as although James and I are both Christians - my darling man is not a Roman Catholic (the shame). However, rather than endure a Christmas day alone, Brenda promised to bite her tongue and opted to spend Christmas with "The Protestants"

En route sure le M4, we decided to visit the motorway services at Swindon as the munchkins needed to powder their sweet noses. James and I deposited my mother in the Costa Coffee, and took a poppet each to the lavatory. Max came with me (he really is a darling boy) and so, we we had returned to my mothers side within minutes, our hands damp from the dreadful hand drying (ha!) machines.

Mother was by now deep in conversation with a new chum (picture June Whitfield in a velour tracksuit)...

"This is my son's baby Jago," said the woman, sharing the image on her digital camera with Brenda...

"What a sweet little black face," replied my mother (OHMYGOD!!!), James start the car (I thought)...

"Isn't he very muscular for just five years of age," continued my mother (as my stomach turned and I wanted to strangle her with her own tongue)...

"Oh yes, but it is just how they are, you know it is in their genes," replied the woman with the sellotaped glasses and the greasy hair...

"Is this the bitch?" continued my mother (perusing another image).

"Shame on you mother, you are the most outrageous racist I have ever met in my entire life, I have a good mind to abandon you here in dreadful Swindon."

Would you believe to my shame that they were in fact looking at photographs of a Rotweiler dog? I have been on the stool of repentance wearing a pointed hat emblazoned with the word "dunce" for the whole of Christmas...

New Years Eve

2008-01-04T21:29:00.000Z

These are some photos that our house keeper Albena took when she went to the Millenium Wheel on New Years Eve. She said it was;

"like an episode from The Jeremy Kyle Show, with too much kissing and intercourse from strangers"...

Oh dear Albena! I am sure it must have been rather distressing for you as a sixty year old single Bulgarian lady! That particular tourist attraction is in the London Borough of Lambeth, whatever did you expect?

New Year new beginning...

2008-01-01T09:23:00.000Z

My mother has been scolding me at length - lets just say that I have put on a few pounds over the last few months...

"Walk fast and far" is her mantra. She was an air hostess for Aer Lingus in the 1960's and has kept her perfect figure to this day. According to my mother, there is never any good reason for her girls not to make the most of the gifts that God has bestowed upon us (in a tasteful way you understand...).

"You must lose weight," she insists, "or that big Protestant of a husband you have married will be off with his secretary...".

OHMYGOD!!!

My self esteem at an all time low.

"But mother," I plead, "there are plenty of large confident, attractive (dare I say "sexy" in front of Brenda???) women out there."

"Not in my family. They are just deluded fatty bums" she scolds. "Pull yourself together girl, you are starting to look like the Michelin man, it is the Atkins diet for you..."

You know it is all very well and good for Brenda - giving me a bottle of Jo Malone perfume for Christmas, when what I really needed was a tape worm (grrr).

The Old Bamboo...

2007-12-30T22:57:00.000Z

I am sure I have damaged my darling son in some way. I just know that he will hate me when he grows up to be a man (sniff). On Christmas morning my husband’s parents invited all of the staff of their estate to the house for drinks (one small sherry and a Ritz cracker) as per tradition. Due to the recent addition of their own grandchildren, in a separate room they provided cheesy puffs, Asda cola and music so that the little people to dance and amuse themselves. Max became very emotional when he observed the children dancing and he fled to the nursery.

I mopped my darling boy’s eyes and sat listening to his tale of woe. Apparently one of his little school chums (Felix) has told my perfect son that big boys don’t dance as “it is too girlie.” My munchkin was clearly very confused.

“I simply don’t know what to do for the best,” he said.

I popped on the TV as I knew Chitty Chitty Bang Bang was on TV. Dick Van Dyke was skipping and jumping about without a care in the world, singing “Me Old Bamboo.” Oh how we laughed.

“Diddums” I said, “why your father was dancing just like that the night we met. Grown up men can only get themselves girlfriends if they are good at dancing,” well how was I to know that he would take me so seriously?

My perfect poppet took my words literally and spent the rest of the morning practicing dancing on the veranda with an old fishing pole. He really is acquiring quite a skill! He wants to be just like his papa (ha!).

I am terribly proud of him you know. I just pray that he tones down the dance moves before his first school disco or our future relationship shall be doomed...

Happy Christmas

2007-12-28T22:35:00.000Z

Is it just my darling munchkins or are your dear poppets never happy with what they get either? Grrr...

Ana (our perfect au pair) gave birth to a bouncing baby boy (3.24 kg) on Christmas morning at 08.10am. Mother and infant "Brad" are doing very well, the cherub is the image of his Samoan daddy (the children's trampoline instructor!!!) - THANK GOD FOR THAT!

Save the penguins...

2007-12-22T18:14:00.000Z

Perfect Freya blubbed into her Cheerios this morning. The munchkin overheard a news reader lamenting the destruction of the habitat for her special favourite the penguin. She so loved Happy Feet, I fear that she could become quite the Eco Warrior!

"Soon the penguins will have no-where to live," she wailed.

I tried to distract her by changing the subject;

"Have you decided exactly what you would like from Santa dear heart?"

"I would like this, this and this" she bawled. "And this, and this too ..." pointing to a page from The Great Little Trading Company Catalogue that she had been reading under the breakfast table. "And this entire page," drying here eyes.

"Oh my perfect poppet, we must leave some things for the other children. Asking too much for ourselves is not kind, there are those less fortunate than us to consider and they may receive so very little... How will it all fit on Santa's sleigh?" I sang (beginning to panic).

"I would like one of these and all of these too," she continued.

"It really is not good for the environment. We can't have Santa using up all of the earth's resources on your gifts alone now can we sweetie?" I pleaded...

Darling Max could sense my anxiety and came to my support with;

"Freya, it is not good for where the penguins live. For every gift you choose a penguin will die," - shockingly I was so panic stricken by now that I agreed with my super six year old man;

"Yes indeed," I nodded gratefully...

"I shall have just the six gifts in that case," relented perfect Freya, "and that is six each mummy. Six for me and six for Max..."

OHMYGOD!!!

I love london

2007-12-20T20:31:00.000Z

Oxford Street

2007-12-19T22:52:00.000Z

Busy, busy, busy...

Gift

2007-12-17T19:41:00.000Z

Each December I am faced with the same dilemma; what should I purchase for my Monster-in-Law for Christmas? I try so hard to please, but I always meet with disapproval... Over the years she has had a lot to say about my love of premium skin care, so last Christmas I invested in some super Creme de la Mer which I felt sure would convert her to my point of view.

When I enquired of her a couple of weeks into the New Year, how she was enjoying the product Granzilla claimed; "I finished that pot an age ago," which shocked me I must admit. My products last for months.

"My feet soaked that right up, it lasted less than a week," she continued, OHMYGOD!!!

"But Elizabeth it was for your face," I protested...

"I make a point of never reading the claims on the labels of these pretentious pots. It was a moisturiser, and it suited the purpose I found for it," I was crushed.

This year James and I were in New York for a couple of days at the end of October and I found the most perfect gift ever for Granzilla. While shopping in Saks of Fifth Avenue, I was browsing in the dreadfully blingtastic Juicy Couture section while my darling man answered an urgent work related telephone call. Can you believe they sell doggy cashmere hoodies, suit carriers, nail polish and even Pawtection Balm - moisturiser for little doggy feet!

I bought my monster-in-law's gift right there and then. I believe it is premium quality moisturiser, and I so hope that it suits whatever purpose she finds for it!

Dolls

2007-12-16T18:04:00.000Z

While the munchkins were out at a birthday party this afternoon Brenda tumbled in through my front door claiming that she had organised an end to all of my Christmas gift giving woes (I actually completed all of my shopping on-line weeks ago)! Brenda produced what she described as “the ideal Christmas gifts” for my darling boy Max.

I am one of four sisters. My mother was not blessed with boys. She constantly makes the mistake of referring to Max’s action figures as “his dolls” – any mother with ~~any sense~~ boys will immediately see that she is not endearing herself to big boy Max for this regular faux pas…

Anyhow, Brenda has been to her local Christian shop, and purchased Christian Action Figures for my little man. She has bought him quite a selection. “I actually ordered them months ago” she thrilled. “Sr Kevin had to order them in specially as she didn’t have them in white” – she gushed. “Indeed mother, it would never do for Max to believe that Jesus or The Blessed Virgin were not white Caucasian Europeans – would it?” – Brenda doesn't 'get' irony.

Somehow, looking at these figures this evening, I have an idea that my perfect testosterone fueled boy will indeed enjoy playing with them. I must admit, I imagine my darling will not stick to the biblical version of events. Eve is dressed like Raquel Welch in One Million Years BC and looks altogether much more like a heroine than The Virgin Mary. She looks no fun at all.

Goliath is every inch the obvious hero, and is sure to pound his wimpey opponent David to a pulp before driving off in Max's Tonka Truck. This idea of Brenda's is destined to end in disappointment...

Confidence

2007-12-14T20:33:00.000Z

I am really rather emotional this evening. I want to share something. No, really I must be honest. I am genuinely being sincere this evening. This is me.

Other bloggers out there, please tell me, is this the norm?

I received an email last night on the train home (via my Blackberry) from a professional representing a West End department store. She invited me to a prestigious cocktail bar today at lunch time and she then proceeded to ply me with alcohol of the bubbly variety...(OHMYGOD, I wish I had an agent... this is like Babes in the wood!).

I was so flattered that she clearly read my blog, she even knew which tipple I can't resist! I was showered with gifts of prestigious beauty products (each costing in excess of £150 per pot, over a thousand pounds worth of products in total!!!) - and I was offered cash to blog in return!.

Does she not know who my husband is? If I profess to a love of Decleor - it is because it is genuine. I don't need cash you see. Well I do actually, but I have a supply right under my nose... If I enjoy using a particular product and I happen to mention it - it is incidental, IT IS NOT PRODUCT PLACEMENT.

I would like the world to know, I have the skin of a sixteen year old, and I owe it all to a terrific gene pool, a good diet, Eve Lom and Decleor!

They can try to turn my head, to mention another product lines if they like, but they had better be extremely confident about their efficacy before they hand them over to me to sample...

You see, if I consider the product they provide me with to be rubbish - I will most certainly say so.

I am sure that this is happening to lots of bloggers right now, please girls, lets compare experiences?

Bonus Time

2007-12-12T20:27:00.000Z

It is bonus time in the City again, and I don't mean at the Clinique counter in Peter Jones! I wonder if I shall have something nice in my stocking this Christmas - if James is generous he might even get something nice in stockings too!

Yesterday I received a lovely sincere email from a dear man requiring gift ideas and suggestions for his "good lady." What a lovely husband! I must admit that it brought a tear to my eye.

"I want something special," he wrote, "I want her to feel pampered and loved. Our life is so busy, our boys are so exuberant."

I immediately thought...buy her something tasteful from Bootles, an Ultimate Spa Therapy Gift Voucher for the Elemis Day spa in Mayfair and send the boys to Winchester (but you must be quick, I believe that the assessments are taking place right now), and then I remembered a gift I once received that made me feel so very special indeed...

I tumbled in the door after an overnight flight from New York to find my pyjamas warming on a radiator, a breakfast tray of muesli and fresh orange juice prepared in the fridge, luxurious oils and fresh towels by the bath, and rose petals and a love note on the bed... my darling man had left the house for work (sigh). It wasn't even my birthday.

The most thoughtful gifts don't cost any money at all. I felt pampered, special, secure... noticed.

This morning I received a further eleven emails from men asking for gift ideas for their wives;

"What should I give her Dulwichmum? She has everything already!"

I don't pretend to know their wives' taste in perfume, or size in underwear. Is there even a branch of Tiffany in North Korea? Why ask me? Oh boys! Why don't you ask your secretary for help? I told James' secretary what I wanted at the end of November - she never lets me down!

Would you like a slice of lemon in that?

Vanity

2007-12-10T20:46:00.000Z

James spent at least thirty minutes clowning around in the depths of his dressing room this morning, he rummaged for an age, hopped about on one leg for a time and then lay on the floor with a shoe lace threaded through the eye of the zip before eventually emerging vacuum packed into an old pair of jeans.

"They have shrunk!" he surmised.

"While they were hanging in your closet?" I laughed (he would rather eat his own head than exercise).

Later at my perfect jewel's carol service James stood woodenly down at the back of the church with the other daddies. They all wore big over coats. Situations like these make much more sense since I have gotten a little older.

Men are simply the vainest of creatures...

Over the limit

2007-12-08T12:30:00.000Z

I find my own sense of humour terribly entertaining when I have had too much to drink. I know my limit, just one glass of Krug and I must stop - no I really must. I can drink half a bottle of Chablis on a daily basis, but only ever one glass of Champagne.

The other night at James' Christmas party for example, I had two glasses of Champagne and I became terribly giddy. James always says that I get a twinkle in my eye, and he can sense when I am going to cause trouble...

I was introduced to the new, substantially younger, Japanese second wife (grrr) of James' much older German work colleague Martin. She appeared frightfully self assured with her svelte doll sized proportions and raven hair, but James' Christmas party was my show...

"How do you do," I purred.

"How do you find household staff in the UK?," she barked abruptly (what a very strange way to open a conversation!).

"Why? are you looking for work?" I replied innocently.

OHMYGOD. I am so lucky that she didn't scratch my eyes out! Oh how I laughed, as her husband wrestled her out of the marquee. I really shouldn't drink at all...ever.

Cut Backs...

2007-12-06T23:20:00.000Z

My darling man is feeling dreadfully flat. There he sits in his study, his head in his hands - the world of private equity is clearly in an awful state... Or could it simply be that he partied a little too hard at the firm's Christmas party last night?

The evening began on a somber note, the top man's (prrr) speech warned of leaner times, of cut backs, disappointing bonusettes and caution in all regards. The world's financial markets are bracing themselves... (apparently), he then proceeded to launch an orgy of excess the like of which is seldom seen in a democratic country.

I can handle this brand of frugal!

A selection of enormous marquees had been erected in the grounds of The Imperial War Museum which were liberally dusted with real snow for the evening, ice sculptures, a ski slope, ice skating rink, rodeo reindeer, Christmas tree Hoopla,snow boarding simulator, Toyland with Giant Skalextric and casino. All night the Champagne flowed, Kylie Minogue is as thin as a tooth pick and her face is taught and mask like!!! OHMYGOD - could that possibly be Botox?

My feet are killing me today, but you know - I never take things to extremes, not really... Poor James!

Economy Drive

2007-12-05T21:15:00.000Z

I have caused all kinds of trouble for myself - I was simply trying to be the best wife I could for darling James... OHMYGOD!

I spied the most perfect cardigan you ever laid eyes on in the window of a local boutique on Park Hall Road, and I tried to walk past but I was rooted to the spot, and then - Elaine reached out one long slender arm and virtually dragged me in! Well, I was powerless to resist, I had just been reading about the slowing economy, dreadful drop in high street sales, imminent job losses... and I so love to play my part in keeping the economy moving. In my own small way, I was actually trying to assist my darling man...

James continues to be obsessed with his frightful economy drive (he is not expecting a very generous bonus), and I sooo hate to lie to him, I could not purchase an item of clothing and hide it in the au pair's wardrobe (again). I have been paying for so many things with cash lately due to the embarrassing new credit card he has issued to me. I decided to cunningly withdraw £250 (the daily maximum allowed) from the bank machine just across the road, and pay a cash deposit off the cardigan.

I enlisted the help of sweet shop keeper Elaine to mark the ticket on the garment down by £250, and this evening I insisted that darling James take a look at the mantle for me when out buying himself a bottle of Claret - as I am being so careful with his pennies. "No more impulse buying for me," I assured him... I need a second opinion (I lied - convinced that he would consider the cardigan a complete bargain and purchase it for me as part of my Christmas gift).

Can you believe that when the loathsome man returned from his shopping expedition he claimed that the cardigan was horrid, and was not worth the ticket price!!! He said it would make me look like Bet Lynch!

I am beside myself with horror. This from a man who buys his underwear in multi-packs from a chain store... What do men know about anything?

The garment is now nestling in the boot of my car as I type...naturally.

Christmas count down

2007-12-01T20:11:00.000Z

My darling daughter took part in her divine nativity play last week - yes last week, in November... Christmas is indeed arriving earlier and earlier each year. The tiny munchkin gave an outstanding performance, indeed I have been weeping ever since...

Brenda (my mother) attended Freya's production as James was in South Africa. My devout Roman Catholic mother likes to analyze the plot lines of the nativity plays at the munchkins' Church of England schools in order to ensure that my perfect poppets are not poisoned by "damned protestant lies." She really is ~~an outrageous bigot~~ terribly protective you know.

Freya's role was;

"The very most important part in the whole play," she claimed.

"Are you the baby Jesus my tiny angel?" I enthused...No response. "The blessed Virgin Mary?" I sang inquisitively...No answer. "An Angel?" Freya eventually replied; "No silly mummy, I am a Page of course, the one who carries the gifts for the wise men. What would Christmas be without presents?"

My darling tiny flower is every piece of her mother...

Freya came directly to us in the audience from the stage when the curtain went down and announced "Santa must be coming tonight then"!

OHMYGOD!!!

"But there are four full weeks until Christmas my angel," I replied (frozen to the spot with shock).

"I want my Butterscotch pony now" she howled. Brenda was horrified.

I blame the schools, my mother agrees. How dare they hold their wretched productions so early. I shall be tortured from now until the big day.

Drain

2007-11-28T18:51:00.000Z

Myself and Vashi (my most super and special chum) and have been agonising about what we should include in our lists for Santa. We both have everything we could ever possibly need (obviously). Indeed, it would be necessary for me to have an extra digit surgically grafted onto my hand in order to accommodate any further diamond encrusted rings. Anne Boleyn was considered a great beauty of her era, and an extra digit never held her back... well not really.

No, no, no, there is such a fine line between looking tastefully loaded and appearing to be a blingtastic moll. I would like to consider myself an up-market version of the late Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis - God forbid that I should end up looking like Victoria Beckham (gasp)!

What should a girl request from Santa this year? This conundrum has been absorbing so much of our emotional energy of late - it really has been such a drain. I have been pondering over one suggestion that darling Vashi has made. She has suggested that we request a course of colonic hydrotherapy treatments.

Apparently an average adult has up to fifteen pounds of "putrefying matter" clinging to the inside of their colon (charming!). One single cleansing irrigation treatment can leave a girl almost a stone lighter, brim full of energy, skin flushed, eyes neon sparkly bright and a renewed ability to absorb all manner of vitalising vitamins, minerals and nutrients! Doesn't it sound terribly exciting? Princess Diana was apparently staunch advocate of the practice of (according to Vashi).

However, I must admit that I am slightly uncomfortable about the actual...er execution of this er... procedure. The thought of it just doesn't 'sit' well with me at all, I so hate for anyone to have anything to do with my gynaecological regions (unless they have provided me with expensive jewelery ...clearly, and even then...) I have had two planned Caesarean sections you know, I am terribly modest. The various web sites use words such as "sphincter", "rectal exam" and "expulsion of gas pockets"...eugh!

One testimonial I came across on the Internet, claimed that a woman who had been a vegetarian for twenty years was assisted to expel half a pork sausage and three chicken nuggets at her first treatment! God only knows what they could find inside me! It really is rather fascinating to consider - perhaps that set of keys I lost from my Volkswagon Golf in 1990, a pram wheel or a 1970's ornamental Spanish donkey? Could my insides really be as congested as an old drain?

Perhaps the sludge which is clinging to my insides extols some protective properties, saving me from the absorption of dangerous toxins, germs and viruses - even OHMYGOD calories!!! Can you imagine how frightful it would be if my bowels began to absorb calories more efficiently??? I could lose a couple of pounds initially and then go on to gain stones. I could end up catching all manner of colds and flu or even become ethanolic at the mere aroma of my favourite tipple? What a frightful thought!

Oh no, colonic lavage is not for me. I shall have some new trinkets instead - the addition of an extra new digit sounds far less invasive...

Joy

2007-11-26T18:35:00.000Z

I really try to discourage my darling poppets from using "outdoor voices" and SCREETCHING THE HOUSE DOWN… But they really like a good SHOUT. They are such energetic little munchkins. Their lungs are still developing you know. I so hate to inhibit their development...

“MUMMY!... MUMMY!... MUMMEEE!!!” Screetches perfect Freya– the windowpanes rattling in their frames.

“What is it sweetie?” I purr calmly.

“Max offended me,” howls tiny tot Freya.

“But you two were playing so nicely, you were building a Lego car together diddums, were you not?” I sing as I catch the foot she is swinging in the direction of her darling brother’s head.

“She called me a big poo mummy,” cries burly boy Max, cowering into a ball, well aware of the power in his sweet infant sister’s foot.

“Oh dear, that is not very nice my little jewel Freya” I soothe, peeling the tiny girl from her big handsome brother's arm as she is about to sink in her teeth .

“Why would you call your beloved favourite brother such a cruel and tasteless name?”

“HE CALLED ME A NAME FIRST,” she howls.

“No I didn’t,” pleads golden boy Max, enormous tears dripping down his handsome cheeks. “I simply said she was good at building Lego, I said she was alert.”

“He said it again Mummy WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH, he called me a lert, so I say he is a poo.”

“Dear angel Freya,” I sing “a lert is not a bad word, it simply means awake” taking the hobbyhorse from her clenched fingers as she begins to swing it in the direction of her favourite brother’s kidneys – she really is so very determined and resourceful indeed.

“NOW YOU ARE CALLING ME A WAKE,” she accuses.

“No sweet flower, awake means not sleeping” I explain in hushed and calm tones as I prize the Wellington boots from my tiny four year old girl’s grasp before she hurls them at her darling big brother.

Eventually the angel calms down, disaster is avoided… on this occasion.

Perfect Freya really is such a passionate tiny poppet. Words cannot describe the emotions I experience each weekend when the au pair is off work, and I have the munchkins all to myself. James is off playing golf and I am at one with my darling dolls.

Aren’t you sooo looking forward to the Christmas holidays?

The munchkins will be off school for a whole month, and Ana our au pair will be on maternity leave! Christmas would just not be the same without lively little poppets about the home, their sweet darling happy faces. Christmas is all about the children, they bring us so much … er… joy (hurrah?).

Peace and goodwill to all men …on bloody golf courses...

OH.MY.GOD.

Now I shall go and peel my darling cats down from the top of the curtain pelmets before I pop online and order a couple of dozen cases of Chablis for the festive season…

Binge drinking is terribly now darling!

Only one Henry...

2007-11-23T20:31:00.000Z

I really adore the dramatisations of Henry the V111, and the casting of Ray Winstone in this role was inspired. But I am sorry Jonathan Rhys-Meyers will never be Henry. I know Nunhead Mum of One quite enjoyed it, but I feel that on this one occasion, she is wrong.

If they must make another costume drama of Henry, could they not be a little more imaginative? I consider it to be a complete waste not to...

Oh happy day!

2007-11-22T18:12:00.000Z

Darling James has been rather perplexed of late. All is not well in Private Equity land... It seems that my super husband's plans to retire by Christmas must be put to one side for the time being. (Hurrah! How can he possibly feel assured that he has earned enough to retire on? Has he no idea how much I could spend before I die?)

He has been insisting that we must live more frugally and even confiscated my prestigious credit card!!! James was rather alarmed by my expenditure during our recent shopping trip to New York - but it was my birthday, what did he expect?

James is such a wise and clever husband... he likes to believe.

He would not like to leave me without a contingency fund however, just for emergencies you understand. He is aware that I hate to carry cash.

James has issued me with a dreadfully embarrassing Glasgow Rangers Football Club credit card! Can you believe it? He doesn't know a thing about football - that vile blue card would even offend my Roman Catholic mother, and she would be happy to use most forms of credit! James knows that I love to use my Black American Express card, he is aware of the cachet if provides for me, I just love to produce it and regard the expression on peoples faces. James is hoping to shame me out of shopping.

My poor deluded man...

Don't panic dear friends... I have discovered this web site! Has he no comprehension of the pleasures to be experienced while shopping on the Internet? I am not even required to leave my ~~desk~~ house. This directory has provided me with the inspiration to completely re-vamp my knicker drawer this very afternoon - don't you just love natural fibres? I was not forced to show my shameful new credit card to a single soul! Indeed, I have spent so much time and money on the Sheer Luxe web site over the last 72 hours, that the lovely editor has offered me a column!

If God had intended that women should provide for themselves, he would never have invented marriage! I know just how to soothe darling James when he sees the bill.

Climate Change

2007-11-20T18:43:00.000Z

Brenda (my mother) saw a film last weekend at a friend's house that made the hair stand up on the back of her neck - or so she said. And then, just this last weekend The UN warned of abrupt and irreversible catastrophe through climate change if we do not take immediate action to reduce carbon emissions. Poor darling mother hasn't slept a wink since as a result (I can't say I am too happy about the thought of this myself).

"Immediate radical action must be taken," she insisted.

Has Brenda decided to turn her washing machine down to 30 degrees, use her tumble dryer less, to bleach her kitchen surfaces less than three times a day, or to use recycled toilet paper? Indeed no!

Brenda arrived this evening with some emergency provisions; Smash, bottled water and a couple of Fray Bentos tinned meat pies. She wafted through my open plan living space, cruised into my utility room and placed her provisions on the floor of what was once the larder (now the wet room).

"From now on you must conserve water and strip wash with a flannel like they did during the war, you have no further use for this wasted space, stock up darling - we are all doomed."

I rather enjoy bottled water, and I am even prepared to admit that I quite like tinned meat pie (shhh... promise me you won't tell a soul), but even Al Gore must admit that the consumption of dried mashed potato and sacrificing one's personal freshness is simply a lifestyle change too far?

I am lighting half a dozen Diptyque scented candles at the very thought!

NY

2007-11-17T09:29:00.000Z

My darling chum Vashi has chastised me for not sharing further tales of my recent shopping expedition to New York. I had been savouring the experience, mulling it over in my mind. It really was so very super special, these intimate moments that I shared with James – I should hate to embarrass him by laying out all of our private times for the nation to peruse, we are a married couple after all… James has on occasion accused me of turning us into the Jordan and Peter Andre of Dulwich (the joker!) but then I know that my blog is only read by a couple of dozen people (per hour) and well – where is the harm?

We stayed in a super swishy apartment which my darling husband bought a year ago for an investment. It is rather near central park, and has one of those fabulous green awnings that go right from the door to the kerb. A man with a frock coat and special hat opens the cab door and carries one's shopping – it is just so opulent and perfectly divine. I felt like the queen, admiring the quality of the fabric lined walls in the hall and the Arne Jacobson Egg chairs in the lobby. I can't even begin to imagine what has caused me not to explore New York before!

James has spent a little time at the apartment, and evidence of my lovely man’s presence were all about his bachelor pad. There was an enormous high definition TV almost as big as one wall that was surprisingly a joy to watch! I would never have allowed James to have such an enormous TV in Alleyn Road. But the faces I saw on that TV were so very enormous that I was able to inspect every pore on Victoria Beckhams face, and every line on Teri Hatcher's lid. Even minor imperfections in the application of eyeliner sported by newscasters were exaggerated, and with no opportunity for them to air brush, it was pure joy!!! I felt positively renewed and smug as I inspected my perfect complexion in the mirror on the door of the bathroom cabinet.

James had naturally installed an enormous wine chiller, filled with all manner of wonderful corporate gifts, and a special humidor which stores his cigars. I have insisted that he gets himself one of those super telescopes (everyone has them in New York) so I can spy in people in other apartments - I can't wait!!! He really loves appliances you know.

Opening the door of the apartment was really rather surreal. As the reflective coated windows are from floor to ceiling, and we were on the 38th floor, no-one has any curtains. It felt just like being a pigeon sitting on the ledge of a very high building. From this height, the city was so very similar to the set of a Batman film. I would not have been at all surprised to see a super hero or two swinging past our abode. It was breathtaking. I took this photo with my Blackberry.

The apartment was far too male orientated for my tastes. My straightening iron didn’t get nearly as lava hot as usual with my travel plug, and there was no mirror within reach of the electricity socket. I naturally bought myself an American GHD and hair dryer to store there, and arranged for a perfect art deco dressing table and mirror to be installed into the bedroom. I tossed that dreadful painting (which James bought last summer for a laugh) under the bed and have ordered an enormous canvas of my book cover to be installed in the living room. I would hate for anyone to think that James didn’t have a wife when he is away on business. It would end my life if some minx considered my man to be her Mr Big...

I shall be visiting New York on a regular basis from now on (at last a holiday home!!!), it is simply the only place to stock up on Marc Jacobs and DVF after all (sigh...).

NOTE TO SELF: Order enormous high definition TV for house in Alleyn Road at earliest convenience. (This will do more for my self esteem than Botox!)

One Year Old!

2007-11-14T20:56:00.000Z

I am popping a bottle this evening. Tonight my little bloglet is one whole year old!!! I really feel the need to celebrate.

This night last year I had my PA Lydia start my blog for me, having read an article about blogging in a newspaper on the way home from work (Lydia is always just a phone call away, and I am a complete technophobe). I am more than delighted with the wonderful new world that blogging opened up for me.

Before blogging, I was working full-time, with two darling children to juggle and no social life at all (James is always away on business) and only sulky au pair girls for company. Now I have super blogging chums (I still miss Drunk Mummy ... sniff, and where has Rilly disappeared to of late?) like Nunhead Mum of One, Lady MacLeod, Mother at Large, Frog in the Field, Pig in the kitchen, Ingenious Rose, Elsie Button, Debio and many more ... even a natural blonde and a midwife!!!(I never!). I have even made some super groovy organic friends in East Dulwich, and had a flirtation with a superhero!

I am delighted with my shiny book deal, and my two columns, my free skin care and cosmetics and this weekend I am off to review a Spa!!!

If you haven't started a blog of your own yet - do it, it really is the best thing that ever happened to me.

Nut Free

2007-11-12T20:06:00.000Z

OHMYGOD!

I am becoming the departmental Agony Aunt! I just can't bear it...

This morning my big boss's young second wife wept all over my copy of Red Magazine. Apparently when she delivered young Tyra to her smart nursery school this morning, Dannii was chastised by the head teacher who had been waiting especially to see her.

Little Tyra has been overheard using a very VERY bad word..., several times!

She has used "The N word," no less! I must be living in a parallel universe, because I could not even pretend to know what was being implied by the use of the phrase "The N word!"

"The N word" refers to the fact that Tyra said that another child was "Naughty" for pushing and shoving (very naughty behaviour if you ask me...)!!!

When did "Naughty" become a bad word? (Am I allowed to use the word "bad" anymore?) Apparently, it is no longer PC to say that something is a naughty act (please take note Super Nanny, no more Naughty Step permitted!). Now we are only permitted to say that undesirable behaviour is "not nice"!!!

There are not enough hours in the day for this type of meddling with our minds. The ice bergs are melting, children are starving, our oil reserves are depleting and yet valuable energy is being spent vilifying parents for using the word naughty!

No longer is it adequate for us to strive to ensure that our poppets avoid pesticides, allergens, sugar and salt, take their supplements and have enough immunisations to equip them to walk bare foot through the Amazon river. It is so terribly difficult to be a parent, to be one of the workers at the coal face (so to speak) enduring this constant barrage of criticism.

Now, I really must text my au pair and make sure that she gets in some organic celeriac for my poppets' supper...

Personal Grooming

2007-11-09T22:34:00.000Z

This morning my super PA Lydia burst into my office and wept openly about the dreadful calamity which had befallen her first thing in Tooting! The poor baby had been making her way to the tube station when a drunken wastrel had cornered her and insisted that she handed over her money and jewelry!!!

Super techno Lydia handed over her cash willingly (£2.73 in total, apparently) and resisted surrendering her trinkets to the vagabond as one piece was her grandmother's engagement ring... Lydia related to me how she had insisted to the vagrant that the adornments were not made from precious metals and that the stones were merely cubic zirconia. The bandit inspected her rings closely and fell for her story, leaving Lydia with the precious trinkets intact.

"OHMYGOD Lydia!!!" I cried.

This was outrageous, I couldn't quite believe what she was telling me.

"You should be ashamed of yourself." I accused...

I have tried so hard with this girl, encouraging her to have regular manicures, to purchase good quality hosiery, and discouraging her little trips to the footwear department of Primark etc.

"Get yourself some hand cream and some self respect!!!"

Can you believe that the girl was happy about her ability to convince a vagrant that she looked cheap???

Mother Superior

2007-11-02T23:12:00.000Z

This afternoon Annabelle (a work colleague of my husband’s) and her son arrived for a play date with my munchkins. Annabelle lives in Chiswick, and cannot usually be convinced to visit us as we live in South East London. Annabelle’s son Hugo (a pale boy with a constantly runny nose) is the same age as Max, and the two boys have forged a firm friendship, meeting regularly at birthday parties.

Annabelle always seems to vying for supremacy with me regarding parenting, showing off about the organic/free range fare that she succeeds in convincing her poppet to consume. Hugo hasn’t yet had a single immunisation (so I naturally consider him to be an infection hazard) and he is constantly popping homeopathic tablets into his mouth (e.g. for shock, runny nose, general exuberance, bad manners, an allergy to camels fur etc).

Max had described the delights of Telegraph Hill Park to Hugo, and so we set out to spend the afternoon there in my Audi Q7. I happily volunteered to drive for 20 minutes to reach our chosen location, tunes from the sing the times tables CD providing entertainment for the journey.

Telegraph Hill Park really is a super play area, with an amazing slide set into a hill – the children are not required to negotiate any precarious steps to reach the top. The swings and play frames are all imaginatively built, and it really is super special.

When we parked on a side road, I suddenly noticed Annabelle’s mouth was hanging open.

“Whatever is the matter Annabelle,” I enquired innocently (I feared she had suffered a stroke).

“OHMYGOD!” She shrieked, “tell me you have not taken us to the London borough of Lewisham … please, please tell me, we are not in ...New Cross, OHMYGOD” she howled clutching her chest.

“Well I really don’t know which borough we are in, it is next to Peckham I think, but I have kept the doors locked the whole time, I was being careful,” I soothed.

“You have gone too far,” she bellowed. “You are quite simply too blasé with regard to your children’s welfare,” she said. “Living in South London is one thing, but this, this is the front line!”

“This is a conservation area Annabelle, I am sure that some perfectly lovely people live around here” (although I must admit, I do know a real minx that lives just up the road…).

“You will be holding your children’s birthday parties in MacDonald’s next, and wearing imitation Ugg boots” – she accused. “The presence of crumbling Victorian housing stock, the odd blue plaque and the absence of net curtains does not a respectable area make!”

At this point I suddenly became aware of the dialogue between our six year old boys in the back of the car.

“I have, yes I have,” shouted Hugo, “I have seen a grown up horror film. I have a TV in my bedroom, and the nasty man made a dress out of ladies skin. The film is called something to do with sheep…” asserted Hugo enthusiastically.

“Indeed, I shall take you home immediately,” I conceded. “I am so sorry for exposing you to such horrors. The film is called Silence of the Lambs Hugo, and yes Max, Hugo has evidently seen it, and no you may not as you are only just six years old…”

I would imagine that Annabelle was ashamed and embarrassed; she didn’t say another thing all the way home. It is terribly difficult to evaluate her non verbal communication; her face rarely moves after all, it is choc full of toxins!

New York!

2007-10-31T21:07:00.000Z

Where do I begin?

I have just returned from a surprise shopping trip to New York, arranged by my darling husband to mark my (sniff) fortieth birthday (whimper...).

Actually, I had an absolute ball.

I just love New York. From now on, I shall consider Maddison Avenue to be my spiritual home. Barneys is simply the best store in the entire Universe. I once loved Brown Thomas in Dublin in a very similar way – it was opulent, cutting edge fashionably lovely, and yet intimate. Now it has become simply too large and far too “bling.”

I could blog about New York for weeks, and I probably will…

When we arrived at Heathrow, I instantly saved £300 on a handbag in duty free – and that was before I even left the country!!! James looked moved to emotion when he saw me hand over his credit card. Michael (at Barneys in Maddison Avenue) similarly caused James to display emotion, when he completely updated my make-up bag, tossing all of my current products into a nearby bin.

Apparently 'smokey eyes' are incredibly last year, and if I am to be saved from being captured in a make-up time warp (similar to Barbara Cartland), I must ensure that I keep my look constantly updated. I purchased new make-up brushes and skin care and everything!

I was instructed that a clean line of liquid black eyeliner and neutral lid colours are the way to go. A top quality mascara is a must, false lashes or extensions are just too fiddly for me, and so this super new Ceramide Lash Extending Treatment Mascara from Elizabeth Arden was purchased – it looks just amazing nestling in my make-up bag (sigh). In fact, download this voucher and get one for yourself, it really is the Winter must have. I am super thoughtful and brought back gifts for everyone (although I admit - mostly for myself).

I eventually bought about ten different types of Spanx and Crocs with warm sheep skin insides for my munchkins to wear in winter. I am always thinking of my poppets afterall.

Many of the women in New York appeared to have identical facial features, and could have passed for close family - instead of wind swept London hair, they had wind tunnel facial expressions – it should stand as a lesson to us all. Perfect (new best friend and make-up artist) Michael encouraged me to carefully observe the women of New York, and try to imagine what Princess Diana would look like today if she had not died so tragically. She would have been lifted and injected into oblivion by now he insisted!!! What a terrible thought… I have just been looking at the recent photos of Gillian Taylforth in Hello (OHMYGOD!).

Americans are so very friendly indeed, Michael even offered me his “cell number” for emergencies – I immediately hopped down from my high stool at the make-up counter and headed for the door. Open prisons and day release schemes are all very well and good, but this man had his hands on my face!!! I can see the merit in allowing prisoners to weed parks and break up stones, but I understood that they kept them tethered in chain gangs.

Large numbers of wealthy, powerful looking men were to be observed in Manhattan, walking behind their women in a very subservient way (prrr). They were pushing black Bugaboo prams with hot big pink hoods, tiny doglets stored in the parcel tray beneath the infant, both passengers (baby and dog) dressed to the nines for mummy's shopping trip.

I have decided that I am going to have a baby. I shall buy a super new pram, and I may even purchase a small dog! These accessories shall send the message to the world that my man is taken. Now all I have to do is work out a way to get James to push the pram for me around Dulwich!

Note to self: Inform Ana that I am adopting her baby. She may then return to her community in Lithuania free from the shame of single parenthood. I get to keep ~~James’~~ Ana's baby, and therefore his fortune shall remain untapped by feral au pair girls!!! Hurrah.

Delusion

2007-10-25T20:52:00.000+01:00

Tonight my mother Brenda breezed in unannounced for a quick visit following her Roman Catholic book group. She enjoys the opportunities the group affords her to snoop around other people's houses and I am sure she secretly considers it a slightly cosier version of Through the keyhole...

While I was supervising the munchkins' bath time, she donned some marigolds and began to clean out my fridge;

"I can't abide a grubby fridge," she said - she really is so very supportive (grrr). While I was still upstairs I heard her shriek with laughter, and when I eventually came down she was belittling some of my fresh chilled products.

"What in the name of God and all of his Saints and Angels is this?" she laughed. "It is just rice pudding with jam tarted up! What are you like?" she scorned.

"Oh mother, I don't care what it is as long as it keeps everyone happy," I said popping the carton of vanilla risotto with raspberry coulis back into the chiller cabinet.

I would never dream of telling her what I read the other day in The Daily Telegraph, it would break her heart. Brenda always wears a special medal containing one of Padre Pio's dried up blood flakes...nice!

Ana has been enjoying her puddings rather a lot lately, indeed her little fingers have swelled up like tiny cocktail sausages.

Pressure

2007-10-20T10:53:00.000+01:00

Dear friends,

I must apologise for my blogging hiatus of late. I have been simply run off my feet!

Along with meeting various work deadlines, and ensuring my munchkins are appropriately occupied for their two week half term school break, I have been wading through great complimentary chests of premium skin care and perfume, offers of sponsorship from prestigious cosmetic companies, organising plans for a regular column on a super prestigious web-site involving the inevitable compulsory regular review of illustrious spa's, and then to top all of that, James decides that he requires my company at some imminent rugby match today in Paris.

I am sitting here typing at my dressing table in the George V, before I scoot off around the shops of gay Paris. I really didn't need to leave London today, but my underwear drawer could do with a little re-stocking, and so I may be back to meet James in time for the match - but it is Saturday, so I have instructed him not to wait about for me. Rugby is just not my thing after all.

I really cannot see what all of the fuss is about, I shall be back in time for the after match dinner (Johnny Wilkinson has fingers the size of Tesco's finest sausages you know). I just hope that England win, otherwise these affairs can be dreadfully somber.

I shall be back on form imminently. Oh how I miss my munchkins, our paths have crossed so little of late. It is terribly difficult being a working mother you know... I think I can feel a headache coming on...

Le Crunch

2007-10-13T21:58:00.000+01:00

Earlier this afternoon, myself and the poppets travelled by car to Chelsea Harbour with James in order to liaise with a small group of his clients. The select few consisted of the great and good from the City of London, high powered movers and shakers, esteemed magnates and moguls every last one, all assembled for a corporate rugby jolly to Paris. My casually dressed man (chinos and polo shirt) disappeared up to the suites and emerged ten minutes later from the lift with a selection of louts all clad in white rugby shirts, white wigs, and white grease painted faces with red crosses. They looked like a shameful group of vulgarians.

OHMYGOD!

I naturally greeted them all warmly with a kiss on each cheek while my darling babies cowered behind a nearby sofa.

My husband (a Wales supporter) naturally did not wear the English strip (thank God). He looked so very conservative and dignified in comparison. The men took a cab to Battersea heliport, and myself and the poppets waved them off from a local riverside pub, no longer interested in a trip to the heliport. The munchkins were horrified, and darling Max in particular was more than a little distressed by the tableau he had witnissed.

"I am so very glad papa did not dress like those frightful men," he said.

"I much prefer the way daddy dresses for a rugby match," he continued.

"Indeed," I replied dryly.

When attending a Wales match, James usually wears a red curly wig, red grease paint on his face, a fifties style white dress (full circle skirt) with a busy Welsh dragon pattern, red tights and high heels (sigh).

The children careered about on their scooters for half an hour while I sank a very large Pinot Grigio from the bar... My poor boy will grow up so very soon and be just like his daddy.

Hardship...

2007-10-11T19:32:00.000+01:00

I will never understand why Tesco were granted permission to open a shopping emporium so close to my home. Surely a Waitrose "to go" would have been a far superior option (if such an establishment even existed), even a Sainsbury's "Local" - but well, hey ho, onwards and upwards - these are just more of the daily hardships I endure...

I am rather fond of their Tesco's Finest Chablis though, so I tripped in there for some light refreshments after work this evening when I got off the bus. I really needed a drink.

Hywel (our graduate trainee) has really shocked me this afternoon. We had all been drinking espresso after lunch, and so I naturally took the small metal box of mints from my handbag and offered them around. Hywel looked at me aghast.

"You are offering E's out just like they are sweets," he announced.

Myself and Lydia looked at him in disgust.

"No darling man, these are simply sweets to freshen your breath, what kind of company do you keep?" I asked.

I am not sure at all about that frightful boy. It really has been rather a perplexing day...

OHMYGOD!!!

2007-10-08T13:43:00.000+01:00

Look what the well built chap in black leathers with the motorcycle just delivered to my prestigious corner office! What an amazing way to start the week. I always find it such an anticlimax when they take off their helmets though, don't you?

I have asked Lydia to post an image of my book cover on the blog, and toss the A5 mock up behind a cupboard, I can't have anyone finding out who I am now, can I? The book will be published next April (2008), by The Friday Project!

This is just so exciting! I think I shall go home and lie down... I can feel one of my heads coming on. How will she ever get those tyre marks off the carpet?

W.I.

2007-10-06T21:02:00.000+01:00

Granzilla will not be visiting us at all over the half term (quelle surprise!). James has informed me on many occasions of her complete aversion to children – her inability to ever offer any practical help or support with childcare. School holidays can be so very difficult for hard working parents.

During her most recent visit however, Granzilla had shocked us all with the news that she has recently won second prize at a local Women's Institute cake baking competition! This was her first ever attempt at baking. James immediately described bitterly how as a boy at boarding school, he had informed his mother of the many boys in his house who would return to school after holidays with tins of delicious home bakes. To my darling husband's dismay, Granzilla had never even tried, and on one occasion turned up for a special school occasion with a home baked cake in a tin informing him;

“Yes indeed this is home baked as requested, although not baked by me… clearly, I bought it at the Parish cake sale this morning.” You just know this is true, don't you.

Granzilla has become a great admirer of Nigella Lawson of late, and has become curious of the “goings on in the kitchen” as she put it.

Grandpa Charles telephoned us this evening to say that Granzilla has absconded to Sandy Lanes for an extended break to include the forthcoming half term, as she needs to recuperate following her dismay at a recent piece of news. Apparently she enquired of the WI – the name of the person who actually won the first prize in the cake baking competition, only to discover that there had been no other entries! OHMYGOD!!!

The judges had been unimpressed by my Monster-in-Law's offering, but not wanting to cause offence (to the only titled Lady in their ranks) they had allocated her second prize!!!

My darling Monster-in-Law has developed a head ache and requires a couple of weeks in the sun to recover.

Twaddle...

2007-10-01T21:11:00.000+01:00

Parenting is so frightfully stressful...

Just when I have safely negotiated the munchkins into the right schools, ensured that they have completed the correct programme of vaccination, stimulation, diet and exercise, are consuming the appropriate Omega 3 supplements and diligently adhere to an appropriate bath/bed-time regime, it appears that I have been slack ... nay, complacent in one crucial area!

From an article in a recent free magazine (the kind that appears with regularity in the children's school bags) it has come to my attention that I am now to be held responsible with regard to whether my children will grow up good looking! I thought that we could take their good looks for granted as my poppets can draw from a wonderful gene pool (I have a shapely ankle and high cheek bones, and their father a commanding jaw and broad shoulders).

"People with attractive faces consistently achieve more in life, not only because of the way they are perceived by others, but also because of the way that they perceive themselves," says the article.

Fair enough really... but apparently we can not take things for granted... Horror of horrors - the publication in Freya's school bag has brought to my attention that pretty young children can develop "flat cheeks, large noses and receding chins - causing them to look less attractive and damaging their self esteem." If their jaws grow forwards they can look attractive - but God forbid they grown downwards - resulting in them looking plain!!!

Surely whether this happens is in the lap of the Gods?

Why no!

The article insists that parents should be vigilant for signs of weak jaw muscles, thumb sucking or children allowing their mouths to hang open - "be gentle but firm" - with the children it insists... Lots of warning photos of unattractive tots are used to back up the argument (who in their right mind volunteered photos of their poppets for this article?) Apparently jaw surgery and tooth extraction may be required to rectify any damage resulting from maternal complacency!

Clearly, I have been far too slap dash in my approach to parenting, pulling fingers from their noses, discouraging them from picking their teeth, sucking their hair or slouching... Apparently "flat unattractive cheeks" can be caused if a child sucks their teeth - they can even end up with "droopy eye lids"...

"Stop sucking your teeth" I should shriek - "or you will grow up ugly..."

Seek advice and support soon, or your children are doomed! OHMYGOD!!! There are not enough hours in the day... I must hand in my notice at work this very day.

Silly me!

2007-09-26T21:11:00.000+01:00

My lovely neighbour's son Alexi has been spending rather a lot of time in my home of late. I empathise with the boy, his mother was so traumatised by his recent GCSE failure but I am happy to provide the cub with a place to unwind and clear his head after a hard day at school.

Alexi has expressed great interest in my writing, and been begging me to allow him to read a draft of the book which I am currently working on. Melissa says that he should only be allowed to read his school texts in my home, but I must admit that I have been terribly flattered that a trendy young teenage chap should show interest in the musings of an average working mother like myself... It makes me feel good to think that I can tickle his sense of humour and gain the attention and respect of a young person.

This evening I was standing in my en-suite wet room, applying a spritz of Lime, Basil and Mandarin and powdering my nose before the munchkins' bath time. Alexi was pleading with me for access to my text from the doorway, when my darling husband James returned home uncharacteristically early from work.

"Haven't you got some Skelextric or something to play with?" He demanded of Alexi (rather rudely to my mind).

I was not very impressed, and chastised James for his rudeness later when we were alone. "Young boys like to adopt grown-ups other than their parents as role models," I insisted. "Haven't you read Raising Boys?"

"Silly Bea," he scoffed, "Alexi is sixteen, and the word 'sex' is in the title of your book. I dare say I have a good idea why he is so interested in it. I should like to read it myself..."

OHMYGOD! I really am terribly naive you know. It hadn't even occurred to me before... I really should keep young men away from the environs of my bedchamber in future.

Snap

2007-09-21T20:25:00.000+01:00

Snap… Snap… Snap…

The top floor of the Number 3 Bus is empty this evening as I climb up the stairs and sit in the front row. I sometimes like looking out, peering down from the upstairs front window at the poor precarious racing cyclists below. But…

Snap… Snap… Snap…

There the noise goes again. OHMYGOD... I know what I think it sounds like, but I am not a bad minded person – no, I refuse to believe it could be. I refuse to let my imagination run away with me but;

Snap… Snap… Snap… PING!

Something small hit the glass in front of me. I dare not look around to see where the “snap” has “pinged” from.

Snap… Snap… Snap…

Instead, I gaze down at the floor of the Number 3 Bus as it zooms up Croxted Road – on the home strait now, soon I will be in Dulwich.

Indeed, a small crescent shape, embellished with metallic purple paint lies on the floor to the left of my feet. I curl my lip, this is really rather ghastly… Let me out of here. I dart for the stairs… but glance back as I go,

Snap… Snap… Snap…

A lone female passenger is perched a couple of rows behind me, cutting her toe nails!!! I thought that there was nothing new at all that these people could do to shock me - not any more.

I ask you, whatever would posess anyone to wear such a loathsome colour?

Narcisist

2007-09-19T21:07:00.000+01:00

"Its all about me."

"Really?" I replied to James. "How frightful for you darling! Are you sure you are not just being paranoid?"

"No," he said, "your blog is all about me and I have checked - you had 997 hits today! I am the laughing stock of the entire locality."

"Darling man, how dreadful for you, but it is my name on the cheque, isn't it? So, it really is all about me you know. I think I shall buy a super new Mini Clubman in canary yellow with my advance from the publisher..." (Financial freedom really is rather liberating!)

"I feel so exposed," he bellowed out after me into the hall.

"Well you should draw the curtains when you put the lights on in the lounge darling, and do tuck your shirt into your trousers. I am off to Cafe Rouge with Vashi, your dinner is in the microwave - cheerio."

Whatever does he mean "the entire locality"? - I get hits from a large number of readers in the Gulf, the USA, Australia, Canada, Morocco and France too. I think he will find that they are talking about him from further away than "the entire locality"!

Mmm, I wonder if I should invest in plantation shutters?

Confrontation

2007-09-14T20:39:00.000+01:00

I am so glad that the weekend is finally here. I am quite simply exhausted.

In the middle of the night on Wednesday I was sure I heard an intruder in our house, and as my darling man was snoring his head off beside me – I decided not to rouse him for fear of the consequences… I straightened up my La Perla silk night dress, donned the matching pure silk dressing gown, brushed my hair (added just a touch of lip gloss) and flounced cautiously down the back stairs.

Light was streaming from the fridge door and someone was rummaging noisily within it! Indeed, the cheeky scamp was actually warming a pizza in my oven!!! My heart almost stopped, and I immediately darted for the cover afforded by the minimalist Poggenpohl kitchen island (with poured concrete surface). OHMYGOD!!!

I thought to myself – “I must take action, I must protect my munchkins and darling man from evil hungry intruders.” I grabbed a lengthy French stick which was poking out of the bread bin and sprang out to attack the intruder – screeching aggressively as I vaulted. I was making short work of this frightful criminal too (with not a jot of concern for my own personal safety I should add), when my darling husband pulled me from the bulky intruder.

It was actually Ana, our au pair! Ramadan has begun, and so the poor child was trying to have her first meal of the day by 4.00 am, she cannot let a single nutritious morsel or sip of fluid pass her lips until 7.30 pm each evening! I so wish that she had simply warned me. I almost strangled her with a French stick!

You know there really is nothing I would not do to protect my young family...

I really love Pizza Express ready to cook Pizza, so I took it to bed with me, and told Ana not to worry about cleaning up the remnants of the French bread until the morning, but on second thoughts I was far too lenient. The fragments of crust get simply everywhere…