Therapy

One day I shall be exposed no doubt with my little Smythson notebook, summarising the entertaining situations I observe on the number 3 bus. I do it all for you...

A young girl with great yellow hair extensions and an enormous Primark shopping bag was occupying the row in front of me when I sat down on the upper deck yesterday morning. After a couple of stops Lauren expressed surprised delight on being joined by a girl with a short trendy bob and the two exchanged enthusiastic kisses and hugs.

I will simply tell you the gist of the conversation as I have translated it, I could not begin to attempt to transcribe the exact words of their conversation - how would one even begin to spell the greeting "Watcha"?

Eventually, salutations complete the girls settled down into a conversation;

"And what are you doing for the summer holidays?" asked Courtney. "I am hoping to get work experience, I want to be a beauty therapist!" screeched Lauren.

"Wicked," said Courtney (she actually did say this, and I could understand it and spell it too!).

"I haven't decided what to specialise in yet," said Lauren, "but I could do nails, aromatherapy, thalassotherapy, physiotherapy, waxing, psychotherapy or reiki healing."

"Wow," replied Courtney.

"Physiotherapy is very competitive now, because everyone knows that footballers wives make a packet, and even David Beckham has a physio, they only let the prettiest girls on that course, I will have to pay serious attention to my diet," asserted Lauren.

"Really? Wow" said Courtney.

"Yes," said Lauren, "so I will be learning silk wraps and gels from this September - just to get me started."

"You have it all planned out then," lamented Courtney, "I hadn't given my career much thought"...

Survival of the fittest

Last night the parents from Freya's delightful class took the two super teachers out for a thank you supper. James and I were the first to arrive and selected seats directly opposite each other, we so seldom have a chance to talk anymore.

Soon the other parents began to arrive and the restaurant buzzed with merry chatter as the wine flowed. Imogen sat next to me while two other glamorous mums sandwiched my husband on the opposite side of the table. Soon the conversation turned to the issues involved when considering whether to have a third child. Lovely Imogen is four months pregnant.

"You really are the clever girl," enthused Nathalie and Helena. Leaving a five year gap between all three of Imogen's children apparently means that her oldest child Felix will be 15 years old before Imogen must seriously consider living without a nanny. Apparently there is no justification for keeping a nanny after the youngest child sets foot in pre-prep at age five, as this is regarded to be "serious au pair territory."

The girls begged me to describe how I endure the hardship of allowing a young pert girl with limited English to live in my home. I smiled a lot and said little. "Au pairs come from countries where a man is considered wealthy if he owns a goat or a clock radio," insisted Nathalie.

"How can you leave your home for a coffee with friends, knowing she is at home with your man?" she asked in horror. "Nannies are older," Nathalie insisted, "you can choose one that is ugly and far more capable." Apparently one can not trust an au pair to drive a car or even collect the dry cleaning.

The three girls agreed that it was not until one's family is complete, that a woman could even consider "post birth reconstructive surgery" (breast lift/implants and tummy tuck). Helena laughed as she described her personal fitness regime, "survival of the fittest" is how she defined it. "I shall always be the best choice on my husbands menu," she purred. "But until I pop the last baby out, it shall be with the help of pilates, diet and botox."

"You don't work out do you?" she asked me. "I must, or my body would look like melted butter when naked." Helena has a pearl on her engagement ring of similar dimensions to a robins egg.

"Have you seen the size of recent divorce settlements?" she enquired. "If I give him three children - my man had better value his quality of life at home, because he shall not be able to afford it with anyone else. What judge would not give me everything I ask for, I have given my husband all that he could possibly want..." she laughed.

I must admit, 'love' never came into the conversation at all!

James looked like a rat catchers dog sucking a wasp when three girls invited me to one of their regular boozy lunches where their have their filler/botox jabs topped up.

I am indeed a lovely wife, I hope that he appreciates it; I never even had my high lights done when I was pregnant... I intend to spend much more time with Imogen and her chums in the near future.

Power

When I had first left home and lived in student halls on Denmark Hill, I roomed next door to Geraint - the most handsome boy I had ever laid eyes on. Just standing next to Geraint in the breakfast queue made my ovaries pound and my legs turn to jelly. He had no neck and dragged his knuckles on the floor when he walked, his voice was deep and authoritative. I have always had a soft spot for the neanderthal rugger look.

Geraint had a very rich tycoon type daddy and I soon realised what a lovely but very lazy boy he was. Geraint had no real incentive to get out of bed in the morning, daddy had done all of the hard work making a fortune for the whole family to enjoy.

Within a couple of days of our introduction, Geraint invited me to Le Gavroche in town for dinner. I was over the moon, this was to be my first ever visit to a Michelin rated restaurant, and considering the fact that most university students survived on a diet of rice and tinned tuna fish - this was indeed a welcome feast. I seem to remember I purchased myself a new Wonderbra specially for the occasion (look it was the late 80's).

We dined a la carte, Geraint confidently selected a lovely bottle of wine from the salubrious wine list, and when the bill arrived he spoiled the luxurious treat by instructing the waiter to put it on his fathers tab! The waiter informed Geraint that his father was upstairs in the private dining room and asked us if we would like to join him, to which Geraint calmly replied; "My mother thinks he is in Hong Kong, if father is upstairs, we shall be ordering liquors." I was completely horrified. How very mercenary Geraint was.

Geraint informed me that King Solomon himself had a great many wives, and further described to me how women found powerful men irresistibly attractive. My romantic fascination with this boy instantly faded, he had no drive or even self respect, content simply to live on handouts and bribes extorted from his father.

Should the wives of powerful men really be expected to share their affections? Isn't this whole concept terribly tragic?

Geraint's father really is a complete dish...

Winners

Yesterday was a truly eventful day. It seemed so overcast in the morning, the nursery school sports day could so easily have descended into a Cath Kidston meets Glastonbury style mud bath, but no, the rain stayed away and all went well.

Perfect Max and darling Freya did their very best. I won the mothers race (again) in a super Joseph cashmere tracksuit, hurrah (well I really am terribly fit you know)... and James looked like a complete plum in the fathers race. Why do the men take it so very seriously? They thundered past - all clenched fists, beer guts and big red faces expelling aggressive Haka type howls as they charged.

One father who is a well known floppy haired actor, appeared to have been specifically 'styled' for the event. He spent most of the morning straining his head to see if "the paps" were about and seemed rather crest fallen that they were not. Clearly he was not aware of the fact that the editor of one of the most notorious Sunday rags was actually standing next to him for most of the morning with a Canon EOS 1DS camera with an L class Lens. Other city boy type daddies had obviously not exercised at all since university, and really should have purchased new shorts for the event... oh dear!

The children invited several chums along to watch James and I air lifted to Ascot. Trotting up Park Hall Road in my super chapeau with my dashing man to liaise with our transport - you will never guess who we met!

You really couldn't make this up... My big boss was driving past "the local comprehensive school you pay for" with his family in a battered old Mercedes Estate (the most practical car I think with young children). He tooted his horn and pulled over sharply but James and I simply couldn't stop. I made an effort to greet them but James had my arm and pulled me through the side gate of the College where we were promptly waved off on our helicopter journey by a dozen small boys and their parents. It really was a sickeningly cool spectacle! Yes my hair almost disintegrated with the breeze, and yes BB probably saw my lace underwear again, but these knickers were simply perfect!

We arrived by 12.15, in time to enjoy lunch. I had a bad head this morning when I awoke in James' capacious suite at The Wyndham Conrad Hotel in Chelsea Harbour, directly opposite Robbie Williams' penthouse apartment. I used my binoculars to look at his home - he has a telescope looking in exactly this direction! I imagine that in order to see Robbie right now you need to be in rehab too! Please excuse me, I must go and lie down with the windows open on my lovely Frette clad bed...

It is impossible to buy cheek bones like mine, and it is after all one of the laws of nature - survival of the fittest! Yesterday I was truly an Alpha mum, not Beta mum!

Priorities

The annual nursery school sports day is just the most stressful day! They insist on holding the event on the final Saturday of Royal Ascot each year. The lovely teachers surely must be aware of how many parents are completely torn regarding the clashing dates on their social calenders!

They clearly have no appreciation of the value of a week's corporate entertainment with hotels, transport and a private box at The Royal Enclosure. James and I really should make every effort to hold court, otherwise it simply is just not good manners. This year, as all of his guests are being accommodated in a Chelsea hotel with a helipad, the entire party has travelled each day to the course by helicopter. I haven't gone to Ascot all week and as my wardrobe is positively brimming with new race wear perhaps I should show my face? I haven't been in a helicopter in front of all of the other school mums before...

Last year James completed his egg and spoon race in his morning suit, his vintage silk top hat in the waiting car. How very embarrassing. I was grateful that the mothers race took place twenty minutes earlier and I found the time to slip home and quickly change prior to shooting back to collect him. The car took an age to reach the course so we missed lunch and that was such a shame. I looked fabulous in the sports day photos though, with full make-up and my hair in a super "up do".

I really loved the new boxes at Ascot. The sweet little individual kitchens and super kind staff. I must admit I got a little tiddly - well it was hard to assess how much I was drinking as the attentive staff kept my Champagne glass so well topped up.

In my opinion the rejuvenated Ascot is no more glamorous than Stanstead Airport - all sheet glass, pillars and escalators, but the boxes are simply luxurious and this is one race meeting where I have no intention of ever leaving ours to view the horses or track. The heels of my super silver Jimmy Choo's were tarnished by the grass a couple of years ago - never again. I shall be content watching the races on the flat screen TV or from the balcony of the box, smiling smugly as I view the far away peasants in the Silver Ring. Sadly we no longer have to worry about being run over by random Royal golf buggies as they career about the enclosure and paddock!

Last year, one of our party Niall O'Farrell entered his beautiful horse called Arturius in a race. The darling horse virtually walked his race, and James was livid as he lost a substantial sum. My husband said the animal would have been more appropriately named "Arthritis" - and even sweet Niall laughed. It is not that James was particularly witty, I actually thought it was an incredibly hurtful thing to say. It is just that James is so very powerful indeed, no-one would ever dare to challenge him or disagree - in the past... I actually find that terribly attractive.

We shall be collected by helicopter this afternoon straight after the the mothers race! I know, I can't quite believe it myself. Not from the grounds of the nursery - no that would be far too naff and ostentatious and how would we change our clothes? The helicopter will be landing in the grounds of The Local Comprehensive School you pay for - and only for minutes, but all of the children will want to come and see. Max is so very excited, he is sure to invite all of his friends!

The best thing about this post today is that it is completely true! I feel terribly privileged.

Attire

The School Uniform List for my fair-haired boy arrived just a couple of weeks ago and the shock almost prompted an anxiety attack. It seems like only yesterday that I was admiring his little chubby fingers, knees and ankles. Where has my sweet dimpled cherub disappeared to? Max just cannot wait to wear his "big boy blazer" and head off from nursery to pre-prep. I was informed by my friend Vashi that the uniform can cost four hundred pounds per tiny five year old child!

I was horrified. That is almost as much as my new Allegra Hicks kaftan. Max is far too young to appreciate such an expensive wardrobe.

I was initially at a loss with regard to how I would secure the right school uniform for my munchkin. He has neither an older sibling or cousin who can provide him with the appropriately worn and frayed clearly second hand garments. I do not wish for him to have every item brand new - it just makes us parents look like brash show offs! I so hate to feel exposed...

Vashi complained bitterly that the shorts are such poor quality; "they are machine-washable for Gods sake," she whined. Well I should hope so too, I do not intend to dry clean my five year old boy's school shorts!

Grandma Elizabeth (Granzilla) turned up unexpectedly in her old gold Rolls Royce last weekend and announced; "the boy shall use his blazer as a goal post in the morning and a football by the afternoon like every normal boy - new is completely out of the question." She cruised down to the annual second hand uniform sale, authoritatively skipped the queue and purchased most of the stock! She really is a joy sometimes (not often I admit). I had heard that those second hand sales had all the dignity of a rugby scrum, and although I really wanted some second hand items for my darling, I didn't intend to be trampled to death in the quest for them.

I so hope my son takes after his grandma (purely with regard to her ability to assert herself). Perhaps the poppet will play rugby for Wales afterall - she probably could. Little Max will look simply perfect on the first day of term, and I have saved enough money to buy myself another kaftan!

Lets pop a bottle tonight?

Guise

So here I am - wafting about my minimalist kitchen in my super new Allegra Hicks Kaftan, with my perfectly manicured toes clad in sexy spangly sandals. Don't you agree they should make a spray tan compulsory for the summer months?

You know I have surprised myself by how good I look. Too sad to eat? Hey presto - I look great! I feel so very flat tonight, ... glamorous but 'sans gas' if you see what I mean, like flat Champagne. Death, debt and divorce are the only reasons why a large family home would ever come up for sale on a road like ours, and well, James is fit as a fiddle, cash is not a problem and divorce is just not us...

I am not going to Ascot. I have an outfit for every weather for every single day - suits, summer dresses, let him wonder.

Poor little Ana...

Insatiable female

On Sunday morning, I met up with Miss Katie Bancroft, who continues to reside at our old 'bachelor girl' flat in Gainsboro Court SE21. Katie described at length the merits of starflower oil in the alleviation of the symptoms of pre-menstrual tension as we perused the shopping emporia of West Dulwich. The poor woman is apparently a complete martyr to mood swings caused by PMT. I am so pleased for her that she fineally has a diagnosis - she really was a most intemperate house mate!

As we inspected the fashions at The Dulwich Trader, Miss Bancroft became animated with delight. "This full length mirror!" she exclaimed. "It is just the ticket. I have been looking for a mirror just like this for an age."

"Wonderful," I said, "let me call the assistant."

Katie described just how perfect this mirror would be in her flat to the sweet assistant, and enquired; "I am sure it is not for sale - it is obviously a shop owned item - a prop?"

"No," reassured the assistant, "it is for sale."

"Well in that case it is clearly shop soiled in some way - scratched and dusty from being on the shop floor?"

"No," reassured the assistant, "it arrived just last night and was assembled after the shop closed and placed on display for the first time this very morning, it is perfect."

"How could I transport it to my home?" asked Katie, "it is such an awkward shape. It would have to be taken apart. What a shame , I could never transport it in a taxi, it would not fit in the boot."

"Well we can deliver it assembled or in flat pack, we have several in the store room," explained the helpful assistant.

"Do you charge extra for assembly? I am sure the cost is outrageous..." snapped Katie, becoming visibly agitated.

"No it is included in the price as is the cost of delivery," soothed the assistant.

"Well when can you deliver?" enquired a cynical Miss Bancroft, "I am never ever home and you cannot leave it with any of my neighbours - they are all professional people, we are never, ever home."

"Monday to Friday, 8am until 6pm," said the assistant - "there is a charge of £3 for delivery outside these hours."

"Just as I thought," snapped Katie, "impossible to accommodate anyone who is not at home full time - simply dreadful, what is it like around here? Nappy Valley if you ask me," she shrieked as she marched from the shop. "Lets go to Cafe Rouge, I wonder if they sell organic fair trade coffee, I sooo need a soya milk machiato."

"Here we go," I thought to myself, "another fruitless shopping trip, just as well I brought a bottle of Evian to drink in my bag. No doubt there will be no suitable refreshments for sale in the local coffee houses either"...

James always maintained that Miss Bancroft would remain single - he said that she was simply the wrong type of insatiable!

A perfect mother...

I really love my colourist Charley. She is a scream – knows the gossip on everyone, and has all of the integrity of a member of the Roman Catholic Clergy – none at all. Yesterday afternoon, I was telling Charley about my neighbours and their good for nothing son Christoph, who has taken a year out following his A levels and done nothing. He hasn't applied for a university place to begin this September - his 'year out' it seems, will evolve into a 'life out.'

“I despair,” I told her, “there is a fine line between indulging the munchkins, and smothering their incentive to achieve in life. I would sooo hate to be too kind!” - I genuinely fear that if the poppets are pushed too hard to achieve at primary and secondary school, they will be burned out and rebel completely by eighteen.

Charley agreed, and extolled the virtues of her 19 year old son, who is currently engaged in an accelerated one year course to become a qualified electrician – “He must get himself a trade,” she asserted, “he needs to make himself a living, otherwise how will he survive in life, how could he hope to provide for a family in the future?” she asked. I agreed whole heartedly with her, I was completely inspired by her motivational, practical style of parenting. “How does she do it?” I thought.

Just then Charley’s young Polish nanny burst through the door of the salon, with her daughter Lexy in tow, wearing head to toe Moschino junior. Lexy jumped about the salon, flitting from client to client, emptying the stylists tip cups into her pockets without sanction. Eventually when she had consumed a Fruit Shoot, a can of Coke and a packet of Jaffa Cakes she vomited down the front of her trendy T shirt.

Charley scooped up the tiny girl, undressed her immediately, tossed the soiled designer clothes IN THE BIN and showered the tot in a basin – she is such a capable mother. In an instant, out from under the expensive buggy, a new baby Armani outfit was produced and Lexy was dressed again and ready to go.

When I compare my darlings' wardrobe, I all but boil wash their new Boden tights and socks each winter prior to allowing the poppets to wear them for the first time. The bobbled, home spun, and vintage – hand me down look is terribly ‘now’ in Dulwich. My three single older sisters have all showered my darlings with Baby Armani, Moschino, Polo, Timberland etc, but I would not dare to allow the munchkins to be seen in such expensive fashions – they scream ‘new money’ and Alderley Edge. They are simply NOCD!

I would rather be pretentiously environmentally friendly old money, than unenvironmentally friendly new money. Wouldn't you?

As a mother (in my eyes) I am never good enough - but then neither is anyone else!

Damage Limitation

There was nothing else for it, this morning I all but ran to Mayfair to place myself into the trusted hands of Nicky Clarke himself, in an effort to repair my shattered self esteem. The star preened, trimmed, sculpted, groomed and consulted. The senior colourist advised, blended, concocted and applied, and I am subsequently renewed, polished and considerably lighter in hair colour and bank balance. God I look stunning!

I popped into Eclipse as I tottered down Park Hall Road on my new Emma Hope wedges this evening, and severely punished James' Black American Express Card for my low morale. I have lost my appetite. I shall look amazing at Ascot this year, waif like - not a 'bingo wing' in sight. I purchased an amazing Gerard Darel strapy dress, and will wear stunning La Perla underwear beneath - deliberately exposing just a hint of expensive lace. My wonderful new Herald and Heart hat should look amazing. I can just about manage Ladies Day this year, James can hold court alone in his silly box. I couldn't give two hoots.

Oh dear. I still feel simply dreadful. Is it too early to open a bottle for the evening? I can't even bear to think of Wimbledon, and late June/early July is usually the hi-light of my entire year...(sniff).

Broken glass...

I am so very sorry for not posting for the past few days (sniff)... I must admit I have been feeling a little emotional of late. It is just that Ana - (our naturally blonde au pair) OHMYGOD - she is with child!!!

We have been taking this so very personally. She is practically a child herself! She is just 22 years old, she could be my... sister! And, in her Lithuanian village - this would be an outrageous scandal. I was aware of her - charms, I must admit, I was even a little jealous insecure myself for a time. I was considering Botox - but then, well it looks rather painful, they use needles you know. So, I arranged for Ana to have braces on her teeth instead. She looks about twelve years old now, and then there were the frozen pizzas I bought for her - in bulk from Iceland... But really, the swimming instructor from THAT local school - he should be ashamed of himself - he has the morals of an alley cat!

James has suddenly been called away to go to Faro on a business trip (where the hell is that?) and I am certainly not going to launder and press his shirts for him. And Ana, well she has morning sickness - the poor girl and cannot be allowed anywhere near an iron in her condition - she looks like a Barbie doll who has swallowed half a boiled egg, how could I have been so blind?

Brenda has arrived to clear up the mess... There she is, in the utility room, watching a vile DVD on the flat screen TV while she uses the ironing press. It looks like something out of Prisoner Cell Block H in there with her toxic cloud of Robin spray starch. Oh I hate Daniel O'bloody Donnell. Why is Liliana always on maternity leave when you need to have a shirt ironed in this house? I dread to think of the condition of her pelvic floor...

I am beside myself with horror and shame. I could beat that man to death with my bloomin cattle prod... I am shattered!

Retro Chic

This morning as I walked to the bus stop on Park Hall Road, I passed a gentleman on one of those trendy tandem bicycle contraptions with a child attached to the back, you know, the clip on tandem accessory with the flag? The man stopped the bicycle on the path right next to me, and pointed to a citrus coloured VW Beetle parked next to the kerb.

"This car, Hector" he began, "this is an example of retro chic."

My leisurely walk dramatically increased in pace when I registered the content of the conversation. I all but ran to the bus stop to get out of SE21 and into work. Is everywhere as insane as Dulwich?

Hector appeared to be about six years old, he wasn't much taller than my own dear Max. Why would he need to know what represented an example of "retro chic"? Sometimes I think everyone around here is incredibly pretentious and sooo crazy.

OHMYGOD! Really, You could not make this up... Why was he wasting poor Hector's time with such stuipid irrelevant detail?

Everyone knows "retro chic" is so passe, I threw my pastel coloured Smeg retro fridge on a skip a couple of summers ago, when I had my 1950's artisan style kitchen hacked out of the house and replaced with minimalist Poggenpohl cabinets.

Some people!

Eco friendly

On Sunday afternoon, I took myself off to the local branch of Sainsbury's, in an effort to escape my idyllic utopian family life. Ana (our au pair) has taken to her new diet of pure carbohydrates and sugar with great enthusiasm, and has been lying face down in the fridge of late - her rapid weight gain has been a joy to behold. In an effort to encourage her expansion, I must ensure the freezer cabinet is stacked high with potato waffles, oven chips, pizza, breaded mushrooms and onion rings. James says Ana is costing us a fortune, but these 'little extras' add up to no more than the cost of our previous au pairs gym membership.

Ana’s weight gain and shiny new braces on her teeth, ensure that once more I am the attractive lady of the house! Hurrah!!!

Mirror, mirror on the wall...

Don’t you just love it when a plan comes together?

I took along my 'Super U' shopping bags, which I purchased en France last summer. Those French folk don't even stock disposable plastic shopping bags in their super markets! One is forced to buy their sturdy environmentally friendly shopping bags (great stacks of them) on every single trip - I kept forgetting to take them out of the blooming car boot each time I visited the supermarket and was forever having to buy new ones!

Anyhow, I have no appetite to visit France again. Their toilet paper is barbaric, and no better than baking parchment. If I wanted a paper cut, I would have become a secretary. I judge every country by the quality, comfort and luxury of their conveniences. France is best avoided as I cannot abide the hardship it entails.

On Sunday, as I stacked my environmentally friendly shopping bags high with purchases (bleach, drain unblocker, dishwasher tablets, dishwasher cleaning products, Ciff cream, Ciff Mousse, lime scale remover gel, washing powder tablets, lime scale remover tablets, air freshener, Fabreze, duvet thick toilet paper and kitchen roll etc) - I was secure in the knowledge that I am personally responsible for saving the lives several species of British wild life.

Oh the joys of environmental awareness. It is indeed a wonderful thought that I am playing my part in maintaining the planet we all know and love…

Moo

I know I will regret raising this issue, as I am no doubt destined to be wrong. I am prepared to be corrected for my insensitivity and lack of insight. Afterall, I have been wrong so many times in the past...

Before I was blessed with the munchkins, I considered those electric swing thingies to be a sign of completely lazy parenting. Why put a baby in an appliance to settle - when the poppet clearly prefers the motion in her mothers arms?

My darling Freya cried her eyes out for the first two years of her life. The tiny buttercup was accustomed to the sound of machines when she eventually came home from hospital - she had spent so many weeks in an incubator after all, and I doubt my womb had been that quiet to begin with. There was the sound of all of the Haagen Dazs ice cream sloshing about in my tummy for a start, then there were the endless nursery tunes and 'Monkey Music' tapes I had been playing to my fair haired boy Max.

Freya required noise (lots of it) and motion to fall asleep. I jiggled perfect Freya about for months, all night every night, and when eventually I could take no more, Brenda turned up one evening off the train from Bromley South with an enormous ugly electric swing (and a bottle of holy water). The unsightly contraption had loud music and a revolving mobile. Suddenly the storm had passed. I was wrong, I admit it. The person who invented this machine should be on the New Years Honours list.

I have concluded that one baby is an exhausting hobby, but two ... well that is a completely full-time job and a half. A mother should accept all the help she can get. The bouncer suspended from the doorway, battery operated revolving mobile, vibrating baby bouncer, rotating sit in play centre - every gimmick money can buy should be issued with the birth certificate.

I have noticed of late, advertisements in the local free mummy type magazines for 'nursing necklaces'. Please enlighten me? I enjoyed breastfeeding, it was wonderful, intimate and special. But accessorising for this most natural of functions seems to me to be wholly unnecessary. I have scoffed in the past at the thought of nipple creams, shells, pumps, enormous bra's with cups like sails, and ended up buying them all. But why would one need now to purchase a 'nursing necklace' in order to feed successfully? Surely you have your baby, you have your breasts, everything else is frippery?

Isn't a 'nursing necklace - the ideal way to occupy tiny hands' just a step too far? Isn't it just a hop and a skip away from hanging a bell around your neck while feeding and calling yourself a fresian? I think it has all the charm of a bovine cow bell...

NO, no, no.

Please correct me if I am wrong.

Sensory overload...

Recently the munchkins were invited to a party at St Barnabus church hall in the middle of the village. I love it when both of my poppets are invited to the same party. Sweet little Freya pines so if she is not invited to join her burly brother and his exuberant chums, and darling Max just loves all of Freya's super little chums with their fairy wings and Barbie dolls. My darlings so hate to be separated.

Lennon was celebrating his fifth birthday, it has been rather difficult for the little chums to stay in touch of late as they do not attend the same school. Lennon attends the super Village infants school, and is always busy every evening after school with Kumon Maths, Kumon English, piano lessons, swimming, rugby or yoga and so never free for a play date. Geoff and Dawn encourage darling Lennon to be a busy little bee.

When James and I collected our babies from the party they were really disappointed with the vegan treats on offer at the party, and subsequently with the booty from their party bags - no sugary treats at all. I was grateful that they saved their complaints for the car. I so hate to offend anyone. Dawn is a super conscientious mother, this mum never ever 'goes to Iceland' I can assure you. If it is not fresh, organic and delivered in a recyclable box to her door, Lennon does not get to eat it.

The munchkins received a cd each of 'sing the times tables' in their party bags. I laughed; "Super, one for the car, and one for the house, although four and five is perhaps a little young for these.". James immediately tossed one of them into the boot (the CD's not the poppets!). "Dulwichmum overdrive," he sneered. "These children should be allowed to have some fun. Why doesn't anyone give them a tape of Jackanory..."

Both munchkins began quarrelling over half a box of raisins they had found on the back seat, they had only been in Dawn and Geoff's presence for one and a half hours and already they were suffering from malnutrition. It was all beginning to go horribly wrong until I popped the new CD into the music system. 'Diddle dee dee' nursery tunes filled the car and immediately distracted the munchkins from their acts of violence and destruction. Soon the jolly singers began to recite the multiplication. The poppets were initially bobbing about merrily to the music and then went incredibly quiet almost immediately as the words to the songs began.

James started laughing out loud, "I am looking in the mirror he said, look in the back of the car," he insisted. The two darlings were sitting eyes glazed, having given up already trying to keep up with the calculations on their fingers, and then so overloaded, their little computer hard drives had crashed, and they fell asleep - well "passed out in a frenzied sensory overload" would probably be a more accurate description.

Oh how James and I laughed. This CD has been constantly played at home ever since. We are hooked, and the children hypnotised. Peace has returned to Alleyn Road! I really love my good friend Dawn, how very clever she is!

Cachet

This afternoon the Big Boss asked me over lunch, why I would choose to write "chick lit" as he put it. What a cheek! I consider myself to be a re-incarnated member of the Bronte sisters. "Chick lit," indeed...

"Wouldn't you derive more satisfaction from publishing some of your work in one of the industry journals? It attracts a certain 'cachet' in the work place," he said.

"Cachet never was a priority of mine, I have always preferred cash. Is 'cachet' what you have sweetie?" I asked.

You know I am quite sure now that the BB wears dentures, because he almost swallowed them. Poor man, life with a small child in top floor flat in Tower Hamlets must be soul simply destroying.

Penthouse in St Catherine's Dock? Bless...

Tagged - 8 interesting things...

Well, my cyber sister Nunhead Mum of One has been 'tagged' and as she was keen to point out "not electronically" (ha, ha, ha) to volunteer eight interesting things about herself. She has subsequently 'tagged' me to do the same. There really isn't anything at all to say about boring old dulwichmum. I shall write eight facts, and you will have to judge if they are interesting or not. Here goes...

1. I really can't abide bullies. My darling son Max received a punch on the nose at nursery before half term, in reward for standing up for another smaller boy who was being pushed about. I almost cried with joy, he really is my golden boy.

2. I have a complete aversion to the way some people 'hothouse' their children and don't allow them to have a childhood, doing the simple things they enjoy. My munchkins actually love to pay sodoku on the Cbeebies web site, and ask for their 'sing the times tables' cd in the car. Yes they love their Muzzy French DVD, CD Rom, and CD too, and also adore Saturday morning French club. Well, it would be such a shame to refuse things they love... Now where are those two scamps when they need to take their fish oils?

3. I only ever drink white wine (red wine stains your teeth). I prefer Chablis or White Burgundy. Would you believe some dreadful man tried to tell me this evening that these wines are made from Chardonnay grapes, does he think I was born yesterday? That is the last time I buy any wine from the local Tesco Metro. Quality is always lost if we insist on using enormous supermarket chains - honestly, the things they try to fob us off with!

4. I love luxury handbags. I can recognise an "it" bag from approximately half a mile... A good quality non designer bag is a fine alternative, but an imitation is beneath contempt!

5. I adore men who wear glasses. I have been known to hide James' contact lenses... for weeks.

6. I always wear fabulous underwear. Lace topped Wolford stockings are a particular favourite. I pride myself on the fact that my underwear is always more expensive than the clothes I put on top.

7. It has been noted that I never turn right when entering an aircraft. I always turn left - on autopilot I suppose, I never travel less than business class... On smaller aircraft - flying to Europe, this has been the source of much embarrassment to me, as turning left takes one straight to the flight deck and not the luxurious seats!

8. I am an equal opportunities employer. I positively discriminate in favour of those applicants for the post of au pair with major physical impairments, hirsuitism, bad teeth, strangely shaped noses, club feet, acne, big bones or chronic obesity, actually preferably all of the above. Any girl with all of these attributes would be particularly welcome to apply to look after my poppets while I am out at work. Obviously au pairs with fuller figures may cost more to feed, but this is a sacrifice I am willing to make in order to keep my husbands attentions for myself.

I only draw the line if her looks scare my cats.

Mirror, Mirror on the wall...

I tag... Babysteps, Scruffy Mummy, i beatrice, Marianne, Omegamum, Debio and Pig in the Kitchen...