Drain

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

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...

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!

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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!