Lambeth

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...

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

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

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)

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

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

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...

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

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

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

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

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)

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

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

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...

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...

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

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

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

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

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...

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!

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*

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...

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

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

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...

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...

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...

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

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

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

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

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...

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...

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...

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!

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

You will be too...(sigh)

Fairtrade Fortnight

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

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!

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...

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...

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

The Twilight Zone Tower of Terror

“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

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...

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!