High School Musical

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How ever will I survive when he grows up?

Selfish

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Freedom...

Parenting is so frightfully stressful...

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

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

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

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

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

The best place to be a child - Disneyland Paris

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

Disneyland Paris

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Babysitter

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

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

OHMYGOD! I almost inhaled my own vomit.

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

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

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

How dare he?

How positively frightful!

The beast (with a capital F).

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

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

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

Popular? Me???

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

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

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

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

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

Chamelions...

Image is everything in Dulwich you know.

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

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

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

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

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

Computer Games Alert

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

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

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

OVERMYDEADBODY!!!

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

Spelling Test

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aren't clever daddies simply amazing?

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

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

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

Baby?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Years Eve

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

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

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

New Year new beginning...

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

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

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

OHMYGOD!!!

My self esteem at an all time low.

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

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

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