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!

European Community

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

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

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

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

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

Cold turkey

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

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

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

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

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

The older lady then joined in;

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

Charming!

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

For Brenda...

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

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

Writing...

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