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…