Presentation

Last night poor Freya was having her dreadful nightmares again, and woke the whole house up on SEVEN occasions. The poor baby had a dreadfully difficult start in life, and has never been a peaceful sleeper as a result.

Today I was presenting a major piece of work to my distinguished vintage Big Boss in preparation for an imminent international conference. I was exhausted. The board room was filled with learned colleagues, the caterers were shouting at each other in Lithuanian, and I was suitably attired in my wonderful new Missoni wrap dress, toe cleavage exposed. I wonder if I would not have looked even more fabulous with a different type of cleavage also – very slightly exposed? Mmmmmmmm. Things are never the same when you have had children. Since loosing so much weight of late, my tone has lessened somewhat. Anyhow…..

I had a selection of Power Point slides and handouts at the ready, and was almost demure – my usual ‘charisma’ substantially subdued due to exhaustion from lack of sleep. There I stood in front of this intimidating group of intellectual giants - having flashbacks to last weeks meeting when I announced I was Mrs not Ms. Oh dear....

The presentation did not go too badly actually, I recited the entire presentation in glazed monotone, interspersed with trying to not to yawn (the more you think about yawning, the more difficult it becomes to suppress). When I was finished - the feedback was more than positive. I felt rather proud of myself. I shall take some tranquilizers before I need to present again. Clearly low energy and inertia is key.

BB breezed up to me and announced that he needed my advice as he has discovered I am a mother. He and his (second) wife ‘Danii’ are relocating from their St Catherine’s Dock penthouse, in search of a leafy enclave with good schools, and asked me if I knew anything about Dulwich!

Well,............ you could have knocked me over with a feather. I have always dreamed of using that immortal phrase:

'Do you know who I am?', (ha, ha).

The time was not right, so I waxed on about our wonderful independent schools, and their shameful selection criteria. We are expecting our ‘Dear Sir’ refusal letters this very Saturday from Alleyn’s and JAPS for poor Freya. He would feel completely at home in Dulwich, all of the parents with children at our chosen schools are ‘vintage’. The conversation was going rather well until he asked me to recommend 'the right roads' in SE21. I told him we had been considering relocating of late for Village Infant's state school catchment, and when I said where from - his attitude altered dramatically - he was positively simpering:

'You must live in a detached house then', he enthused,

'Clearly', I replied, puzzled.

'My word', he said, 'with an in and out drive?', he continued.

'Well obviously', I said (eager to move back to the subject of school catchment area).

'I would imagine you have honed granite in your kitchen and an Aga too?' - he probed.

'Oh dear no, that is so last year and would never work with an Alno kitchen. Poured concrete surfaces, a brushed steel Neff range and selection of integrated ovens', I snapped.

Just because he is my boss, it does not mean I am social class 5!

'Danii and I must come to supper one night, and perhaps we could bring little Tyra to play?' he suggested.

'Perhaps.' I replied, quickly changing the subject. James hates people who are impressed by money or position (shame).

Note to self: NEVER get divorced - it plays havoc with one’s place on the property ladder.