Le Crunch

Earlier this afternoon, myself and the poppets travelled by car to Chelsea Harbour with James in order to liaise with a small group of his clients. The select few consisted of the great and good from the City of London, high powered movers and shakers, esteemed magnates and moguls every last one, all assembled for a corporate rugby jolly to Paris. My casually dressed man (chinos and polo shirt) disappeared up to the suites and emerged ten minutes later from the lift with a selection of louts all clad in white rugby shirts, white wigs, and white grease painted faces with red crosses. They looked like a shameful group of vulgarians.

OHMYGOD!

I naturally greeted them all warmly with a kiss on each cheek while my darling babies cowered behind a nearby sofa.

My husband (a Wales supporter) naturally did not wear the English strip (thank God). He looked so very conservative and dignified in comparison. The men took a cab to Battersea heliport, and myself and the poppets waved them off from a local riverside pub, no longer interested in a trip to the heliport. The munchkins were horrified, and darling Max in particular was more than a little distressed by the tableau he had witnissed.

"I am so very glad papa did not dress like those frightful men," he said.

"I much prefer the way daddy dresses for a rugby match," he continued.

"Indeed," I replied dryly.

When attending a Wales match, James usually wears a red curly wig, red grease paint on his face, a fifties style white dress (full circle skirt) with a busy Welsh dragon pattern, red tights and high heels (sigh).

The children careered about on their scooters for half an hour while I sank a very large Pinot Grigio from the bar... My poor boy will grow up so very soon and be just like his daddy.