Lambeth

I risk my life each day when I travel through the London Borough of Lambeth on my journey to work. Brixton is genuinely one of the scariest places on earth (gasp).

To be completely honest, although I adore driving my gleaming luxurious Audi Q7 to the City of Westminster, and take great pleasure in the fact that I can afford to pay the congestion charge to reach my personal parking space (this super toll has substantially reduced the volume of traffic in my way), occasionally I become concerned about the environment (sigh)... Sometimes I actually catch the number 3 bus to work,as I did this morning (OHMYGOD).

I remained downstairs for the duration of the journey, surrounded by beer swigging Russians, dangerous dogs, harassed mothers wearing uncomfortable acrylic thongs and unsanctioned exuberant young children, leaping off the seats like fleas... I noticed a couple of Danish tourists (obviously campers from the frightful site at Crystal Palace) sporting great tufts of orange underarm hair, sprouting out above the arm holes of their flimsy cotton vest tops! I feared I might inhale my own vomit...

The bus stopped for a moment to allow passengers to alight outside a vile kebab shop on Brixton Road. There was a yellow tinged Metropolitan Police sign stuck to the inside of the window printed with the words "Safe Haven, if you feel threatened, come inside."

You do realise that this fast food establishment did not sell free range or organic fayre? Yet, I felt so traumatised that I actually perceived the vile establishment to be a comparative a place of safety!

Why would anyone who wears their underarm hair as a badge of honour choose to holiday in this civilised city? There is nothing for them here. Despite our binge drinking culture, potentially murderous pets, uncomfortable underwear and poorly disciplined progeny, everyone depilates appropriately. We are a civilised nation...

Would anyone care to join me for a small Doner while I wait for darling James to collect me?

Fresh...

If only we could all be as bright and clever as Guardian readers...

I had a fresh comment on a very old blog post today, and I hope that it entertains you as much as it entertained me!

Anonymous said...

"Dulwich Mum,

You're such an arrogant and boring snob who is so up herself that she cannot relate with human beings!
Now I'm not saying one shouldn't have ambition, pride and principles as they are the fundamentals of life but to assume that you're daughter Freya will endeavour to do what you do not want her do simply because of who she might mix with in Dulwich Village Infants School is abhorrent!
Fact:- Many parents like yourself who have more money than sense are the ones whose children end up on Class A drugs, act yobbish when inebriated and utilise their bodies like mattresses!
Read "The Guardian" newspaper for you will definitely learn something, if and only IF your pea-sized, chablis soaked brain can absorb it!!!!!
02 July 2008 23:50:00 BST"

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…

Shades

The big boss lolloped into my office on Friday morning without so much as a meeting request on Outlook.

“Bea darling,” he bellowed, “since you have begun this column thingy at The Telegraph, I have observed you behave like a diva about the office. I do hope that your new commitments will not cause any conflict with your work here…”

OHMYGOD!

The persecution of Petite Anglaise and Girl with a one track mind have been at the forefront of my thoughts for the last few days… I am so paranoid about the entire issue of appropriate internet use that I no longer so much as answer my work email at the office, I have discussed the matter with my incredibly masculine agent (purrr). I would hate to lose my job, where would I go to hide on my perfect children (gasp)?

“What are you saying Mr Hargreaves, have I done something wrong?” I sobbed as I slipped into my 3 inch heels beneath my desk, and tottered across the carpet into his waiting arms.

“Well I can’t help but notice that you constantly wear dark sun glasses of late, even inside on these overcast summer days. What are the clients to think? Writing a column for a web site hardly qualifies you to behave like Posh Spice! It will surely cause you to aquire a reputation for vanity…”

“Oh Felix,” I wailed, “I have a perfectly logical reason for obscuring my eyes, I am aware that I look like a welder in these frightful enormous glasses… Do you think that I chose to look like vile Victoria? I can take them off and show you, it is a mess under here I tell you, a mess.”

“Oh no dear girl,” he replied putting one flabby arm around my waist, “I had no idea that James was such a cad.”

“He is so very abusive of me Mr Hargreaves, he never notices me at all. I was hoping that if I allowed my eyebrows to grow wild for a month and then had them re fashioned by an expert threader that James might find me more attractive… in the mean time my brows have all of the charm of Desperate Dan’s chin, it is best for everyone at the office if they remember me as I was for the time being.”

Mr Hargreaves looked puzzled and apologised profusely before backing out of my office apologetically. I really do hope that all of my effort is worth it (sigh). I couldn’t bear it if anyone considered me to be superficial…

Truth

Perfect Max insists that he is now too old for Bob the builder and tiring with Sportacus. My tiny man requests to spend his thirty minutes per day, TV ration, on Raven, Kerching and even Tracy Beaker (OHMYGOD!).

I arrived home last night to find my darling son engrossed in an episode of some frightful children's TV programme - the horrid pre-teen characters were describing how they had found out about (and they spelled it rather than say the word) S-E-X. I almost expired.

Max turned to me immediately and asked: "Mummy, what is S-E-X?"

"I really don't know darling, your father never tells me anything," I laughed nervously - congratulating myself on how very cleaver I was for coming up with such a super answer. James stalked in through the front door behind me, just in time to be asked by Freya:

"Daddy, what is S-E-X?"

"I genuinely can't remember, it has been so very long indeed," he barked, turning to glare at me...

Isn't he hilarious?

I popped straight over to Dulwich Books on the way home from work this evening and bought my poppets a copy of "Mummy Laid an Egg", a super sweet illustrated paper back that explains the facts of life. I would hate for my darling babies to grow up as innocent as I did. My mother Brenda still insists that she found me under a cabbage, I sometimes think that it would have been better for all concerned if this were true (sigh).

As we leafed through the lovely book this evening, I was calm in the knowledge that I am educating my munchkins appropriately.

"This is the really real truth, isn't it mummy," said darling five year old Freya. "Not like all of that rubbish that you tell us about the tooth fairy and Santa." Max lost his first tooth earlier this week, my babies are growing up before my eyes (sniff).

European horror

I could not let the horrors I have witnessed on my TV screen go unmentioned (OHMYGOD!).

It has become clear to me that urgent action must be taken (gasp).

As a civilised nation we can no longer afford to be complacent when we have personally witnessed such heinous and depraved acts perform on our high definition TV screens. It is time for us to take a stand, we have a moral obligation to take urgent action, there is no place for complacency when our security and the welfare of our children are in obvious jeopardy.

Last night I sat open mouthed with horror, as the obvious threat from our clearly disturbed and traumatised Euro neighbours unfolded before my very eyes. This year The Eurovision song contest has served as a warning of an impending catastrophe.

Sweden were represented by a woman who resembled a Donatella Versace meets menacing Van Helsing lady boy. We expected them (as usual) to provide us with all of the entertainment value of a freak circus side show, but Latvia confirmed a deeply disturbed streak with their Pirates of the Caribbean and aged page 3 model combination. That woman is fortunate not to have impaled herself on her under wiring.

Bosnia presented us with a collection of gyrating traumatised brides, a washing line and an apparently drug crazed blood stained groom. The woman who sang for Poland should serve as a warning to all of those who consider a trip to old Eastern Block countries for cheap cosmetic dentistry. So many of the old USSR countries were represented by traumatised singing sex workers and sinister chick boys clearly substantiating evidence of the frightful atrocities that have taken place on this planet in the past. These people should be re-repressed immediately. They were behind a wall for a reason.

It is time to redraw the iron curtain, last night I went to bed grateful that we live on an Island, our borders must be patrolled and policed. If this was considered family entertainment, God himself only knows what they would present us with as toilet facilities.

I must go an lie down, I fear I am getting one of my heads. If there is to be any hope for the future of our darling children, these people must be stopped.

Desperate times call for desperate measures (hic)

This evening as I crunched up the drive after work (that damn gravel is playing havoc with my heels, I observed our housekeeper, Albena, drag an enormous crate of empty wine bottles out towards the end of our drive (I swear that woman is related to Fatima Whitbread). Each time the recycling men career towards our house in their enormous zebra stripped truck, they displace the gravel so substantially that the Aston subsequently sinks to its bumpers.

James would no longer be satisfied if the bodywork were less than perfect (sigh). What if he were to look around for a new model (OHMYGOD)? I am forced to face the fact that there could be a problem...

Never fear! I have discovered the perfect solution (see above).

I shall simply place my order with the click of a mouse and everything will soon be fine and dandy (hurrah).

The extra inches that I bear due to my nightly consumption of half a bottle of white Burgundy (St Veran is a special favourite but Threshers have let me down so often of late) will soon be a thing of the past! Please note: I am the mother of young children - it is this or Prozac.

I am convinced that I can ride a bucking broncho and not spill a drop - I have developed a kind of steely determination. Any hint of a thunderous thigh will soon be a thing of the past!

Misheard

My darling boy's perfect school had an inset day yesterday. We were forced to occupy the poppet at home, while his sweet teacher had a day of training. As working parents, we were faced with the usual childcare dilemmas, who were we to trust with the care of the perfect boy? (sigh)

Albena our house-keeper resists childcare so - in my opinion her opposition to caring for our perfect children is simply unnatural. Magda (our Polish au pair) speaks very little English and I fear that she is clueless when it comes to appropriate stimulation and home work supervision. Brenda (my mother) volunteered to care for the tiny man, but she is not be trusted as she fills my progeny with e-number and sugar soaked confections, rocket fuel for children. In the past I have returned from work to discover a pair of hysterical poppets and stressed out grandma. It took me an age to simply coax my darling cats back out of the garage...

Just last weekend, James and I were discussing our childcare conundrum in the garden when Brenda bounced out from the behind a rosebush and announced:

"There is nothing wrong with my water works."

"How very abstract mother, whate are you talking about now?" I replied.

"I heard you saying that I can't look after Max because I can't control my bladder, and it is not true."

"Oh mother, I said you were incompetant, not incontinent."

What a hoot!

Oh how we all laughed...

Pride feels no pain

Life is far too short for sensible shoes.

The first time I saw a pair of "healthy" Birkenstock sandals I was completely traumatised. I stared, wide eyed, speechless, and simply could not fathom the attraction. I was on a mini-break to Munich at the time, this was clearly a German idiosyncrasy, I reasoned, like frightful Lederhosen and unshaven arm pits. Oh how I wish I had been right (sigh).

Next came "comfortable" Ugg boots (gasp), as alluring as Grandpa's carpet slippers. Kate Moss could wear her pants on her head and it would catch on... but OHMYGOD, just when you think it could not get any worse, they launch the "practical" Croc! Say no more (typed with one hand as clutching chest).

This summer it seems to be the turn of the "natural" MBT, with all of the elegance of a therapeutic built up shoe. I understand the advertising, playing on the current fashion to be more in touch with our environment. "walk like a Masai warrior" apparently it is healthy and natural (therefor sooo trendy!).

This is Dulwich dear friends, not the pampas grasslands, and nothing could be more painful than ugly shoes. After all, pride feels no pain.

Today whilst surfing about on the Internet, I wondered whatever next. Have the designers taken it so very far with the ugly shoe that they have turned their attention to ugly clothes?

Not for me girls, not while there is breath in my lungs, space on my credit card and DVF in Selfridges. I promise right here and now, nothing will ever convince this girl to wear a soya cat suit!

Laser sharp...

Brenda (my darling mother) popped by this morning unannounced.

"You look so very bloated darling.
What have you been eating?
Are you constipated?" (she really is quite the charmer!).

"Oh mother, nice to see you too," I chirped, looking up from my newspaper and kissing her on each cheek.
"Gosh aren't those whiskers on your chin coarse?
Have you considered laser treatment for that?" I continued.

Am I the only girl on the planet with a mother this hurtful (sigh)?

On the face of things...

Everything has become far too superficial in my estimation. People are pre-occupied with appearance, which is after all so incredibly trivial…

In my opinion Gordon Ramsay stands out in this shallow society as an example to us all. Just look at him (if you can bear it), he is a successful, proud (some would say arrogant) man, and yet, he has a face so furrowed it resembles a Victoria sponge cake that someone slammed the oven door on when it was still rising...

Has he let his extreme unattractiveness hold him back in life? No, of course not. His self esteem is high, his belief in his own abilities and qualities are obvious. He has an uncrushable spirit. My housekeeper has blanched prettier celeriac than he.

Kylie Minogue is another such icon. She struts about on stage, her fringe scrapped back off her face, evidence of her mis-adventure with Botox clear for all the world to observe. Her comedy eyebrow is ascending so far up her fore head that the poor girl looks permanently surprised!

Whenever I consider popping along to Harley Street, I simply think of Kylie and Gordon and all calm is restored. I choose to remain au natural. I shall learn to love myself as I am. I am truly low maintenance. Why I haven’t yet endured that colonic irrigation treatment that I was agonising about...

NO!

I have my monthly trim and high lights, manicure, pedicure, bikini wax, threading, my eyebrows and lashes dyed, lash extensions, microdermabrasion, coconut scrub and spray tan. I really am a simple girl at heart (sigh)...

Don't you think that some people are simply addicted to treatments? They really don't know where to stop (gasp)!

Invitation

I love to do my bit for charity, well any lady with a conscience does! I have found the work of The Starlight Children's Foundation - a charity that works to brighten the lives of seriously and terminally ill children by granting wishes and providing hospital entertainment particularly inspiring.

Starlight is 21 years old this year, and they are holding a super birthday party at Maggy and Rose. It is not too late to book tickets - I am really looking forward to meeting up with all of my chums! The children will have so much fun and lets face it, a trip to Maggie and Rose is always a pleasure! See you there?

Make Story-time Special

The lovely people over at Fairy have sent me this super widget (to the right) which provides practical tips to encourage our little ones to read. As a conscientious mother (sigh), this is clearly a subject about which I am passionate.

The tips to "make story time special" really are super practical. I should like to add one extra tip of my own to the list - which to be honest, is a bit obvious I feel, but needs hi-lighting nevertheless. My tip would be;

"Be sure to engage an au pair with excellent written and spoken English."

The au pair will obviously be the one reading to ones progeny. I have found that a big boned Dutch or Swedish girl (if you can bear it) can be best - as their conversational English is usually faultless. Although I think it only fair to mention at this point that Swedish girls have a reputation for engaging in noisy and athletic sex, and this can lead to all manner of unpleasant issues in the family home, not least of which is rekindling ones husbands interest in pleasures of the flesh. He could begin to feel left out, and us girls need our beauty sleep after all!

Along with a super Kipper books give away, there is a sweet creative writing competition on the Fairy site too, and my darling Max has been working on his very own entry this morning! He has penned a story of Kipper, Arnold and his friend Tiger and their trip to Little Pilates! Tiger sustains a minor injury by over exerting a key muscle group and ends up having to seek the support of a Reiki Healer. It really is the most darling tale.

Isn't being a mother the most satisfying role in the world?

Meme

Vanessa of The Fidra Blog has tagged me to carry out a meme. I can never normally complete challenges such as this but I have undertaken a number of creative exercises of late, at the insistence of my celebrity agent. I have been instructed to stretch myself out of my comfort zone...

Vanessa's meme requires me to;

1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag people, and acknowledge who tagged you.

Please do not judge me due to the indelicate nature of my current reading material. Apparently I must include lots of sex in the manuscript for my book - it has been suggested that I spice it up in the manner of blockbusters by Judith Krantz and Jilly Cooper, of roller coasters such as Scruples, Riders and Sons and lovers. OHMYGOD!!!

I am a lady and a mother and the subject of sex does not come naturally to me, I am so very modest after all. I live in Dulwich where everyone is married and no-one ever has sex - not ever. I am under instruction that in order to increase my commercial appeal I must open my mind and include lots and lots of detail! I have concluded that I shall simply describe the sexual athletics of my au pairs as I do not want anyone to get the wrong impression of the ladies of Dulwich. Our chased reputation is of paramount importance to me after all.

I recently accepted delivery of a copy of The Dirty Bits for girls, edited by India Knight. This is a compendium of "the dog eared pages of our youth" - not my youth darling India - after all I was a member of The Legion of Mary! This extract was originally from Fanny Hill by John Cleland (1749). Brace yourselves;

"Her legs were perfectly well shaped and her thighs, which she kept pretty close, shewed so white, so round, so substantial and abounding in firm flesh, that nothing could offer a stronger recommendation to the luxury of the touch, which he accordingly did not fail to indulge in himself. Then gently removing her hand, which in the first emotion of natural modesty, she had carried thither, he gave us rather a glimpse than a view of that ..." (gasp!!!)

No I am sorry, not even for Vanessa... no, I cannot bear to continue. This book contains far too much information. I am a pre-menopausal lady, and I have not yet eaten my supper. I must email my agent immediately, we simply never carry on like this in Dulwich, it simply would never do.

I would like to tag my chums Potty Mummy, Frog in the Field, Pig in the kitchen, Nunhead Mum of One, Zoe, Aims and Drunk Mummy - because I love you!