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!

Praise the Lord!

I awoke the other morning to find my bedroom flooded with light. Like the Ice Queen I surveyed the scene from my bedroom window, smiling to myself as the profusion of enormous fluffy snowflakes that wafted past and settled into little drifts on the terrace steps and against the perfect Farrow and Ball painted bird table below. I realised that the sweet Robin would probably be forced to endure hunger in this beautiful scene. There are indeed those who suffer great hardship because of the snow...

I was suddenly aware that I was in the presence of God!

Overcome with emotion, struck dumb in awe at the power of the Lord, tears ran down my perfect cheeks and I felt my heart leap in my bosom with joy at the realisation that I live in glorious Dulwich!

Some are certainly less fortunate than I...(have you ever been to Lambeth? OHMYGOD!!!)

Aware that my poppets would imminently demand a trip into the garden to make a snow man, I dashed downstairs, summoned the au pair and instructed her to don her thermals in order to escort my progeny outside for some fun and games (high jinks in the snow would play havoc with my hair).

I love to catch up on my beauty sleep on a Sunday morning (sigh), I really could sleep like a bear in hibernation.

Wake me up when the meek inherit the earth.

Sunshine

I must admit that I have been so very cautious about taking my tiny poppets on a holiday abroad. There are (after all) so many strange and hostile people to be encountered in foreign lands. I am tortured by fears for my young family.

It snowed just yesterday (it is April!!!), so I decided to reconsider as it would be super to cheer us all up with a lovely sunshiny family holiday. I quickly nipped online in search of a break in the Maldives or Barbados for our next half term holiday. James immediately became rather alarmed and began to rant on about the current difficulties in the money markets. He insisted;

“Don’t dare to book the Indian Ocean or the West Indies through Club Med or Mark Warner,” (I had no idea that times were so very hard). “Why don’t you try Thompson's – You might find something reasonable in Greece.”

I pride myself on being open minded, but OHMYGOD, I shall find it difficult to articulate the horrors that I have experienced online this evening… The selection of holidays for sale through this high street holiday company simply took my breath away.

In their online brochure, Thompson offer “Premier” five star resorts that it claims are “stylish and luxurious,” but not so exclusive that they feel “unfriendly.”

"Mmm," I thought, "this sounds promising"…

They claim that one resort has “an outrageously posh marina” that is filled with sleek “my wallet is bigger than your’s yachts” – I was speechless… Other features are described as “knock your socks off.” All male guests under 14 are apparently "requested" to wear long trousers for dinner (OHMYGOD, do they compel their guests to use a knife and fork too?). In the “classy” Sani Beach Club Hotel (is it named after a chemical toilet?) there is a full programme of nightly "entertainment on offer, including a dart board, bingo and karaoke."

When describing the cuisine, they claim that one American buffet style restaurant (this is in Greece!!!) in the resort was mentioned in The Financial Times just four years ago, and “with reviews like these you know you’ve hit the jackpot”. They offer “unlimited locally produced alcoholic beverages – so fill your boots,” I almost expired. I wonder if this restaurant has a notice on the wall requesting that patrons refrain from sucking their teeth?

How frightfully coarse…

I don’t think that we can risk a holiday abroad this year, or at least until the stock market picks up or they invent some kind of common/low life filter for my computer. How can I ensure that we avoid encounters with larger louts and lottery winning toothless hags from Elsemere Port on our travels.

I really am an outragous snob you know... (sigh).

Shhh, I wonder if I could pick up a super offer with Mark Warner to The Ocean Club in Praia da Luz in Portugal. I have read that there is a nice tapas bar virtually in front of the apartments too! Anything would be better than Halkidiki with Thomas Cook, clearly…

Common...

My monster-in-law arrived unannounced for a flying visit this afternoon. The poppets are on their Easter holidays from school and bounded about the house under the supervision of Magda - our new Polish au pair (she cannot speak a word of English and recently bestowed me with an enormous home made sausage and some hand knit socks upon her arrival at Herne Hill train station).

To my delight Granzilla commented on the profusion of award certificates stuck to our minimalist brushed steel American fridge complimenting my darling munchkins on their progress at their selective independent schools, and elaborated about how surprised she was as;

"they learned to walk far too soon. We really never expected that the poor darlings would be bright."

"What are you saying sweetie?" I chirped through gritted teeth...

"Your father-in-law and I have always agreed that walking early is a sign that children are from council housing - well clearly they are pulling themselves up on the furniture which is positioned terribly close together in their frightfully cramped little homes. Walking early is a dreadful sign."

OHMYGOD! That woman is outrageous...

Everyone knows that my home rivals The Tate Modern for square footage. I am beside myself with disgust.

Those socks that Magda gave me look almost Missoni you know - if only her grandma had knit me a cardigan.

Freedom...

Parenting is so frightfully stressful...

From the time I wake up each morning, my heart pounding in my chest, until long after the munchkins are tucked up in their sweet beds, I am completely stressed out. I long to feel secure that I am making the right decisions regarding my darlings' welfare, but at times it seems that simply everything is slipping out of control. I could spend my days cowering in a corner, taking deep breaths into a brown paper bag.

I am aware that my poppets must be afforded the freedom to grow, to explore and acquire new skills in order to flourish. It is so damn difficult to determine when is the right time to loosen the reins and allow them a little more freedom. Every decision I make is so stressful, they are my babies after all.

I knew that this day would come, when I would be forced to step back a little… Yesterday afternoon without warning, perfect Freya announced that she would like to take violin lessons (...gasp!).

I realise that it is imperative for the tot to learn to play a musical instrument to Grade 8 if she is to eventually gain a place at a Russell Group University (sniff), but what if this is all too soon (the tiny infant is not yet five years old). Perfect Freya is still so very impressionable. I would hate for her to develop a genuine passion for music, to discover an aptitude and find herself irresistibly drawn to a musical career. She could find herself chasing the dragon and injecting crystal menthe like Amy Whitehouse and Pete Doherty or speaking in a a dreadful accent like Nigel Kennedy. She could even end up living in poverty, playing the French horn for the London Symphony Orchestra OHMYGOD!

Have you noticed the state of the stock market? A girl can't rely on her trust fund you know. Now where did I put the Rescue Remedy?

Bonus Time

It is bonus time in the City again, and I don't mean at the Clinique counter in Peter Jones! I wonder if I shall have something nice in my stocking this Christmas - if James is generous he might even get something nice in stockings too!

Yesterday I received a lovely sincere email from a dear man requiring gift ideas and suggestions for his "good lady." What a lovely husband! I must admit that it brought a tear to my eye.

"I want something special," he wrote, "I want her to feel pampered and loved. Our life is so busy, our boys are so exuberant."

I immediately thought...buy her something tasteful from Bootles, an Ultimate Spa Therapy Gift Voucher for the Elemis Day spa in Mayfair and send the boys to Winchester (but you must be quick, I believe that the assessments are taking place right now), and then I remembered a gift I once received that made me feel so very special indeed...

I tumbled in the door after an overnight flight from New York to find my pyjamas warming on a radiator, a breakfast tray of muesli and fresh orange juice prepared in the fridge, luxurious oils and fresh towels by the bath, and rose petals and a love note on the bed... my darling man had left the house for work (sigh). It wasn't even my birthday.

The most thoughtful gifts don't cost any money at all. I felt pampered, special, secure... noticed.

This morning I received a further eleven emails from men asking for gift ideas for their wives;

"What should I give her Dulwichmum? She has everything already!"

I don't pretend to know their wives' taste in perfume, or size in underwear. Is there even a branch of Tiffany in North Korea? Why ask me? Oh boys! Why don't you ask your secretary for help? I told James' secretary what I wanted at the end of November - she never lets me down!

Would you like a slice of lemon in that?