Happy New Year Guys

Crikey, has it really been this long? Very sorry chaps, I will return soon, and have a wonderful, sucessful and happy New Year.

xxxx

me

We're all going on a . . . . .Summer Holiday!

Apologies for laziness in postings! I am sooo not a multi-tasker (could I be any more beta?!)

Anyhoo - off with hubby and kids and will pull up my socks upon my return!

xxx me.

The Sport of Queens

You guys out there are really lovely!

Sorry for not updating - I have been frantically busy and my multitasking skills are poor at best!

Here is a somewhat watered down PM published in Dulwich Life June '07

PoshMum left the emporium, arms piled high with purchases, all in tasteful white. The thrill of the chase was almost better than the kill of the catch – shopping-wise, that is! Nearing the car, she found that she had no earthly means of digging the car keys out of her jeans back pocket, so she bellowed at ChildOne for assistance.

“I’ve just spent the gross national product of Andorra on you and your cricket kit, sweetheart, please give Mummy a hand!”.

Thank God she had finally got ChildOne into the cricket squad – as the first match was tomorrow she set to, hemming trousers and labelling kit in a blur of Cash’s name tapes and white thread. Two hours (and three skewered fingers) later Phase One of Operation Cricket Match was complete - it was time to instigate Phase Two.

Now, ChildOne really preferred rugby - and while PoshMum had been out to support him all winter long she had loathed every minute. No-one looked good in a wet Barbour, red-nosed nose with cold, rat-tail hair poking out beneath a sodden hat! The deciding moment came when one of her prized pink Hunter wellies got stuck in the mud and her leather Barmah hat blew into the tallest tree – rugby-schmugby - she wanted to be a cricket mum. For two whole summers she had observed the cricket mothers with a wistful eye. There they sat, in pretty summer ensembles topping up their tans in the gentle English sun, or lounging on blankets in dappled shade. They looked elegant, stylish and fun (not cold, wet and miserable) and now she would finally join them! But what to wear? In three deft moves PoshMum had made her sartorial choices – Phase Two was completed!

The following afternoon found PoshMum parked in the lane by the cricket field, laboriously instigating Phase Three (unloading all her cricket ‘essentials’). The mothers arrived to find her swathed in flimsy linen, atop massive wedge-heels, and ensconced in a Cath Kidson camp chair (on a Cath Kidson blanket next to a brand new Cath Kidson picnic basket – with matching cutlery).

“Hi PoshMum! How are you - gosh isn’t this pretty?” said BetaMum, dazzled by the blinding array of flowery accessories (and wondering if PoshMum had some consumer-based form of obsessive compulsive disorder).

“Thank you!” said PoshMum contentedly. But sadly, her contentment proved to be short-lived – she fell off her wedges (and twisted an ankle) attempting to retrieve an elegantly batted four – there were massive grass stains all down the legs of her Nicole Farhi trousers. Rather embarrassingly she knew nothing about the 2007 Cricket World Cup or this summers West Indies Test Match tour, and the elegance of her ensemble was ruined when the afternoon turned chilly (forcing her to seek refuge in BetaMum’s dog hair-covered fleece). But even worse, she found cricket to be truly, mind-numbingly dull; at least rugby had some action and excitement.

‘Definitely a case of the thrill of the chase!’ thought PoshMum mournfully.

Run Rabbit, Run Rabbit, Run, Run, Run!

PoshMum dashed past the school gates in a vain attempt to keep up with ChildTwo. What had Jerzy fed him this morning? The child was bursting with so much vim and vigour, it was as if two handfuls of dry Nescafe and a cup of white sugar had been sprinkled on his morning bowl of Kashi along with the customary semi skimmed milk! PoshMum scowled - Jerzy was more than capable of effecting such revenge, especially as he had been roundly scolded for being late on parade. He was required in the kitchen by 7.00am sharp, but this morning had shuffled downstairs, unacceptably and very obviously worse for the wear. So she put her foot down and declared that midweek clubbing and carousing was now officially banned. Jerzy was not pleased and had clattered the pots and pans in a major huff – honestly, he was so moody and capricious it was almost like having a wife!

As she whizzed round the corner after ChildTwo, PoshMum (nothing got past the PoshMum beady eye) noticed Lucy and Dolores huddled conspiratorially in the shadow of the Main Building. Even at that distance she could see that Dolores’s red nose, tense, hunched shoulders and nervously clenched fists spelled trouble. ‘Hmm. Major emotional crisis alert! I wonder what it could be?’ she thought There are only two things that can bring a school run mum to public tears so early in the morning – bankruptcy or man trouble. And while Dolores’s husband Aled was no great shakes in the looks (or personality) department he was a dentist – private only, thank you very much! He was loaded. So PoshMum’s money was on the shaky marriage option. Drat that ChildTwo, where was he? If he hadn’t run off, she would have been able to make a sympathetically appropriate, tactical approach and get the 411 on this intriguing Dolores drama. Oh well, never mind – in the fish bowl world of the school run it would all come out eventually, as sure as eggs is eggs.

Having located, retrieved and deposited a very hyper ChildTwo into the long-suffering arms of his form teacher, PoshMum found herself with thirty minutes to spare before her dental appointment in the Village. Deciding that this was too little time to make it to the gym and back she opted for the Daily Mail, a table at Le Piaf, a decaf latte and a croissant. Tucking the paper under one arm, she strolled into the cavernous restaurant and was pleasantly surprised to see Lucy and Dolores, (still red of nose) tucked away in the darkest corner.

“Hello girls! Fancy seeing you here – I’m just killing time before my trip to the dreaded hygienist. Honestly, it’s like Chinese torture, isn’t it? I do so hate it – but healthy gums mean healthy teeth! Goodness me - Dolores – are you alright?” And with no small amount of chutzpah PoshMum pulled up a chair and sat down, quite uninvited.

Dolores sniffed, her ’s eyes got all watery and there was an increased level of nasal reddening. Some women manage to look perfectly beautiful when crying (PoshMum, in her bachelor days, had been known to practice in the mirror). Alas, Dolores was emphatically not one of them.

“It’s Aled; he’s working later and later, he’s being really distant and he hasn’t come near me for weeks. When I try to talk to him, he tells me I’m imagining things and why don’t I understand how stressful work is? I’m convinced something is going on!”.

Lucy patted Dolores’s arm consolingly and looked to PoshMum for support, “I keep telling her that it’s all probably nothing! Aled must be having a rough patch work-wise – but she won’t listen! What do you think?”

“Very dodgy if you ask me!” said PoshMum seriously, at which Dolores buried her face in her hands, emitting a keening wail.

Lucy looked daggers at PoshMum and gestured furiously. “Nonsense! Just overwork – my husband gets all distant and moody, practically on a monthly basis! If I paid attention to his every grump I’d be grey and haggard with worry by now.”

“I disagree!” countered PoshMum, “Men are simple creatures – what you need is a rabbit.”

Lucy sat open-mouthed while Dolores peered up at PoshMum through interlaced fingers. “A rabbit!" she said, “One of those kinky sex toys!? What would my mother think? Oh no!”, and the high pitched wailing resumed once more.

“Isn’t this all a bit seedy a la Paula Yates/Michael Hutchence? Those things look like futuristic space weapons - very unsexy, in my book! I don't know what I would do if Charles hopped into bed, waving one of those at me!” said Lucy, delicately wrinkling her nose.

“No not at all, silly! And don’t think of them as kinky sex toys – they are ‘bedroom accessories’ or marital aides, if you will! Very useful for imparting a bit of ‘intrigue’ to otherwise dull proceedings!” said PoshMum knowledgeably. “PoshHubby was thrilled when I bought mine – believe me, it really got his attention (not easy at the best of times – he really is lazy!). And there were too many phone calls at home from Natalia Kazinsky, his overly-keen, work-all-hours junior assistant! I had to nip that in the bud, toute suite! Actually, rabbits are a bit old hat these days - my wonderful friend EmmaK has been telling me all about the new sensation (pun intended!) the Cone!! Sounds like fun!

And Dolores, I’d take a trip to Myla if I were you – they have a lovely concession in Selfridges; I must say even I was taken aback by all the gadgetry. You must go and have a look!”. Looking at her watch, PoshMum grabbed her paper, stuffed it into her Mulberry bag and got ready to go.

“Drat! My appointment! Never mind - hang in there Dolores, it will be alright you know. Take my advice, or better still come with me to Selfridges, it’ll be fun!!”

Bending over a completely shell-shocked Dolores she whispered “I highly recommend ‘Spoon’! And, entre nous, if you get one of the ‘Pebbles’, it won’t matter if your husband comes home late or not, so there! See you at 3.00pm!” And she patted Dolores on the shoulder and whizzed out the door.

“Erm, ‘bye then.” said Lucy.

Risk Averse Not Aware.

It was ten past nine – PoshMum and her pal, Sunita-the-Mum-all-Dads-Fancied were indulging in a quick spot of morning gossip as they sauntered down the tree-lined road to their cars. Even though sexy Sunita left all the Dulwich dads tongue-tied in her wake (probably because she left them tongue-tied in her wake) PoshMum rather hero-worshiped her – tall, effortlessly slim, flawless café-au-lait skin, tumbling dark brown curls – Sunita was your average female nightmare. Plus she had a killer fashion sense and the funds to indulge it – today she was rocking a pair of funky Solea flamenco-style heels and a Chloe inspired, swingy, cropped jacket (by Aura Bella from Tomlinson’s in the Village) – very hip! PoshMum, who had yummy mummy style down pat always resolved to be a little more daring whenever she saw Sunita looking so ‘edgy’ and cool – yet every time she reached the cash till in the funkier boutiques she always lost her nerve. PoshMum longed to replicate Sunita’s devastating ‘come hither’ effect on men; well, she’d just have to swallow her pride and beg or bribe Sunita to accompany her on the next jaunt down the Kings Road.

Pausing by a large clump of laurel, PoshMum and Sunita got well and truly stuck into the hot topic of the morning. It was very much a case of ‘The Morning After The Night Before’; had Parents Evening been ‘Good’ or ‘Bad’? Had their form teacher dropped any pertinent hints regarding future entrance exam failure or success? This fundamental subject required their total concentration; the sauntering slowed and finally came to a complete stop, when like a bolt from the blue, a chubby cheeked toddler clattered noisily past them astride a highly fashionable, £90 quid, Early Rider.

A calm, well-modulated voice drifted distantly toward them from behind.

“Rooo-pert, slow down for Mummy please!”

But Rupert, clearly of the determined and exploratory mode of toddler (as opposed to the quiet, cling-to-Mummy type), paid absolutely no notice and to the combined horror and surprise of the two startled women (whose reactions were too slow to stop him) he hurtled Right . . Across . . The . . Road. Some guardian angel must have been hovering nearby, as there were no moving cars or other traffic as he sped over to the other side. Ramming his push-along bike into the kerb with a loud crash, the tiny child dismounted and was attempting to haul it onto the pavement when his mother, jogging along at a leisurely pace just ahead of her friends, finally caught up with him.

Sunita and PoshMum stood there speechless with shock, waiting for the standard, posh mummy, careful explanation of why little boys mustn’t cross roads without waiting for their mother (or some other responsible adult) to go with them. It never came; instead the young, dark-haired, Boden-type mum blithely continued her conversation with her friends and waved them a cheery goodbye during which the toddler pushed his wooden bike across another road, to all intents and purposes unaccompanied, (he was on the other side before she had even begun to cross) He then disappeared completely between the combined vastness of a parked Porsche ‘Cayenne’ and Jeep ‘Grand Cherokee’.

PoshMum watched as Boden-type Mum walked away, still several yards behind her noisy, happy offspring, still focussed on chatting to her chums; she felt chilled to the bone at what she saw as the other mothers negligence. Had one of those giant cars moved off, the child would have stood no chance – he would have been completely invisible to the hapless driver, who would then probably been sued to bu**ery by the aggrieved parent. All of a sudden, the minute analysis of the teachers every twitch and facial expression with regard to ChildTwo’s reading and writing skills seemed curiously unimportant. She said goodbye to Sunita (having secured a date in the diary for them to go round New Bond Street) and drove away deep in thought.

There were clearly two completely opposite modes of ‘mothering’ within the middle-class mummy world. The first (favoured by PoshMum herself) was the helicopter-parenting, anxious, hovering, over-protective technique, where children who live a mere mile away from school are driven or otherwise accompanied there for fear of muggings, accidents and abductions. Older children are not allowed to wander freely to the Park or the Village on their own for exactly the same reasons. These parents ponder the paradox of how responsible dog owners are told to get them micro-chipped - but children, so much more beloved and precious, cannot be. They organise (and supervise) homework, play-dates and after-school activities with military precision, keeping a wary eye on all computer activity (Bebo, Facebook MySpace, and the like) and keep checks on who is texting their teens.

Then there was the second technique; seven year olds are packed off to prep school on the private coach, leaving the house early and getting back late like miniature business men. Or they hop on train or bus aged ten and go off on their own steam, hiding school crests or ties to avoid being harassed by rival school boys, and concealing mobile phones and MP3’s in shoes (or underpants) to foil would-be-muggers who know where easy pickings can be had. Privacy is respected and computer use unhindered; there is freedom to roam about with other boys (and girls) in the Park. And although there would be the occasional unpleasant ‘incident’ with older kids, this is considered a reasonable price to pay for ‘letting go’ and allowing a child the freedom to operate in the real world. The freedom to grow.

Which style makes the better parent? PoshMum didn’t know; in her last job, the mission statement was the risible ‘Risk Aware, NOT Averse!’ Well, she preferred to be as Risk Averse as possible in order to comfort herself with the thought that whatever happened in this loca vida, she had covered as many bases as she possibly could.

But whichever style was right, these both surely included a proper kiddy harness to restrain a boisterous, toddler.

More Precious Than Life Itself.

[I cannot stop thinking about the McCann family and their plight and have been praying for them and for Madeleine. Please, please let there be a happy ending.]

PoshMum put down the Times Newspaper, switched off BBC Radio 4 and sat with her head in her hands. It was not that long ago when she and PoshHubby had gone on Mark Warner holidays. How could this be happening? Family friendly, easy and safe, these types of holiday packages catered to hard working, up and coming couples with small children – there were no pensioners or young couples to growl at the continual noise of a baby crying; the toddlers were happy in their crèche and the older children always formed a mini-gang (and close friendships) as they splashed and whooped in the beautiful pools. Harassed young parents could claw half an hour away from the demands of parenthood to rediscover each other without interruption (although a reviving and uninterrupted nap was more likely to top the agenda for your average exhausted mother and father of three). PoshMum tore her eyes away from the heartrending front page photo of Dr. Kate McCann, struck by how similar the anguished couple looked to the PoshMum and PoshHubby of ten years ago. Normally, at this point, (had the story been about fashion or interiors), she would have ruminated happily, on how successfully she had retained her youthful figure since those days. Now all she could do was thank God for the wall of security and safety they had built around themselves – they had an extra pair of hands with the various au pairs that passed through, they had window bars and a Fort Knox-like security system, they had car pooling and a crumple-proof Volvo. Holidays were now taken in the familiar comfort and safety of their cottage in Walberswick. There was always someone around to supervise - nothing bad could possibly happen to ChildrenOne or Two.

Then again there were sleep-overs with parents one barely knew; the park (where Poshmum gossiped outside the café with friends, and Jerzy was glued to his mobile phone while the children ran wild through the shrubs and trees unseen). Then there was their garden, which was densely planted and beyond the end of which was a busy, public road. Soon ChildOne would insist on cycling home or walking to the Village for Pizza; then they would be getting on a train and going off to on Gap years and university God knows where. Poshmum was suddenly becoming more and more twitched and panicky. What if, what if, …what if…?

PoshMum's thoughts trailed off and she ran out of the house. None of the essential preparations were made. The jeans were a faded, unfashionable, soon-to-be-Oxfamed pair. Her tight, Jack Wills top had a splash of vinaigrette down it. And as for the hair, she couldn’t care less - she had not even looked as she rushed passed the hall mirror.

Arriving at the school in minutes she barged past her usual crowd and elbowed her way past Jerzy, who was (as he’d been instructed) there to collect ChildTwo. In two great strides she reached Child Two and scooped him up, repeatedly kissing his perfect little head. The other mums had never seen her in this state and were far from sure they recognised her. Her words though, were clear enough "God I love you, I love you so much" was the general gist.

The same scene was repeated at Child One's school twenty minutes later to the collected astonishment of all.

Posh mums, slummy mums, alpha mums, beta mums, lazy mums, perfects mums all; we love our kids – they mean more than life itself – they are life itself to us.

Please pray for the McCann family and the safe return of little Madeleine.

Festival Fun

(published May '07 - Dulwich Life Magazine)

It was time for PoshMum’s trip to the Chelsea Flower show. Her gardening-mad neighbour, BetaMum took her every year - very sweet, but she did bang on about ‘Cardiocrinum giganteum’, ‘Arundo donax’ and ‘clever use of heights’ while dragging poor PoshMum around every single display. PoshMum would vainly suggest a break for a cold glass of bubbly and some oysters, but BetaMum considered this a shocking waste of viewing time, whipping out a packet of home-made sandwiches for two (and thermos of tea) from an embarrassingly unfashionable rucksack. PoshMum was fond of her little friend, but these jaunts did have their trying moments – if she ever got into the celebrity-studded, invitation-only first day, BetaMum would be history! The Season was about seeing and being seen, not committing lists of boring plants names to memory!

PoshMum and BetaMum also paired up for the Dulwich Festival, a fantastic fortnight where local residents gave generously of their time and their talent to put on artistic and cultural events for the community. There was much to enjoy, but PoshMum’s favourite was the ‘Artists Open House’ event - she and BetaMum never missed one! BetaMum (an art teacher who had studied at the Slade) was whole-hearted in her support of the local artists. She squirreled away her pennies just to buy the odd piece or two during the Festival (her taste was impeccable) and chatted happily and intelligently to the younger artists, to keep her hand in. Plus the artists invariably had stonkingly, jaw-droppingly beautiful gardens - whether a half acre in the Village or a bijou courtyard in East Dulwich – BetaMum loved this, and it made her happy to be around so many talented people.

PoshMum, in contrast, simply wanted to spot local celebs and to nose around other people’s houses. She knew nothing (and understood even less) about art – PoshHusband had inherited several sludgey, indifferent paintings when Great Aunt Hilda popped off, and that was it. Looking at other people’s kitchens and furniture was much more fun; she loved to critique the floorboards, the fire-places and the colour schemes. She had once asked a ceramicist where he had bought ‘that lovely sofa’, quite without embarrassment.

“These clever, creative types are pretty darn good at interior design”, thought PoshMum to herself (bypassing three amazing sculptures and a wall hung with innovative art) as she examined a particularly clever kitchen extension. “I’ll never know why they don’t all do that and keep all this art malarkey as a hobby.”

“Excuse me!” she said loudly, butting into BetaMum’s conversation and tapping the tall, darkly handsome artist on the shoulder.

He turned and smiled, holding out his card in anticipation.

“Just how much did it cost to dig your basement?” asked PoshMum. A stunned silence ensued.

“Basement Open Day is next week, dear; this is Artists Open Day.” snapped the Handsome Artist.

“Time to go!” thought BetaMum, hustling an aggrieved PoshMum out the door. “Oh dear - these jaunts do have their trying moments, don’t they?”