Party Tricks

PoshMum strode through the school gate, hair artfully streaked, resplendent her tight Seven jeans (from Question Air in Dulwich Village) and doing her best ‘Tory Burch gorgeousness’ impression. She was suffused with a delightful sense of all-encompassing power for tucked away in her Mulberry Emmy bag was a sheaf of birthday party invitations (printed at CK Press) that she was about to hand out personally. A pirate theme had been chosen, and a delightful photograph of ChildTwo waving a sword, dressed in his favourite stripy pirate shirt (from London designers ‘No Added Sugar’) graced the cover of the invites. The Golden Hind (a replica of Sir Francis Drake’s globe circumnavigating galleon) had been booked and wholesome, organic E-number free, certifiably nut free party food had been painstakingly ordered from Skye Cooks. This would be passed off as her own - PoshMum had no intention of slaving for days over complicated recipes, but was well aware that ‘home-made’ outranked ‘bought’ in the yummy mummy stakes so she was quite prepared to tell bold faced lies about the provenance of the food provided.

‘Let’s see them try to top that!’ thought PoshMum smugly, ‘Now that organic party food is utterly common place these days, it will be perfectly joyous to watch the lesser mums scramble to beat my gluten free chicken nuggets, pizza gigante and gorgeous fairy cakes!’ The anticipation was so delicious that she hugged herself with glee. There! It was now time to hand out said invitations to her (make no mistake; not ChildTwo’s) chosen few; PoshMum paused, tucked her hair behind one ear and surveyed the playground with keen anticipation – this was truly a moment to be savoured.

ChildTwo had danced on ahead and was now engaged in a violent shoving match with Fergus Hollingsworth, deadly rival, closest friend and worst enemy. PoshMum watched fondly for a few minutes, and then refocused her attention on the task in hand. First up was Baroness Wyndham. Lady Wyndham was a new dulwichmum (her son had only joined last September) and although she was only a Labour Party Peer and not a real aristocrat, she was clearly a force to be reckoned with (a prominent Labourite sending their child to private school!? How on earth had she evaded the baying cries of ‘Hypocrisy!’ from the trendy, 'Grauniad' reading, Borough Market shopping mob?). A slick operator, she had connections, power and influence. PoshMum (who became a slavering Tory the moment she left her gritty coal-mining town for St. Catherine’s College, Oxford) was nevertheless ultra-keen to have her round for dinner. The friendly gesture of a party invite for little Octavia (whom, by the way ChildTwo did not play with at school – he ruthlessly eschewed all girls) would surely do the trick.

PoshMum picked her way around the school yard, ostentatiously bestowing invites upon her little gang, and potential favourites (the Rich Wife, the Successful Novelist, the famous Anchor Woman), savouring the expressions of ill-concealed anticipation and despair on the faces from those mothers who didn’t measure up. Soon she was surrounded by an eager crew of ChildTwo’s little classmates who had been quick to scent the prospect of a birthday party and were clustered about her, hoping to receive one of the precious envelopes. She ignored them, blithely unaware of the brimming eyes and trembling lower lips of the three classmates who did not get one. (Now, no-one is suggesting that you have to invite every child to a birthday party – parties are an expensive business, and as children grow, they are (usually!) allowed to invite their actual friends. However, it is generally accepted that one politely asks the form teacher to distribute the invitations into the book bags, thus sparing the feelings of the uninvited – they are only little, after all – who would be cruel enough to hurt a child? PoshMum, that’s who.

The birthday itself fell on a Friday and PoshMum had arranged for the party guests to be picked up from the school at 3.00pm precisely. The sight of ChildTwo’s three rejected classmates as they watched the others go off would surely have melted the hardest heart. Oh well, perhaps not. Twenty happy, bouncing children dressed as pirates (or fairies – many girls baulked at the concept of dressing like Smee) were soon charging around the galleon and having a fabulous time. Eventually the end drew near and it was time to distribute the party bags (complete with two gender appropriate, hand-crafted wooden toys and a slice of glutinous, gluten-free cake). Parents were arriving, children were running and screeching, and Jerzy and the grandparents had left her to sort it out alone, in the midst of the melee. Midway through the proceedings, just as she noted (with horror) that there were no more female-friendly party bags, up strode Baroness Whyndham, dragging Octavia (dressed as Angelina Ballerina) behind her. PoshMum (fingers mentally crossed) smiled encouragingly at the child and handed her a ‘boys’ party bag. Octavia looked at the wooden pop gun and Peter Pan knife inside and began to cry.

“Octavia doesn’t play with swords, don’t you have any party bags a girl would like?” asked Baroness Whyndham brusquely (and impolitely).

PoshMum (constantly rude to other people) was quite taken aback by her tone.

“I’m so very sorry, I seem to have run out of ‘girl’ party bags. The ‘boy’ party bag is very nice.” she replied. Octavia cried even harder.

“Really? How careless.” was the terse response. “Here, you can have this back – Octavia doesn’t want it, do you darling?” she cooed at Octavia, who shook her head. “Right, come on my sweet, never mind!”

And with that she sailed off; PoshMum fumed as she watched her go. Then, to her open-mouthed amazement she saw the Baroness pause by an unguarded pink bag, glance around and in one swooping motion bogart it and scarper at top speed.

“I have GOT to make friends with that woman.” thought PoshMum as she walked to her car, “She’s definitely the type you want in your tent pi**ing out, and NOT outside pi**ing in!”