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!”

Two great blogs.

I have just found these two blogs, both by noted and esteemed English women writers - spymum thinks they are fab, so please do pay a visit.

Josa Young's Blog and From The Bunker

Entrance Exam Hell continued (plus attractive au pairs)

“Girls, do we have time for one more coffee? I’ve got someone coming round from the London Basement Company in half an hour, and then we’ve all got to be back here at 12.30 for the after exam pick-up.” said Lucy to the others as the coffee morning crowd in Le Piaf began to drift away.

“Oh my gosh, you’re having a basement conversion – you lucky thing!” said PoshMum enviously, feeling sick inside that the thought that Lucy was pulling ahead of her in the perfect house stakes (a fact that she intended to draw to PoshHusband’s attention the moment she stepped out of the bistro door).

“Heaven’s yes! We will be putting in a utility room (with room for a real American washing machine and dryer like we used to have in Chicago) and a self contained suite to house the au pair in. It is just so awful having Reina underfoot all the time; honestly you’d think she would get the hint. Is it too much to ask that once her hours are done she should tootle off to her own room and leave us alone? Instead she follows me all around the house and talks at James when Sky Sport is on. He agreed to have it done asap as he simply can’t abide it!”

PoshMum and Flick agreed and chimed in with their own horror stories of au pair fecklessness, inconsideration and food over-consumption.

“How old is Reina, and where has she come from?” asked Lindsay.

“Eighteen, and is it Czechoslovakia? Somewhere like that! God, I wish she’d get a boyfriend, that would keep her out of the house a bit more.” was the acid response.

“Don’t you think she might be a bit lonely? She must be missing her family.” said Lindsay.

“Well really, what’s the matter with the girl, I couldn’t wait to escape my parents at eighteen! And I don’t need a great big teenager moping all over the house!” retorted Lucy.

“Think of it as practice for your own in a few years time!” said PoshMum, “At least I don’t have the same problem with Jerzy. He can’t be seen for dust once the clock hits 7.30pm, although he truly annoys me because he is so unbelievably vain. He can’t pass a mirror without looking in it, and he wants to train to be a barman (does one need training for that?). He is always out with his mates – in fact, I wish he’d bring them around to keep me company of an evening, they are all very good looking!”

At this, Lucy and Flick fell about laughing, vowing to hire handsome ‘mannys’ for themselves at the earliest opportunity, although Flick declared that Nigel would never countenance the presence of a younger rival stag in his personal domain.

“I would never countenance the presence of a gorgeous eighteen year old girl in my domain!” retorted PoshMum. “it is amazing how PoshHusband’s dressing gown kept falling open ‘quite by accident’ when our blonde, Brazilian au pair was with us.”

“Yes, she made quite an impression on Nigel too when we came round for supper that time!” giggled Flick. “No wonder you got rid of her!”

“Faster than you can say ‘Jack Robinson’ and I don’t intend to have any pretty au pairs ever again! I just don’t need the competition!” said PoshMum emphatically, patting her (slim) hips.

All of a sudden Lindsay groaned and put her head in her hands.

“What’s the matter Linds?” asked Lucy.

“I’m just so worried about my Gemma – you should have seen her little face this morning as she went into the exam room. I’ve tried to keep everything light and not put pressure on her but last night she asked me if I would be very cross if she didn’t pass. For God’s sake she’s only six, why do we do this to our kids? And there are so few places for girls, only half of Alleyn’s and JAGS and that’s it. What will I say to her if she doesn’t get in? How can I make it better?”

“There is always weekly boarding school.” said Flick, “I certainly intend to try that if all else fails.”

“But I don’t want to send her off to boarding school. She’s why I went part time at work – she needs me and I want to be with her!” said Lindsay.

“Well, there are more places for boys, (the other half of Alleyn’s, DCPS and Dulwich College). If I were you, I’d cut her hair, disguise her as a boy for the next five years and forbid her to take showers after rugby so she doesn’t get caught!” said PoshMum flippantly. “The game will be well and truly up when puberty finally kicks in though!”

A despairing Lindsay slowly raised her head from the table. “Strong surgical bandages will take care of that! Do you know, if I get desperate enough I just might do it. . . . . . .”

Tagged by the lovely MM; Today's topic - 'Weirdness'!

(Groan!!). Once again, spymum raises her ugly mug on what should be the domain for cataloging the nefarious thoughts and deeds of b**ch troll from hell, PoshMum. Never mind, here goes:-

Six weird things about me (spymum):


1. I have a mania for tidy eyebrows, and have been spotted plucking them while waiting in the car for the kids. Shameful, I know, but tidy eyebrows are less embarrasing than public grooming. (See Frida Kahlo the eyebrow queen over there? That could easily be me!)

2. I cannot sleep if a wardrobe or cupboard door is left even slightly ajar in our bedrooms. For some reason I am convinced that scary beings can use these openings as a portal to our world!

3. My favourite flavour is sour, the sourer the better; I enjoy eating grapefruit with salt.

4. I like to sleep with my head underneath my pillow.

5. I find egg yolks utterly repulsive.

and

6. I finally, finally passed my driving test at the ripe old age of thirty six!


Ladies and gentlemen, there you have it! I tag Annacond, Melissa C Morris, Susan at the Muddy Dog, the EMG, E at Suburban Cupcake and Libby (ASOS+S), and look forward to endless hours of amusement at your weirdnesses!!

Juken-jigoku - Entrance Exam Hell

HEATH WARNING! This story is not pleasant at all!! Made worse because the unsavoury party incident described actually took place. (The characters are imaginary.)

The utter hell of prep school entrance exam week was nearly over. It was 9.15am, just after the school drop-off and PoshMum had foregathered with her hysterical, Prozaced-up cronies in Le Piaf as they swapped their war stories, licked their wounds and encouraged each other in one rare moment of mutual support and camaraderie. They were sitting in Le Piaf by default – the coffee shop of choice was Au Ciel but the state school mums, (those hallowed beings that had achieved the impossible – a little house within the catchment area of the Dulwich Village Infant and Hamlet schools – no more school fees for them, the lucky sods!) had filled it to the brim. There was no more room to be had in PoshMum's favourite little patisserie, and her gang didn’t want the state school lot to overhear (and laugh at) their tales of stressed out private school mummy woe.

So there they all sat, huddled around a table in a corner by the window, the best place to observe friends (and rivals) going about essential non-school-run business in leafy Dulwich Village. PoshMum (who was only there to mine the others for useful exam preparation tips – her period of exam hell was as yet a few years away) beckoned the waitress over to take their orders; seated with elegant casualness directly opposite was her neighbour Felicity. Flick was the envy of them all, tall with long, shiny chestnut hair, she had a hedge fund husband, an au pair and a live-in Filipina housekeeper plus an eight bedroom Victorian house in Alleyn Road. Right next to Flick was the incredibly upmarket Lucy from Wandsworth. Lucy had a son aged three and a daughter aged six, and was trying to pull a double whammy by getting them both into Alleyn’s in one stroke (a feat akin to winning the National Lottery). For the entirety of last year Alfred and Lilibet were tutored within an inch of their lives (Maths, English, telling the time and non-verbal reasoning, all in addition to existing work from school). Alfred was already playing piano, (with Lily on Grade 2), and they were both adept in French (an unexpected benefit arising from the second home in Brittany and the steady stream of cheap village girls that au paired for them through local contacts). Lindsay, the athletic and brilliantly clever Australian doctor completed the quartet. They all requested lattes, refused all form of carbohydrate and had pinched and harried expressions on their faces

“Oh my God, this is all so intensely stressful!” said Flick, knocking back her latte in one gulp. “I just don’t know what we are going to do if Tarquin fails to get into DCPS”.

“I’m sure he will. Your older boy is there”, said Lucy soothingly, “Where else have you put him down for?”

“Oh, just DCPS and Alleyn’s, that’s it; I haven’t put him down for anywhere else? (‘Hmm,’ thought PoshMum, taking care to maintain the earnestly sympathetic expression on her face, ‘Is Flick wildly overconfident….or does she have some useful inside information.’). “Why not?” she queried baldly.

“Oh, I have no intention of ferrying three children to three different parts of London, my life is complicated enough as it is!” came the reply. (‘Hmm,’ I thought that was the point of persuading Nigel to let you have an au pair in the first place – to ferry the children about while you float off to Pilates and tennis. I know that’s why I got mine!’) mused PoshMum shaking her head at the mad dippiness of it all.

“Didn’t you consider School A or School B, where you could try the exam again at eleven if things don’t work out at seven?” asked Lindsay. Three perfectly coiffed heads swivelled towards her and three pairs of eyes were turned pityingly in her direction.

“Heavens, no!” said Lucy. Flick just laughed.

“But why not, it is just on the doorstep, and they do very well at the 11+, with lots of scholarships!” said Lindsay.

“Orlando went there and left at seven, but I would never send Hero or Tarquin there.” said Flick.

“They are just a bit…hmm.,” here Lucy paused, looking skyward in an effort to find the right words. “Let’s just say that a friend in North London described it to me as ‘a black prep school’.”

Poor Lindsay’s face was a picture. She hissed and spluttered and went pink then red, then pink again.

“But that’s insane! It isn’t! Everyone goes there, that’s what I liked about it!” she said upon finally regaining the power of speech. “It is the only school in the area where you will actually rub shoulders with proper Cockneys. OK, Cockneys with loads of money, but nonetheless! Diversity, isn’t that a good thing in a school?”

PoshMum occupied herself by rootling around in her bag for lipstick, keys and mobile phone. Most astonishingly (considering her normally brutal mode of speech and behaviour ) she knew better than join into this particular topic of conversation. And she really liked Lindsay, who could be a useful source of advice with regard to ChildrenOne and Two getting into the best medical school (and choosing the right specialty – one with a substantial private practice and not some useless, non-profit area like endocrinology for example).

Lucy smiled at Lindsay kindly, taking into account her limitations. After all, Lindsay’s non-English status precluded her from a proper understanding of the unwritten, unspoken law.

“Look, the Piggott’s and I were at Cazzy Blankehorne’s summer drinks party last year chatting away to some bloke by the barbeque and Ferdie Piggott asked where his boys went to school. ‘Oakenmead’ he replied, upon which Ferdie (you know what he is like, he just says whatever comes into his head at the drop of a hat) said ‘Ah yes, School A! Too black.’ ( I was right there when he said it). At that very moment (one couldn’t have timed it better) a pretty Indian girl came up and kissed the chappie, (his face looked like thunder). He turned on Ferdie Piggott and practically snarled “You haven’t met my wife, have you?”

Poor Ferdie stood there with his face as red a beet and said “Oh! Um! I didn’t mean……!” and this man said “Oh yes you did!” grabbed his wife and stalked off! What a scene, darlings!”

Lindsay continued to look troubled. “My goodness!” she said, “I can’t believe people still think like that in this day and age. Is it really true?”

“Yes, it really happened.” said Lucy simply.

“But it is a good school, right? I know two kids from there who got into Alleyn's and three into DCPS. And a lot of the girls end up at JAGS. You would send Alfred to School A if he blew this exam wouldn’t you?”

“No.” said Lucy simply.

Come Fly With Me...(with apologies to Frank Sinatra)

PoshMum pulled the freebie sleeping mask over her eyes and attempted the impossible; sleeping bolt upright, crammed into a miniscule space, with a sleeping child sprawled on her lap and a steady stream of insomniacs coughing their loathsome germs all over her as they paced the aisles of the plane. Coach class was an indignity, and one that could only be endured with lashings and lashings of Valium and airline wine. Oh Gosh! The fasten-your-seatbelt light had gone on, and the plane was now lurching drunkenly about the skies like an air-borne Pete Doherty. PoshMum clenched the armrests and (also her teeth, as the little girl seated behind her kicked the chair for the umpteenth time). “Who was it who said they would never date a man who turns right on a plane, was it drawling, Sloaney It-Girl Tara Palmer Tomkinson? The girl had a point!” thought PoshMum sourly, as ChildTwo kicked her in the ribs and yet another passenger coughed over her without covering his mouth (‘Have these people never heard of droplet infection? I’m probably rife with TB germs by now!’ she scowled).

‘Mind you, Tara PT is still unmarried and without child – such narrow criteria inevitably made for slim pickings! And if one does dedicate oneself to catching the eye of a billionaire (millions count for nothing these days, do they?) they are either so short, fat and repugnant that one needs a major drug habit to endure romantic congress. No amount of plastic surgery can ever fix the poor kids (Christina Onassis – case in point). If they are tolerably good looking, you know you are completely replaceable and your best friends will stab you in the back in the vicious scramble for billionaire wedlock (remember Christina Estrada and Heather Murphy – now Mrs Sol Kerzner?). Maybe coach class isn’t so bad’. mused PoshMum, scrunching her ‘pillow’ into a more comfortable wad. In the dim light of the cabin she let her thoughts drifted slowly back to the only chap that had ever crossed her horizon blessed with the magical facility of turning left on planes. How had she let him get away?

It was 1991 and PoshMum had beaten off the competition to win a six month stint in the Big Apple, working as a trainee lawyer in the New York offices of her Magic Circle firm, what a thrill it had all been! She had stayed (all expenses paid) in a luxury apartment building overlooking the East River, with comfortably successful, well-heeled neighbours – bankers, lawyers, surgeons and the like; let’s just say that all the affluence really crystallised her aspirations – she was a long way from Handsworth in Sheffield now. Ah, happy days of yore! She was out every night carousing around Manhattan with the other ex-pat lawyers, flush with cash, drinking and dancing ‘til dawn and rolling into the office on three hours sleep! But after a while the constant Brit boozing began to pall somewhat and she made proper American friends, some of whom were as grand (the Boston Brahmin ones were considerably grander) as the Sloaney set she attached herself to back in London . . . while other friends were strangely less so. While waiting for the ‘elevator’, (still dressed in her low-cut Donna Karan ‘body’ and shoulder padded suit after a night on the tiles, the dirty stop-out!) she made the acquaintance of a rather handsome, burly bond trader (Morgan Stanley) with Al Pacino eyes and receding, dark curly hair. He was appealingly older (and loaded) with an intriguing cultural exoticism. They got chatting and he was equally intrigued - her youth might have been a big factor; he took her to all the hotspots and ritzy restaurants a girl could want. It was a bit of a whirlwind with the potential to become really serious, but things started to unravel when he took her home to meet the folks in Far Rockaway. His family were lovely, warm and welcoming, but were overly fond off off-colour jokes and loud impassioned debates over the (Formica) dining table, mouths full of food, forks waving dangerously around. It was too much of an unsettling contrast to the tailgate picnics, drawling bon mots, Bloody Mary’s and G&T gentility of the crowd to which she so desperately aspired.

It all came to a head at a party where PoshMum and her pals had managed to score a long weekend at a beachfront property in Easthampton. All of a sudden his inappropriate shoes, chunky gold chain, thick Noow Yauk accent and ignorance of wine (save for Asti, Blue Nun and Liebfraumilch) were thrown into stark contrast against the strangled, modulated tones of the red-headed chappie to her left (along with his rugby shirt, Sebago deck shoes, and lack of colourful jewellery – inherited signet ring on left pinky notwithstanding). Her bond trader wouldn’t sail, (couldn’t even swim), refused to eat any oysters and belched after downing his beer. He was scared of the polo ponies, hated dogs and when he held his steak down, fork in fist, while sawing away at it with the other she knew that their nascent romance was over.

Which is just as well for she had been playing footsie under the table with the redhead (aka PoshHusband) for the entire lunch. But the last she had heard of him, he was listed in Forbes and he almost certainly owned a private plane or went NetJet, like all other Captains of Industry.

Hmm, maybe she should Google him and give him a call when she got back to London; after all, it always pays to be friendly!

'Beautiful, Beautiful Barbados (with apologies to the Merrymen)

PoshMum kicked off her Bonnano’s (‘Connie’ in pewter and platinum) adjusted her tortoiseshell Oliver Peoples sunglasses (two years after they were first sported by bad girl Kate Moss, but who cares) and settled back onto the navy blue beach lounger. This was the life! PoshHubby was enjoying a round of golf at the Sandy Lane Golf Club, ChildOne was in clear view, building a massive and elaborate Bill Gates-style mansion out of sand (to the precise orders and under the strict supervision of a pretty, dark-haired little girl to whom he had become attached) and ChildTwo was in the hotel crèche. Swigging from her glass, she paused and thought ‘Better go easy on these; they don’t call it rum punch for nothing! It does pack a punch – a calorific one! Chilled to the bone at the thought of reappearing at the school gate fat and bloated from all that delicious booze (and well aware of how dulwichmums, clapham-mums and wandsworthmums ruthlessly practise fat-girl apartheid) she set her glass down and turned to her bible – UK Harpers Bazaar (now back to its original name after thirty years as ‘Harpers & Queen’).

PoshMum adored Harpers Bazaar; the handbook for the updated, sophisticated Sloane, it was less intimidating than the über high-fashion Vogue and light-years away from the jet-set vulgarity of Tatler today. PoshMum followed the beauty advice of Newby Hands with an almost religious devotion, fought endlessly to achieve Kim Hersov’s figure and, despite her devotion to all things blonde, secretly admired the smooth, shiny chestnut locks of Lucy Yeomans. Ooh! Hold on – here was an interview with pop mogul Simon Cowell, done by Ms Yeomans herself – how fab! PoshMum knew for a fact that hirsute, lounge lizard Simon was ensconced at Sandy Lane just down the road and had taken several strolls up and down the beach hoping to spot him, or at least catch sight of Hugh Grant or Jemima Khan – fruitlessly so far. No celebs anywhere, A-list or D-list, drat it all, where were they? True, star spotting is irretrievably vulgar, but it is one of the added perks of a proper Barbados vacation! PoshMum sauntered back to her hotel, taking care to swing her hips and suck in that belly as she passed a group of rather fine, ebon jet-ski instructors (all of whom voiced their loud appreciation - and then offered her their services, both professional and personal). She smiled to herself - not bad for forty eh?

The apparent lack of celebs was disappointing, but surely she could get some good school gate material whilst out and about at the top-end local eateries? Alas, for PoshMum Hugh and Jemima went to the Lone Star the night after she were there and the only familiar face to be seen at Daphne’s was a tall, rugged but (at least to PoshMum) totally unidentifiable England rugby player (‘who?’) although his sporting presence sent rugger-mad PoshHusband into fits of worshipful excitement – PoshMum was obliged to physically restrain him from following said rugby player into the loo to beg for an autograph. Honestly, what was he like? Autograph hunting? How gauche!

But it was on a trip to the Gatsby boutique (Sandy Lane again – PoshMum just couldn’t keep away) that the big one got away. PoshMum had insisted on dragging PoshHubby from his golf to see if there was any good resort wear (Polo or Pulitzer) to be found. PoshHubby was placed in a convenient corner and left to Blackberry himself silly while PoshMum trailed around the shop pretending an interest in the eye-wateringly pricey Etro jersey dresses under the watchful eyes of a very snotty shop girl (‘Isn’t it funny how in Barbados snottyness increases as skin tone lightens! Must be an island thing.’) thought PoshMum bitchily, unfolding and disarranging as many clothes as possible. Her shopping impulse frustrated, she dragged PoshHusband off again, complaining all the while about the temerity of shop girls in general. It took twenty minutes for her to notice PoshHubby’s silent, manic grin.

“What?! Why are you staring like that?” she said.

“Didn’t you see him?”

“Didn’t I see who? What on earth are you talking about?”

“That tall man, standing in the lobby by Reception.”

“No, what tall man?”

“Rock god Roger Waters! From the monsters of prog rock, Pink Floyd! That has completely made my holiday!” PoshHubby drove along with a blissful look on his face and started to hum ‘Wish You Were Here’, then ‘Eclipse’ and then ‘Goodbye Blue Sky’. And then ‘Money’.

“Oh do shut up!” hissed PoshMum.

'Whoah, I'm going to Barbados!' (with apologies to Totally Tropical)

BBC Radio Five Live blared out of the Bose Wave® radio/alarm clock, and jolted PoshMum into hideous wakefulness. It was 5.00am, pitch dark outside, and to be woken to the annoyingly crackly and tinny sound of Five Live constituted grounds for divorce, especially at this god-awful time of the morning. PoshHubby adored Five Live; he was addicted to all its sports coverage and hero worshipped John Pienaar (politics), Andy Verity (finance) and Ian Wright (ex-footballer) as only an ex-public schoolboy can. He programmed it into every sound system in the house, and inflicted it upon her on long car journeys to Suffolk and Cornwall despite her every objection. As soon as he was gone she retuned it all back to the resolutely middle class Radio 4. Which, admittedly does cater to smug, nerdy beardy-weirdies (the defunct ‘Home Truths’), ‘Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells’ types moaning about pensions (‘Money Box Live’), and ‘wimmin’ endlessly discussing the use, appearance and malfunctioning of their lady parts (‘Womans Hour’). Nevertheless she adored the fast paced and insightful news analysis of ‘The Today Programme’ (and found the grey haired John Humphries to be strangely alluring). And John Pienaar was strangely alluring too. Oh God, why was it necessary to get up so early? With PoshHusband tinkling away in the loo, she rolled over and slammed her fist on the off button - it was time to go to catch that flight to Barbados.

The road were eerily quiet as they drove along in the dark to Gatwick – so convenient, only half an hour away from Dulwich; every dulwichmum always hand picks her flight to be Gatwick specific, thus avoiding package holiday hell. Ten minutes away from the South Terminal PoshMum fished out her RAZR, flicked it open and called the parking service to ensure a prompt picking-up of the Volvo from the departure gate (another super-organized alpha mum trick). While PoshHusband lugged their (utterly tasteful) luggage from the car PoshMum reapplied her Stila Lip Glaze and mentally reviewed her outfit (chosen for maximum ‘Please, please, please upgrade me!’ potential). She was wearing her brown suede French Sole ballet flats, James jeans (from Question Air in Dulwich Village), and a cute knitted Ralph Lauren Fairisle tank top (two seasons old) over a white Joseph jersey shirt (with collar), and was carrying a Ralph Lauren backpack as hand luggage. To her mind the ensemble screamed ‘I am well bred and well heeled; I belong in First Class (even though I can’t afford it, what with the kids school fees and all. They can stay in cattle with their father, by the way.’) - all she needed was for someone to hear it! At this time of year Barbados flights were always chocka, and possibly even overbooked. PoshMum crossed her fingers and hoped that the check-in staffer was a chap with whom she intended to flirt outrageously.

Blast it all, the check-in queue was enormous! PoshMum cast a doleful glance at the empty Virgin Upper Class and Premium Economy check in as she went by to join the rest of the herd. Within minutes ChildOne was sulkily demanding immediate access to his Playstation PSP while ChildTwo jumped up and down repeating the words ‘Can I have a KitKat, can I have a KitKat, can I have a KitKat’ in an endless monotone loop. PoshMum gritted her teeth and decided that Jerzy the au pair would definitely be joining them next year, expense be damned. She was sure he would be keen; he spent most of his holiday time in funky, sunny hotspots like Ibiza and Mykonos and suchlike. Then again, he had pooh-poohed accompanying them to that wedding in Jamaica last year – mystifying! Yanking ChildTwo by the scruff of the neck as he attempted to kick over some nearby suitcases PoshMum made a mental note to broach the subject as soon as they returned.

Alas, they were checked in by a very efficient, precise young lady who deflected her upgrading enquiries with cold expertise (having dealt with the same request twenty times that morning, no doubt). Having escaped one queue, they then joined the security queue (which snaked the whole length of the building), queued for some breakfast, queued at the departure gate and then, finally, queued in the aisles of the plane while various short, ruddy-faced Cockneys and fat, Irish red-heads futilely attempted to make sense of their boarding passes.

They don’t call it cattle class for nothing. PoshMum sat, legs wedged in the tiny space allotted and scowled as a succession of passers-by knocked her over the head with their carry-on. Her Joseph top was already crumpled, her jeans bunched around the crotch and she couldn’t help wondering why the plane seemed to be full of vulgar men wearing shiny football shirts, cheap, ugly Nike ‘sneakers’ and those girly ‘ankle-less’ socks she wore for tennis (but hers had fluffy pom-poms on them). Why was every second word the f**k word, and why did they all have tattoos (women included), was it a chav thing? How could chavs afford Barbados? She closed her ears (to the whining of Children One and Two) and her eyes (to the huddled masses) and dreamed of flying first class surrounded by Hugh Grant, Simon Cowell and Topshop boss Philip Green – only eight hours more and they would be at the Coral Reef Club, a place whose hallowed portals were as yet undiscovered by chavs.

Yes, I would like a drink. Gin and tonic please!