A big kiss for Johnny Dee!

Spymum's cynical ramblings made it into the Guardian last Saturday so I just want to say a big heartfelt thanks to Mr Dee and state for the record that I'd sure like to buy him a drink! (here).

Rugby For Dummies

It was 7.30am on a grim Sunday morning and time for PoshMum to get up. Oh G*d, her head – it was as if two Canadian lumberjacks were hacking at her skull with a bucking saw! Dinner parties at Lucinda’s was ended this way – a fine Meursault with the first course, a wonderful dark red Pinot Noir for the second and then they practically forced her to drink those two glasses of Calvados! Now her eyes were puffy and gritty, her head was clanging like the great Bell of Bow, and a small field creature appeared to have crawled into her throat and died. PoshMum uttered a quiet groan and tried to roll out of bed in one smooth movement (to minimise the thudding wrath of the hangover she so richly deserved). She failed; tottering to the bathroom, she peeked through the shutters and moaned anew – it was pi**ing with rain, and with PoshHuband on a Partnership Conference in Cannes it was her turn to carpool four boys to the rugby tournament in Canterbury. Blast! That was it - she was giving up wine for Lent! And Calvados. PoshMum tiptoed gingerly up the stairs to Jerzy the manny’s private lair in the loft extention and croakily demanded that he arise forthwith. Jerzy (who was also indisposed, having overindulged at his favourite Earls Court hang-out) was peremptorily ordered out of bed and told to get ChildrenOne and Two into their rugby kit and at the breakfast table toute suite! Stomach lurching at the very thought of food, she tottered angrily down again – what was the actual point of Jerzy? He ate them out of house and home, never played football with the boys and constantly overslept. He could at least step up to the plate on the rare occasions she was ‘ill’. Useless lump!

One Diet Coke, two Panadol and a double expresso later, a somewhat jittery and snappish PoshMum was peering into her white bespoke wardrobe and wrestling with the thorny problem of practical chic. Mini-rugby practice was the religion of choice in Dulwich Village; while PoshMum had absolutely not clue one as to how it was actually played, she relished the weekly style challenge and the place was simply heaving with the ‘right sort’ of people – the six figure income dads and pukka English SAHM’s that comprised her target audience. Hell would freeze over before she missed one of the matches, despite her utter loathing of the penetrating cold, the driving rain, smelly dogs and ankle deep mud. Rugby-schmugby – it was all about her ‘look’! Now – what could she wear that was simultaneously fashionable and water-proof? Ah yes; today she would be mostly wearing a black Joseph polo neck, skinny jeans (Superfine, not Seven - much too popular these days) tucked into a pair of piratical Popper boots from the Celtic Sheepskin Company. She topped this off with a tweed shooting jacket (a prized find in an Oxfam shop in North Devon, she liked to pretend it was a hand-me-down from her mother) and a jaunty Barmah leather hat. There – all that was needed now was some industrial strength concealer, a bit of lippy, her beloved sun glasses and another Diet Coke. Then she would be ready to face the rugby crowd.

It took her two hours to find the rugby ground (located in a particularly obscure corner of Kent) and the yammering din from the boys in the back seat did her temper (and her head) no good at all. The bumpy drive along the narrow, muddy lane to the club house was also quite unhelpful – never mind; she knew that uber-posh dads Nigel Rees-Williams (a big cheese at Merrill Lynch and someone that PoshHubby was keen to cosy up to) and barrister Jonathan Flynn-Saville (listed in the Legal 500 as a leading Junior, rolling in pots of money and recently divorced) would be there. She intended to flirt with them both shamelessly. She hopped down from the car, pulled on her neoprene lined Le Chameau wellies and went in search of the action, as it were.

PoshMum stood on the edge of the pitch (the ‘touch line’?) huddled under the massive golf umbrella that she had sweetly offered to share with Jonathan Flynn-Saville – alas, he was far to butch and preferred to prowl the field in time with the play, bellowing a stream of advice and encouragement (interspersed with the odd howl of anguish) at their team of shivering, nine year old boys. PoshMum was somewhat miffed – apart from a cursory greeting he paid no attention to her at all, and was not even tempted by her extra large thermos of tea, or the Duchy Originals bacon sandwiches she had made Jerzy prepare. Perhaps the fact that she had no idea when he asked what position ChildOne played (Second Row by the way) might have something to do with it – oops! PoshMum drew the collar of her jacket above her ears and scowled - she was failing to make a good impression on Nigel Rees-Williams too. There he stood chatting away with Arabella Fothergill, who was top of the ‘no artifice needed’ league of posh mum. With her greying hair, muddy dog and ancient Hunter wellies (most definitely not the cool new ones) she had no time for PoshMum, who in turn, found her dishevellment highly amusing. Feeling somewhat left out, PoshMum sidled up to them and tried to sneak her way in to their conversation, but totally ‘dropped the ball’ by cheering a conversion from the other team (she had failed to notice that they had swapped round at half time). Mortifying - she was utterly shamed in front of her rival.

“Oh dear, someone with two rugger mad boys really ought to learn a bit about rugby, don’t you think?” laughed Arabella witheringly.

“Quite right, as usual Arabella! Honestly, what a feather brain I am!” said PoshMum thinking on her feet, “Nigel, you’ll help me won’t you? It really is embarrassing, I’m just so clueless, you see!” [insert tinkling, girlish laugh and tilt the head on one side a la Princess Di].

How could any gentleman resist such an appeal? The rest of the match was actually quite enjoyable; Nigel and PoshMum got on like a house on fire, Arabella stumped off in a huff and she got to extend an invitation, which meant that PoshHubby would soon gain the valuable contact he wanted.

“A job well done.” thought PoshMum as she drove the boys home, “Now, I wonder if Amazon Marketplace have any spare copies of “Rugby for Dummies?”.

Fertile and Forty!

“Kerr-risst! Is every woman in Dulwich Village pregnant?!” thought PoshMum sourly, sitting in her silver Volvo at the cross-roads by Dulwich Hamlet School. She glowered at the happy foursome through her dark Tom Ford Marissa’s. The women (bedraggled devotees of that peculiarly English, ‘I’m too intellectual for grooming’ school of thought) were very, very pregnant, and were accompanied by their sensitive, trendy-dad, Converse-sneaker-wearing, bugaboo-gecko-pushing partners. They had obviously been for lunch at Pizza Express followed by an invigorating walk (or waddle ) around Dulwich Park (along with half of South East London). The lights changed and PoshMum swept past them and into the Village with her nose in the air. Fecundity was a bit of an ‘issue’ with her right now – she was more than half inclined to try for a third one but PoshHusband was proving less than enthusiastic – plus the late nights at the office and the frequent business trips to Kazakhstan, Dubai and Moscow did not help at all. Most of her friends had at least three, some four and two even had five! Everyone knows that it is terribly lower middle class to have two kids; so sensible, so safe, so financially prudent. All the best people were breeding like rabbits these days – if one wants to appear wealthy one must be densely populated – in the words of Evelyn Waugh ‘Birth control is flagrantly middle class.’!

PoshMum turned into Allyen Road and pulled her Volvo onto the gravelled drive. Yes, it would be nice to have another, despite her ‘elderly multigravida’ status. She would get loads of attention and all the men in her circle would get an active reminder that she was still young and up for it! And just think – at this stage in her life she could afford the ultimate and very best in childcare and accessories! When ChildOne was born he slept in their room in a second hand cot, he wore cheap ‘onesies’ and ‘sleepsuits’ from MotherCare (gasp!) and M&S, and she pushed him all around Notting Hill in a £99 baby buggy. This time around it would all be done properly, with Simon Horne cot, maternity nurse, live-in nanny, and (now that every pregnant woman in Dulwich had bought one) no bugaboo pushchairs! These were cool when Gwyneth Paltrow was seen around town with hers, but the primary colours/matt chrome/minimalist chic did not appeal to PoshMum’s loftiers tastes. And neither did the Stokke Xplory (still as yet off the fashion radar of her safe, conforming posh mother crowd). The Xplory was certainly eye-catching; she would score major ‘cred’ and ‘coolness’ points if she was the first to be seen with one! This (coupled with the fact that they cost £500) might even outweigh its generic ugliness! PoshMum wandered into her Smallbone of Devises kitchen completely caught up in her thoughts on this hypothetical issue. As for the blinging gold stroller Gwen Stefani had been ‘papped’ with (Mamas & Papas Ziko Gold – limited edition) - while she applauded Gwen’s individuality, it was truly a blessing that only ten of those hideous, ‘yardie’ pushchairs were made! Her’s would chic and simple – if only Kate Spade ‘did’ strollers to match her stylish baby bags – very ‘posh New Englander in New York’!

Right! Enough lollygagging (as her mam back in Sheffield would say) – it was half term; she had just three hours in which to do the packing, whiz round the supermarket, load up the car, grab the kids from school and drive to their second home in Walberswick. PoshHusband, having used up his holiday entitlement, was staying in London with Jerzy the manny, so PoshMum had invited school mum Flick (with sprogs, Orlando, Hero and Tarquin) and best friend Lulu (with Theo, Cosmo, Ludo, and baby Amaryllis). It would be a real girlfest, with bracing walks on the beach, simple, healthy meals for the kids, board games, a cosy log fire, and lashings of red wine, chocolate, gossip and fun! Hurrah! They would be three Domestic Goddesses together!

One short week later found PoshMum driving down the A12 back to London as fast as the Volvo could carry her, vowing to keep her Mirena in situ until her ovaries were certifiably defunct. What a nightmare! With Amaryllis still in nappies, Hero was the sole girl among eight boys, the oldest three of whom entertained themselves by waging war against her – throwing handfuls of mud, hiding worms in her bed, invading her toilette and worst of all, chopping off a chunk of her fringe. Flick was incandescent, complaining that Lulu failed to keep her boys under proper control – in return Lulu said that Flick was ‘over-parenting’, smothering and neurotic. Then Lulu’s boy Ludo threw a fit when ChildOne stole a sausage from his plate - he bit him on the arm, and it took both PoshMum and Flick to prise him off. Lulu demanded that ChildOne apologise as he was the provocateur – PoshMum (examining ChildOnes arm for damage – thank heaven Ludo was missing his two front teeth!) roundly disagreed. And thus it went on; the week was a noisy, messy, effortful disaster – it rained constantly, there were no walks on the beach they all had hangovers and there were simply too many kids!

“Three or four kids? Pah! I can barely cope with two – the stress is too aging!” thought PoshMum, flinging the boys in Jerzy’s direction as soon as she got home. “Jerzy! A minute please? About that raise you were asking for . . . . . .”

PS: Happy Valentines Day! xxx

MBT Mania!

PoshMum rocked slowly to and fro on her MBT-clad heels, completely absorbed in (and gratified by) by the resultant feeling of tautness in her gluteus maximus. It was a crisp and sunny winter’s morn, and she was, as usual, dressed to intimidate; her athleticised legs and lean buttocks encased in a clingy, totally fab pair of CandidaFaria gym ‘pants’. Her entire outfit matched, but not in that embarrassing ‘uncool’ way – CandidaFaria, the eponymous and unbelievably hip Brazilian brand, was fantastic, with stretchy, body-hugging fabrics, subtle touches of colour (no leery, vulgar gym gear here!) and cute go-faster stripes down the legs for that all-important ‘lengthening’ touch. PoshMum, the ultimate narcissist, just loved the male attention she received on her gym-day school runs; she knew she was ‘hot’ (to ‘paraphrase’ Paris Hilton). PoshHubby certainly thought so - he had made a surprise attack on her, pouncing from behind when she was bent over the dish-washer. A quick swat with a slimy dish-cloth soon cooled his ardour!

This morning was School-Run Mum power walking morning; five of the hippest, coolest mothers were foregathered in the playground resplendent in their huge, rounded MBT trainers waiting for the bell to ring. After this they would kiss their offspring goodbye and zoom briskly around the Park, taking exercise that was healthy, trendy, (displaying knowledge of new products with a fun twist), and safe (no damaged ligaments or sore knees). PoshMum (as ever an early adopter) had first spied them on the shelves in Sweaty Betty back in 2004; she had been so proud of her great big silver shoes (and the attention they got from those who had never seen their like before) that she wore everywhere, even to church, and had to be dissuaded from taking them skiing. PoshMum found MBT's to be reassuringly expensive (£129 - £135) and she had even considered forking out £125 for a pair of MBT Kisumu sandals, but, in all honesty there were just too ‘dreadlock, crusty hippy’ for her tastes, although it would be fun to present PoshHusband with a pair of the black brogue-alike's and challenge him to wear them at the office.

Now, as she stood there in her sexy black MBT Sport’s she amused herself by counting the other pairs that had sprung up like a rash after the Christmas holiday. Now, the average posh school mum was the opposite of ‘fashion-forward’, seeking safety in numbers, and eschewing all new styles and trends until assured that at least one third of the playground was wearing it. Take hooded jackets for example – PoshMum (who prided herself in being reasonably clued up in the fashion stakes) had searched high and low for a padded jacket (fitted and cut short to the hip, with fur round the hood for that cute 1970’s touch). It took her ages to find one and as soon as she had - wait a minute – they sprang up on the backs of all her peers overnight (North Face and Hobbs were the best!). And those few that were not wobbling about in new MBT’s were styling it casually in the ever present flat, knee high, suede boots. Competitive PoshMum was getting quite cross about it; as soon as she found something she liked everyone else bl**dy got one! God, it was all so predictable. . . . . . and yet strangely reassuring. With everyone dressed just the same at least one could decide who to talk to in the park, or on the train from Victoria.

Just then someone tapped her on the shoulder.

“Hello girls, mind if I join in?” piped Dolores, who was picture perfect in a brown North Face gilet over a Sweaty Betty tracksuit and MBT trainers that were so new they practically gleamed.

“Hi Dolores, those are nice, when did you get them?” asked Felicity.

“Oh these? Aled bought them for me for Christmas as a surprise. Isn’t he just a darling? I was so thrilled – I’ve been wanting them for ages, and they’re so expensive I daren’t buy them for myself.” said Dolores with sweet humility. (“A fine story!” thought PoshMum to herself, “Geeky Aled has absolutely no interest in women’s footwear (we hope!) and wouldn’t have even the remotest idea of which shop to buy them from.”). And Dolores could be guaranteed to turn up at the school gate with whatever new item PoshMum had worn the week before. It drove her mad - it was time to make a point.

“How so?” she enquired sharply, “The official MBT retailers won’t sell the shoes without a proper fitting; you have to be measured precisely, watch the demo and go through a coaching session with the specially trained staff!”

“Umm! What I meant is that Aled took me to the shop as a surprise,” said Dolores hastily, “You know, they sell them at Dr Boo in East Dulwich!”.

“How lovely.” said PoshMum with some degree of irony; they all knew full well that Dolores had rushed out and bought the MBT’s herself last week when it had finally dawned on her that they were now popular. “Right, no more time for dawdling, let’s go!”

So off they all trotted, gossiping, laughing and having a gay old time in general. Dolores trailed behind; she was clearly unused to the feel of these strange new shoes, and her muscles had not yet adjusted to the peculiar ‘rolling’ sole. Halfway around Dulwich Park, they heard a series of piteous groans and turned to see poor Dolores hobbling along painfully behind them.

“Whatever is the matter?!” cried Lucy rushing to her aid. Dolores limped to a nearby bench and took off her shoes, revealing a mass of red and angry blisters on heel and toes.

PoshMum stood with her hands on her hips and looked with impatience at the sorry sight.

“You didn’t have them fitted, did you?” she said, “I’m sorry girls, I must keep going – I’ve got a Guinot Hydradermie booked for 11.30, then the curtain man is coming and then it’s Waitrose.”

She leaned down towards Dolores and hissed in her ear so the others could't hear;

“Sorry I can’t stay to help sweetie; never mind, you'll soon be wearing a pair of Chung Shi’s instead. I bought myself a pair last week!”