It's Life Gym, (But Not As We Know It).

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a posh mum in possession of thirty eight years must be in want of a gym membership.

Thus it came to be that PoshMum was searching for a suitable exercise emporium within which to feel the burn. She had foolishly overindulged at the whirl of Christmas parties and had seriously greedy at Daphne’s, the Coral Reef Club, the fabulous Lone Star in Barbados. The insidious, creeping result was a ‘muffin top’ of midriff bulging over the top of her Superfine Jeans; PoshHusband, seizing the advantage, started passing comment on these mini love-handles as she sat to put on her socks, resplendent in an Elle McPherson Intimates ensemble (her choice for everday – she saved her Aubade for country house weekends).

“Bit of a of a pot belly there! Oink oink (har har har)!” said PoshHusband wearing (what he thought was) a cheeky grin and lumbering over to pinch an inch. PoshMum scowled and slapped his hand away.

“You’re one to talk – when was the last time you saw your feet?” she enquired acidly, “You’ll soon have to pay for two plane seats the way your bum is enlarging!”.

“A tad touchy this morning, aren’t we?” chuckled PoshHubby “Darling – in case you haven’t noticed I am a man; and we can be as bald and fat and ugly as we like, there is always some little girly who’ll be grateful, which you would do well to remember!” Pleased with his riposte, he shambled off to the kitchen, looking for all the world like a pink and white hippo in boxer shorts.

Outrageous!! Unbelievable! PoshMum rose to her feet, slammed the en-suite bathroom door and started slapping on judicious amounts of La Prairie Skin Caviar. “Right,” she thought furiously (yet gently) patting cream on that oh-so-delicate under-eye area, – someone needed to be taught a sharp lesson; it was time to join a new, very expensive gym, lose seven pounds and flirt with all the partnership-trackers at PoshHusband’s law firm. That would take him down a peg, the egotistical sod! Fired up with a stimulating combo of rage and enthusiasm she jumped into her gym gear, marshalled the children, the kit bags, and the books and sped off.

This is how PoshMum found herself sitting in the lobby of a very swanky gym, enduring the deduction of a punishingly large some of money from her Coutts account. It was worth it though; driving into the car park she recognised Araminta’s black Porsche Cayenne, and she swung the Volvo round to park neatly behind Flick’s own navy XC90. What larks - they could all grab a coffee later (and maybe a small biscotti as a reward for all their hard work). Then again, perhaps not – if she was going to break PoshHubby’s arrogant spirit with her glorious physical perfection she would have to stop eating (and, even worse, stop drinking). This was not going to be fun.

PoshMum stalked into the changing room (fabulously appointed; and so it should be after parting with all that cash!), plonked her bag down and looked around. School run mummies of every conceivable shape and size were pottering gently between the lockers, the steam room, and the showers - the more confident souls were as naked as jaybirds (or was it simply that they had been an English boarding school where bashfulness regarding nudity is mocked, pilloried and ruthlessly stripped away by the scarier girls). She grabbed her ipod nano and zipped up to the gym, where serried ranks of treadmills, and cross-trainers awaited. Waving at Flick who was busy on the step machine (Flick’s butt was tiny, damn her!) she plugged herself in and got down to business. No time to talk - on catching sight of Flick (and Araminta who was doing laps in the pool below) PoshMum’s manic competetivness clicked on; she was now on a mission, a mission to sit without a single flap of flesh folding over her waistband. The presence of her would simply provide the extra, necessary spur.

Three months later, with a washboard stomach and her skinny jeans simply hanging off (a fact that she continually drew to her husband’s attention) it was time for the annual ski trip. PoshMum was looking good and feeling fine. Upon their arrival in at the chalet in Chamonix, she suddenly thought of the most brilliant wheeze to bring her rude, fat husband to heel.

“Darling, my technique could really use some polishing – I’ve picked up some awful habits and I’m not au fait with these whizzy technological skis. I’ve booked three days of lessons (and some skiing off-piste) with Evolution 2; I’m afraid you’ll be skiing alone with the kids – you don’t mind do you, sweetie?”

“Oh really, who with?” asked PoshHusband suspiciously.

“Jean Michel. He’s just over there – see him? The tall one with the black, shoulder length hair. Looks like Dr Luka Kovac from ER.”

A lengthy silence ensued.

“Yes, well, all right. If you must” said PoshHubby.

“I must.” Said PoshMum.

Live to Ski, Ski to Live

Yippee! Spymum and family are off to the slopes for a week (but not Chamonix like PoshMum!). See you all at Easter!

Spymum disappears, completely unable to cope with 'real' work and 'mummy' work - useless bint!

Dear everyone out there;

Just a quick line to say that spymum is working like mad on a synopsis (yay!!) and is finding herself unable to cope with the exigies of working motherhood as well as she did of yore. Incontrovertible proof that her brain has rotted away over the last three years, we think! Normal service will be resumed asap.

Nanny State

Aha! She had caught him red-handed! PoshMum was lurking behind a spotted laurel in Bel Air Park, the better to spy on the quality of Jerzy’s nannying activity. Time and time again she had asked him to switch off his trendy Nokia phone and get actively involved with the boys – do all the things that she wouldn’t and PoshHusband (by virtue of being permanently chained to his desk) couldn’t do. Time and time again she had suggested that he organise a footie match, throw balls, run races and get all smelly and muddy; why, even today she had had to remind him to take the football along. Yet here he was, leaning against the railing, phone clamped to his ear as he chatted to his mates while ChildTwo roamed disconsolately about, all on his lonesome. PoshMum was livid; she watched him ignore ChildTwo for a full fifteen minutes, then she hopped in the Volvo drove round the corner for ChildOne’s swimming lesson.

Half an hour later, having stuffed ChildOne into his swimming cap and Speedos and hustled him into the pool, she was still fuming and fulminating. Removing her boots off, she picked her way through the poolside puddles and flung herself next to Flick and Lucinda with an angry bump.

“What’s the matter sweetie?” asked Lucy turning to PoshMum after bestowing enthusiastic streams of encouragement on Alfred as he belly-flopped into the pool.

“You were right – he’s got to go!” PoshMum declared. “There he was, just yakking away on his phone, completely ignoring ChildTwo against my express instructions!

“I’m sorry I had to tell you darling. I frequently watch him with the boys in the Park after school and he is either chatting to the other au-pairs or on the phone – he never interacts with the boys. I just felt you ought to know.” said Lucy in a somewhat misguided attempt to console her.

“I’m sure some male nannies are brilliant at rough-housing with their boys, but the only other one I’ve ever seen always had his nose buried deep in a book!” said Flick watching Tarquin's every move as he breast-stroked his way the length of the pool (albeit underwater).

“Actually there was a Polish one here at the swimming; he was lovely and one of the reasons I got a manny in the first place!” said PoshMum, on the defensive, (while flailing her arms to demonstrate proper crawl technique for the benefit of ChildOne).

“Well I think you’re very lucky with Jerzy – the boys love him, and he is neat, clean, sweet-smelling and housetrained!” said Flick eyes still pinned on Tarquin who, rather worryingly, had yet to draw breath.

“Sweet-smelling?” “Housetrained?” asked PoshMum and Lucy in unison, forgetting all about the kids and actually turning around to face her.

“Yes! House trained! Girls are the worst! I’ve had some whose rooms were piled high with the knickers they’ve just chucked off, socks, shoes, mugs of coffee, dirty plates – you couldn’t see the floor. Another one never used deodorant (and she really needed to - that was a tricky situation, I can tell you!) and the most embarrassing one was a girl who smelled (you’ll never believe this) of raw egg. As soon as one opened the front door that was all one could smell in a great eggy wave! Nightmare! I can’t abide raw egg at the best of times! I really know how to pick them don’t I?”

Eggs! Lucy and PoshMum roared with laughter, completely forgetting to ‘helicopter’ over their splashing, waterlogged offspring (as was their usual wont).

“Are you serious?” asked Lucy, wiping her eyes, “What on earth did you do? Was it her diet?”

“It was hellish,” said Flick conspiratorially, “and no it wasn’t her diet because we all ate together of course, (although we were getting through a huge amount of eggs, now that I think about it; that was a bit of a clue!). When she went on holiday, we sneaked into her room and washed everything that could be moved, bar none! The smell went away. As soon as she walked into the house it was back again. I was at my wits end – I hate eggs, it was simply intolerable. I couldn't imagine where it was emanating from, although I shuddered to think. Then, I had a stroke of luck; we were discussing girly things one night round the kitchen table and she ‘confessed’ that she only uses natural products on her hair, and always makes her own conditioner – olive oil, honey . . . and bingo! Eggs! All I had to do next was persuade her to stop using it, which was not easy! Oh well. She left a few months after that!”

“And count yourself lucky; Jerzy will never ‘hook up’ with one of your husbands friends. That happened to Gemma Wilkinson recently; she and the au pair did not have an easy relationship at the best of times, and the situation became quite complicated when the au pair embarked on an intense, passionate love affair with Jim’s best mate Michael. She slept over at Michaels' place, became quite challenging and lippy, refused to take instruction and was simply never ever there. When she did turn up she was (cough, cough!) a lot more tired than she used to be!”

“A bit awkward at drinks parties, that one!” said PoshMum, to which they all agreed. “No, I feel quite safe that Jerzy is not going to run off with one of PoshHusbands friends.”

“A wise assumption, we hope!” laughed Lucy.

“And the boys do love him, and he is a laugh. And we do enjoy watching trash TV together - America’s Next Top Model is our favourite. OK, I won’t sack him. This time.” said PoshMum, now in a calmer, kinder frame of mind. “But he’d better start kicking some blasted footballs or I’ll start kicking his blasted butt!”

[*spymum: That’s enough nanny stories for now, let's have the nanny P.O.V! Employer stories coming soon!*]