Milk & Manolos

I’m going to admit something I’m not so proud of … I’m not a great fan of the Munchkin’s bedtime book. Don’t get me wrong, one story is a lovely, beautiful thing. It’s just reading that story half a dozen times I’m not keen on. I fully appreciate benefits that a bedtime story brings and the part they’ll play in the Munchkin’s development so they’re not going anywhere, but is wrong to say after the second read that night that I find them a little repetitive ? I ask you, how many times is a sane adult expected to read a Balamory book without trying of it ?

I fear I started on the wrong foot, albeit with best intentions. The Munchkin’s literary journey began with Beatrix Potter. In hindsight a little ambitious for a one year old. Not only were they long, they were far too advanced for pair of us. We’d both lost interest by page 5. We most definitely going to have to work up to that one. Fear not - we quickly found our groove and in no time had a collection of books that would do the British Library proud, each lasting no longer than about 5 minutes. Perfect.

That was a year ago and for the past 365 nights the Husband or I have lovingly read the Munchkin’s choosen book, our audience often demanding an encore or four. Is it any wonder the initial gleam has begun to fade ?

In my search of new additions to the collection I stumbled upon one of the most fun children’s books I’ve ever read … welcome to the world of Rastamouse. This crime fighting rodent fights a battle of good versus evil, often while trying to record his latest reggie album. And then of course there’s the help he lends at the orphanage too - he certainly has enough going on to keep us all amused. It’s even given me an opportunity to perfect my Jamaican accent and rapping skills. Both of which needed a LOT of work, but now I’m proud to say are Irie man.

I have just walked downstairs to find the Husband at the door discussing spiritality with a Jevohah’s Witness. I decided to leave them to it when I heard my dear athiest Husband proffer the notion that the world would be taken over by aliens and that we’d all be turned into machines.

While the Husband is quite possibly the most unspiritual person I know, I find the home of my physical and spritual norishment to be at Neal’s Yard Therapy Rooms.

At times of emotional and physical need it’s there that I’ve turned. Accupunture, Aromatherpy, Shiatsu, Reflexology and Indian Head Massage I’ve had it all. Even the Bowen Technique, which is the one thing I wouldn’t recommended. £ 60 for someone to ’subtly roll over my muscle with their forefinger’ was a step too far. That said, I can vouch highly for every other treatment I’ve had and have returned on many occasions to each of my practitioners.

An hour spent in one of the treatment rooms is the equivalant to a chicken soup for the soul. No Munchkin to worry about, just quiet time with me myself and I. Bliss.

The falling of leaves and the darkness that befalls when the clock strikes 4.30 pm calls for a touch of sparkle and zhoosh about the person. A fan of patent leather at any time of the year, I particularly love it’s presence in an Autumn / Winter wardrobe. This season it seems I’m not on my own.

Anya Hindmarch is bringing back the Bowling Bag with this classic piece of arm candy. Perfect with jeans and big enough to fit all manner of paraphernalia within, it’s sure to make many a Christmas list. If only the ones of dreams, in my case … I’m currently wondering if pleading ‘I want it, I want it, I want it’ while lying on limp on the floor will have the same effect on the Husband as the Munchkin is able to muster. Come to think of it, he could think I mean something all different altogether and that simply wouldn’t do. I think I’ll try my luck with Santa instead …

It’s not a secret that I like my clothes. Well, clothes, shoes, handbags and all that sparkles. I long to dress the Munchkin in the beautiful clothes I often see on my travels and managed to do so before she reached what I politely refer to as her Hello Kitty phase. That’s right. This small person knows her mind and at present, if Hello Kitty ain’t on an item of clothing then it most definitely ain’t being worn. It’s got so bad that on a recent shopping excursion I left Hennes fifty quid lighter, and with a bag full of clothing embossed with our feline friend.

I’m slowly creating a list of shopping venues to rush to the moment it looks like la chat’s popularity might be waning. Very much at the top of that list is Oh Baby London.

Beautifully but easy to wear dresses, teamed with great slogan T’s, this label is one to watch and no doubt a contender for No Added Sugars long held crown. Interesting yet funky it’s my kind of place. Wonderful present ideas with wardrobe staples, I can’t wait to splash the cash.

Now all I’ve got to do is get rid of that blasted cat …

Grease is a good thing. I say that as someone who rarely has enough of it. Fortunately the Husband has excess, so in the end everything equals out. Opposites attract as they say.

Elizabeth Arden’s Eight Hour Cream is a beauty bag staple, and one no man, woman nor child should be without. Known as a miracle cream to soothe minor skin irritations it’s consistently ten out of ten in any test. Having used it for the last decade I can proudly add to it’s testimonial.

Like a funny smelling Vaseline, Eight Hour Cream’s uses are diverse. Since learning about it from an ex-boyfriend (who promised me his mother had passed the tip onto him) I’ve used it to tame flyaway hairs, ease my chapped lips, as an in flight moisturiser (my particular favourite), as a night cream, and to treat sunburn. Not bad for £ 20.

Afternoon tea is the new champagne and oysters.

I must admit I am most partial to a good cupcake, so you can only imagine my excitement at their return to their rightful place in a balanced diet - it can’t all be pumpkin seeds and green tea.

On a recent weekend trip to celebrate my Dorset dwelling friend’s birthday, I discovered the joys of Cakeadoodledoo. Sadly on this occassion I wasn’t the temptress that ordered a dozen scrumptious treats to arrive in time for elevenses, but I sure as hell took note and enjoyed them. At just £ 1 a cake (minimum order is 9) they’re a really affordable present. Of course my love of all things delivered is utterly served by Cakeadoodledo, but I honestly can’t think of anything nicer than a bunch of beautifully iced cakes arriving at someone’s door.

Of course they don’t have to mark a birthday, so any old excuse will do.

One of the first times my mother met The Husband (of course then he was known simply as The Boyfriend) she took great pleasure at relaying stories about quite what an eccentric child I was. Her particular favourite is about my then obsession with the rain cover of my 1970’s Maclaren pushchair (in shocking scarlett) that I would insist upon wearing, albeit with a big gapping hole at the back, to lunch on Saturdays at our favourite Bistro. I would enter, like a grand dame, cape following in the wind, umbrella as tall as me in hand and politely request a table for three please. I would then quite often be found in the kitchen making friends with the chefs and visits to the toilets would normally total double numbers. It was then that my love for going out for a family lunch was cemented. This regular fixture has remained through numerous boyfriends, a turbulent adolescence and a newborn addition.

Our favourite place to eat en famille is the chain restaurant Giraffe. We’re such regulars that they know the Munchkin by name and follow her development like an dedicated friend or family member.

Sans baby, back in the day, we’d frequent Giraffe, usually for a delicious brunch followed by a light shop or perhaps an afternoon in the pub. The food then, as it is now, was eclectic, fresh and of an impressively high standard.

While a great place for an all adult affair, Giraffe certainly comes into it’s own when there are small children around. An extensive kids menu is offered and they’re always happy to tailor meals for fussy eaters. Quite early into motherhood I discovered the joys of meeting my friends at 5 pm, feeding the kids, and enjoying a glass of wine and a catch up. The kids are able to run around this child friendly haven, pick up books from the library there and have all in all jolly good time. Mid week, my friends and I able to take advantage of the two for one happy hour special so it works out to be a pretty cheap date, and something to look forward to when the day starts to drag. Numerous dates without kids have also enjoyed it - they can coo at the Munchkin and enjoy a cocktail or two, but then still have the rest of their evening to enjoy.

From personal experience the vibe rightly changes at about 7pm, the lights fade as do the bright colours and balloons, making it far more adult friendly … our love for it is so great we’ve even been known to go on a dates there.

If you can’t make it to a farmers market the next best thing for fresh fruit and veg has got to be Abel & Cole. The Husband discovered them in his quest to feed me all things organic during my pregnancy. While I was more than happy to be hand fed grapes, melon and quite a bit of beetroot I still managed to get the odd packet of scampi fries past the food gastapo.

Delivered weekly we began to eat seasonaly and we both enjoyed the challenge of finding, and sometimes creating, recipes that would include one or more of our provisions. Unlike other companies we tried you could specify that you particularly liked or disliked something and also add to you box a pethora of deliciousness including chocolate, meat, fish and cheese. They even provide you with recipes should you be stuck as to what to cook.

Paricularly useful during weening time, Abel & Cole are a great alternative for those who don’t have the time or inclination to do their fruit and veg shopping the farmers market way.

The last time I spent a Sunday afternoon disco dancing was the Summer on 1992. That time it was on a sunny Greek Isle, fuelled entirely by Ouzo. Until yesterday that is, when the Munchkin, the Husband and I found Baby Loves Disco, and baby, she sure does.

At 2 pm we headed off to the Clapham Grand for an afternoon of dancing, and perhaps even a sherbet or two for the Husband and I. What greeted us was beyond our wildest dreams. A proper disco floor, lit from underneath in multicoloured squares of light, bubbles, smoke machines and lasers were just some of the things that helped keep us amused. The Husband headed to the bar, returning with a pint and a half of Stella in plastic beakers - I felt like I was 18 and at the Student Union again, which was a surprisingly nice feeling. As for the Munchkin, there were treats galore thanks to Organix and Heart FM, not to mention Naomi Timperley, the woman responsible for bringing BLD over to the UK.

Three sips of my Stella and I was ready to boogie. The Husband and Munchkin were a little more apprehensive. As I started to throw my moves the Munchkin pulled me back of the dance floor shouting ‘Away’. I was overjoyed. To embarrass your child at such a young age I think is pretty impressive. It of course didn’t stop me and before long we were all on the dance floor shaking our booty.

The last time I heard Salt n Peppa’s Push It was at my wedding. As the Husband and I turned to leave, we were confronted by our mothers thrusting their pelvis’ on the dance floor. It’s taken years to get over it, only to see our two year old thrusting to the same tune yesterday. While equally as unsettling, I doff my cap to Miss Salt and Miss Peppa - they sure as hell have one toe tapping tune there. The standard didn’t drop once, every song a belter making it far easier to shake your think in such a sober state.

We sadly made a small mistake with the Munchkin’s attire. It being our inaugural trip we didn’t think to pay much attention to what she was wearing. What-a-mistake-a-to-make-a. Many of the kids were dressed up for an afternoon on the town. Fairies, witches, and pirates outfits galore. I even spotted a crocodile too. As the Husband said, the Munchkin looked like the kid who’d had the call last minute.

Much amusement was found watching the dance floor. Small people are just funny, in particular toddlers. In many ways it was no different from the adult clientele on a Saturday night - there were girls squabbling over dancing partners, and boys over the free orange juice (free trade of course), a lot of falling over and the odd tear too. Forward on 16 years and they’ll all be there doing the same thing.

We’re undoubtedly going to become regular fixtures - I honestly didn’t realise there was this much fun to be had on a Sunday afternoon.

With the Munchkin’s rendition of Old MacDonald ringing in my ears, I thought a trip to Battersea Park Zoo most apt.

One of the joys of the place, occurs before you even set foot inside. You can park with ease, and without it costing a fortune – something I’m a big fan of. Once inside, the Munchkin was in seventh heaven, my little Doctor Dolittle insisting on introducing herself to each and every animal that would give her the time of day. This was particularly amusing for me when the Minor bird replied and she jumped out of her skin. She’s now intent on helping all animals find their voice. It could be a long journey I’ve warned her.

Battersea Park Zoo ticks all the boxes. Perfect specimens of child friendly animals coexist with not only a fantastic playground to while away hours in, but also a sweet little café that helped shelter us from the afternoons showers. The staff even managed to find humour in the Munchkins attempted pilfering of a tube of Smarties. A good try, but none the less morally wrong. Rest assured, the goods where returned, if only to be paid for alongside my cuppa.

With much to do, touch and see we’re sure to become regulars.