Milk & Manolos

Number of times over the last year, I’ve found myself wondering if a particular handbag would singularly improve the quality of my life : 411

Amount of money spent via Ebay on items I didn’t really want or need : £ 67

Brain Training Age despite many dedicated hours on the DS Lite : 46

Times I’ve reminded the Husband that life can’t be entirely lived through his iphone : 8

Career changes : 1

Afternoons spent at Harvey Nics enjoying a light shop only to find, subsequent to a Munchkin toilet disaster that I have poo on my arm : 1

Times I’ve watched the ‘Sing & Sign’ dvd to placate the Munchkin : 17

Hours spent reading Vogue : 14

Occasions I’ve been mistaken for Iggle Piggle while being particularly WAG like, larging it in my Juicy Couture Tracksuit : 1

Times I’ve considered quite how ugly Crocs are but, shamefully put comfort before style : 29

Today I’m fighting a cold.  It’s Karma I’m sure.  Having risen on Christmas day to find the Husband coughing and spluttering my frustration had only just begun.  The Husband is near perfect, I’m lucky like that.  The problem with someone who is so damn fine is that when you finally find that little thing that annoys you, it REALLY annoys you.  And here it was on Christmas day.  Me, the Munchkin, the Husband and his sneeze.  It ain’t just any sneeze. This is some sort of cough sneeze.  Not only loud, but frequent.  I’m ashamed to say that I can tolerate 3, or thereabouts, and then that’s it. I want him, his loudness, not to mention the germs he so audible spreads away from me until his normal demeanour  is regained.  

So here I am, 4 days later, being slapped with a big dose of Karmic fun.  My nose is tickling, my voice deepening (a sure sign that it’s time to re-record my answer-phone message), it’s time for drastic action.  This Honey ain’t gonna fall too.  Much to the Husbands joy, I was taught many years ago by an old Italian friend that garlic can help fight the lurgy.  It took me a while to try, the notion of eating a whole clove of un-cooked garlic not particularly appealing.  Now ?  Pah, I do two in one go.  I’m not saying I’m particularly pleasant company afterwards but it helps keep the bi-annual cold away.  So much so that until recently, I hadn’t hand one for two years. With it’s anti-viral not to mention immune boosting properties, our smelly little friend can help stop a cold in it’s tracks.

Now all you’ve got to do is get in down your throat.  Far easier said than done.  I make a tiny amount of salad dressing, a particular favourite of mine.  Mustard, sugar, olive oil, balsamic and two crushed cloves of the white stuff.  Mix it up and think of England as you spoon in down, avoiding the tongue.  Sounds mad I know, but it really does work. 

Boxing Day in my family has been traditionally spent at London Zoo. My brother and I would pose for the annual photograph in front of the Guy the Gorilla statue, our parents documenting our descent into adolescence with glee. The trips finally ground to a halt in the mid-nineties when the minute we arrived we hit the cafeteria for overpriced fish ‘n chips and we all took more interest in the gift shop than the animals on display.

They say being a mother changes you and this Boxing Day I wanted to put that to the test. Would I be able to avoid flashing the Christmas cash on fluffy animals neither I nor the Munchkin need, or want ? Full of nostalgia I insisted, nay demanded, that we went en masse to the Zoo as festive treat. The only person who was overjoyed was the Munchkin and that didn’t last long.

The colour drained from the Husband’s face as we hit the car park. Insisting you purchase your car parking and entrance tickets before even getting out of your car was a little surprising to say the least. That and the small re-mortgage we had to take out to simply park the car I could tell the Husband (suffering from a chronic bout of Man Flu) was already over it. One down, five to go.

Santa was kind to the Munchkin this Christmas - a sparkling pink scooter lay waiting on Christmas day. Her chubby little hands yet to be uncurled from their handle bars. We even have to supply Scooter with a blanket for nap time. Anthropomorphizing at such a young age, I can’t wait until she realises the history of her favourite culinary dishes. I’ll keep some Linda McCartney ready meals in the freezer just in case.

Having parked up and spent the next 15 minutes walking to the main entrance (for any non-scootered individual this would only take 5 minutes) we were politely informed that scooters weren’t allowed within the grounds. In all honestly, I truly can’t quite understand why, however mine was not to question - I now had a 2 year old face down on the floor, screaming and yelling to contend with. Two down.

Tantrum diverted (thanks to freshly fried donuts - a potential hazard for my Shearling coat the way the little lady flung them around) we were ready to see the gorillas. Obviously the stars of the show in their newly built enclosure they were an utter joy. “Elephants” demanded a little voice. So of we went in search of Nelly.

It didn’t last long. We quickly discovered that the elephants had long since been moved to Whipsnade. Our own disappointment was eclipsed by the potential joy our grey friends would be having out of the big smoke.

Next we hit the Children’s Zoo. As I child I remember fondly the rabbits I held here, the goats that chased me, not to mention the cows and horses-a-go-go. The perfect place for a city kid to familiarise herself with livestock. Sadly, that’s no longer true. Barely a rabbit to be seen, nor a cow to pat. As my mother grew more and more cross (and the Munchkin less and less interested) I knew one of Mrs M’s famous complaint letters would be winging it’s way to Regent’s Park. She doesn’t like change, bless her. Three down.

The Munchkin now desperate to see a spider, insisted we head to Critter Corner. While the ants seemed to amuse her for a moment or two, she was soon demanding lunch. Loudly. My poor father, not used to having his life ruled by a 2 year old, fought a loosing battle trying to keep her distracted with various creepy crawleys. It didn’t work. There were few to see and Madam at this point past the point of caring. As his moustache grew more straight I knew it was four down.

Next lunch. Comparable to school lunches I would urge you to bring your own. Long queues and screaming children, frenetic isn’t the word. There was nothing either tasty or comfortable about our lunch, just another big fat hole in the wallet. Mother-In-Law wasn’t too happy with the beans accompanying her Shepherd’s Pie and was ready for a fag. Five down.

It was at this point we all began to give up - an expensive lesson learnt. With many of the animals not on display, and the enclosures shut, empty or in the midst of renovations it was a disappointing trip to say the least.

And yes, I managed to bypass the gift shop. By that point I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

In the run up to Christmas the Husband and I thought a trip to Borough Market would help in the effort to stock the cupboards. We certainly weren’t wrong. Heading up East nice and early, me clutching my Anya Hindmarch ‘I’m not a Plastic Bag‘ tote to complete the look, we were ready to splash the cash.

The Husband, in the midst of hangover hell, cheered up once he caught a whiff of quality bacon on the griddle. Devouring a Bacon Bubble from Maria’s Cafe, his mood lifted. A heart attack in a bun, his arteries were the last thing on his mind as he got his chops around the bacon, cheddar and bubble & squeak encased in a fresh white bun. It certainly perked him up for a minute or two.

The Munchkin used the opportunity to purloin as many tasters as possible. Having now developed a taste for tapenade and smoked salmon and fearlessly heading towards 3 freshly slaughter deer, her Lelli Kelli’s approaching a pool of blood at breakneck speed, I fear I might have a young Hugh Fernley-Whittingstall on my hands. A scary notion for an ex-vegetarian.

Hot on this heels of his Bacon Bubble, the Husband decided his next step was to opt for a healthy treat, ordering a £4 smoothy. Choosing it’s ingredients carefully, he waited like a boy on Christmas morn for this nectar to be handed to him. Selflessly offering the Munchkin a sip before even trying it himself, he was then unable to extricate it from her vice like grip, making it the most expensive refreshment known to man. Almost.

Laden down with culinary delights and our stomachs full to the brim with deliciousness we headed home just in time to think about lunch.

As the Munchkin and I hit our first proper ‘Birthday Season’ back in October, I was amazed by two things things. Firstly people’s huge generosity when it comes to present giving, and the second, the terrifying existence of party bags.

Fortuitously the Munchkin’s party fell in the middle of this time so I was able to learn from the mistakes of others. Sadly not without making my own nonetheless. Discovering quite how woefully stingey I’d been with the first present I bought, I felt moved to email my pal apologising for my lack of etiquette.

As for party bags, I grabbed the bull by the horns and ran with it. It did involve shopping after all. Spending an afternoon in the party shop, I was in seventh heaven. Not only was there anything you could possibly ever need for any type of party you happen to be organising, there was a HUGE section dedicated to cheap plastic toys, the like of which I’ve not seen since the afternoons spend with my father in the local pound shop in 1979, which just happened to be on the same site.

There of course was nothing stylish about the contents of the Munchkin’s party bags, how can you make plastic whistles and colouring books stylish ? I was however pretty pleased with my first effort.

Subsequently I’ve found Jelly and Blancmange where party bags are the child version of me receiving the latest Prada handbag full to the brim with Cowshed products and Tiffany jewellery.

The most unbelievably stylish party bag fillers, this is a far cry from the pound shop, and even better, not a lot more expensive. In fact I’m reaching for the Husbands credit card now to help bulk out the Munchkin’s stocking.

I’ve turned into such an old woman. Glancing through my window this morning (while keeping fully abreast of the neighbours goings on) I was mortified to find them filthy beyond belief. Dropping everything at once, and reaching for my plastic pale and jiffy I set about giving them the spruce they deserved.

Having tried many a formula in the past, I’ve settled for the best glass cleaning method I know, begrudingly taught by an overweight Home Economics teacher to a me, a definiant and disinterested teen.

Cheap and simple - just they way I like it. All you need is a bucket with warm soapy water (be sure to use a good lug of your Fairy Liquid), a jiffy cloth and the secret ingrediant - yesterday’s newspapers.

All you then need to do is get all Mr Miyagi. Warm soapy water on with one hand, polished off with newspaper and elbow grease with the other. Voila !

Now pass me the blue rinse …

Yesterday was spent in the kitchen. I suddenly came over all traditional, whipping out my Desperate Housewives apron. An epiphany - I suddenly knew what to do with the abundance of gingham ribbon I’d bought earlier in the week. That’s right, it was time to make Gingerbread men to decorate the tree.

Finding a nice simple recipe (thank you Waitrose), hands were washed, hair pinned back and the Munchkin kitted out in splash proof attire.

With my Rat Pack Christmas Album as our soundtrack, the Munchkin and I busied ourselves with our production line, and how wonderfully efficient we were. More often than not my perfectly shaped men and women were manhandled by Miss Sticky Fingers but I’m led to believe that’s all part of the fun. The end result was some VERY strange shaped creatures.

Once cooked and ready to decorate, the Husband joined us for the task of decorating. Unsurprised by his boyish smuttiness, I’ll have to be putting his efforts at the top of the tree, away from innocent eyes.

Once finished the Munchkin and I kicked off our shoes and demanded the Smutmeister bring us tea in front of the telly. Having a love rush for them both, I considered that Sunday’s simply didn’t get any better than this.

If eyes are the windows to our souls, then eyelashes are the carefully crafted curtains and pelmets that beautify them. The more you invest, the better the look.

There was a time when I was a strict off the shelf, cheap and cheerful Ikea girl. Needless to say, as time has passed, I’ve progressed to handmade curtains and bespoke blinds. The difference they make is indescribable.

Gone too are the days when a lick of No. 7 mascara would be all my lashes were treated to. They now have a strict regime all of their own, and one from which I’ll never deviate.

The number one trick is to curl them. What’s the point in having beautiful curtains without tie-backs to die for ? I’ve experimented with many a method, including electrically heated appliances, however have now settled on Tweezerman Eyelash Curler as my hardware of choice. For extra curl try heating briefly on the radiator or with a hairdryer, however hopefully it goes without saying to check the temperature before putting anywhere near your eyes.

For extra glamour try the super duper Jinny Lashes. Professionally fitted, these extensions are attached to individual lashes for a look that will last up to 3 months. Martyn Maxey’s salon in Mayfair is the place to go, however be sure to save your pennies. With a full set ringing in at £ 150 it ain’t cheap but after all those years of frugality at Ikea maybe it’s time to splash out ?

I fear I’ve made a rod for my own back. This morning I’ve been faced with a Munchkin who’ll only drink sparkling water and has demanded both a babychino and chocolate panatone, supping the former with her pinky in the air as though enjoying high tea with the Queen.

As any self-respecting and stylish young lady is aware, a love of shoes is vital. That is most definitely present in this young whippersnapper. I’m so proud, albeit frustrated. On a recent shopping trip she pressed her face hard against the glass requesting, in a small but pleading voice “sparkly shoes plllleeeeeaaassee Mummy”.

These were the Mother of sparkly shoes, I tell you. Sequinned material embroidered with yet more sequins and beads galore, sewn between a silver leather and toe. Welcome to the world of Lelli Kelly. A girl after my own heart, I handed over the £ 29.95 willingly.

Of course, from that moment on she’s refused to wear them. While I respect the assertion of her independent fashion flair, I paid thirty quid for these size sevens dammit ! Following a battle of wills earlier this week she’s seen the light and is now swanning around like the girl about town she is.

In our childless days the Husband and I would take ourselves off the weekend before Christmas to enjoy a weekend a deux somewhere special. Champagne, Oysters, you name it. I recall one particular instance when said items failed to appear on end bill. Never has Norfolk seen two people so quickly retreat to their muddy automobile.

I recall with fondness our stay at Babington House, the sexiest place in Somerset. What more could two burnt out media types want but a bathroom full to the brim of Cowshed goodies, a mini bar stocking only champagne and each other ?

Having spent an afternoon in the bar and a quick obligatory walk around the grounds we hit the sauna and steam.  Sweating out the toxins of our earlier indulgences and that of the festive period, we thought life didn’t get much better this.  Dinner was delicious although slightly marred by a wave of nausea following the third bottle of Champagne consumed.

We’ve subsequently visited avec Munchkin and amazingly felt equally welcomed and though the place was designed for us.  Saturdays seem to be particularly family orientated so if you’re wanting to escape yours I’d suggest a Sunday night once all small people have headed back to the big smoke.  It’s worth the day off work, I promise.