Milk & Manolos

I can’t take any credit for the cleanliness of our house. The lovely Iryina arrives on a Friday morning to do her thing, and the rest is down to the Husband I’m slightly ashamed to say.

I tried desperately when newly married to be the dutiful wife, keeping the house spick and span. Unfortunately it wasn’t quite up to the Husbands OCD standards and I eventually grew weary of having him go over my elbow grease when I turned the other way. I thought he was just being nice when he said he enjoyed it but almost 9 years later I’m still waiting for that smile he has when armed with a jiffy and any manner of anti-bacterial spray to fade. Freak. Quite frankly, I’m much better at making a mess.

Occasionally, true to my Piscean traits, I feel the need to deep clean. When I’m in this kinda mood, it’s best that the house is evacuated and I’m allowed to be a whirling dervish for all of the 7 minutes I’m activated. It’s at times like this that Bicarbonate of Soda is one of my best friends (now who’s the freak ?).

Here’s just some of the ways our White Friend can help you out :

Baking soda on a damp sponge removes grease easily from the hob and back splash.

Particularly good for those with cats and dogs, or small children currently being potty trained, Bi Carb can also help with carpet deodorising, just sprinkle onto carpet before going to bed and vacuum in the morning.

Adds super sparkle to sinks, baths and toilets. Again, just rub on using a damp sponge and rinse.

Brilliant for cleaning pipes. Use one quarter Bi Carb to vinegar, pouring down the sink with some boiling water. The chemical reaction cuts through all the grease and dirt down there and leaves it smelling sweet.

It’s also really effective should you, gulp, have an ant problem in the summer. Sprinkle around cabinets and cupboards where you’re having the problem and it should deter our little friends from returning.

Having spent my life burning saucepans I know this one works. While still hot, add a solution of water and Bi Carb and allow to soak. Voila !

To minimise odours in your fridge, remove top from box of baking soda and place it on one of the shelves. It ain’t pretty but it sure is effective.

Afternoon Tea is the new Champagne and cigarettes for any lady who used to enjoy the latter. Gone are the days when come 4 pm on Saturday when the coterie and I would be found in a local watering hole with more than was good for us of both said components. While those days are mourned, small people simply aren’t compatible with the former. So along came afternoon tea instead. Well, it had been around for forever, I just chose to celebrate it a little more.

Tea Palace in Notting Hill is a great place to begin your love affair with such an old English ritual. At £ 17 a head ‘one’ (we are enjoying high tea after all) can enjoy a smorgasbord of finger sandwiches, cakes and scones together with a pot of one of the house teas. A fabulous way to spend an afternoon en masse, or to just enjoy a bit of ‘Me Time’ with the latest copy of Vogue, followed swiftly by a trip to Matches.

Roll on 3.30 pm …

A fortnight ago I was invited down to the marketing suite for a new private members club - Cupcake. Here promised a haven for all Mums and Mums-To-Be from the monotony of daily life. Exercise studios, a restaurant and most excitingly a crèche to hide the Munchkin away in seemed too good to be true. Demanding the Husband ‘work from home’ that afternoon, I hot footed it down to what I was sure was to become my new home. How bitterly disappointed I was to become.

At this juncture, I think I should add that the place is yet to open, and that I my have hideously have got it wrong, however being devotee of Private Members clubs I know a good deal from a bad one. For example, being a member of Soho House (at £ 900 a year) buys you access to THE Soho House in Greek Street, High Road House in Chiswick, The Electric in Notting Hill and to the newest member of the clan Shoreditch House. The latter boasts a roof top swimming pool, ten pin bowling, The Cowshed Spa and a Gym. That doesn’t even touch on the reduced rates for members at Babington House with their indoor and outdoor pools, spa and general gorgeousness.

While the concept for Cupcake is fantastic, I worry about the execution. For a cool £ 125 per month (a whopping £1,500 per year) you gain access to the club 6 days a week (”We’re closed on Sundays”) from 9 am - 9 pm. Equipped with two studios where pilates and yoga classes are to be housed, together for an area ‘with dumbbells’ - that’s the extent of the Gym. There’s to be a cafe and spa too (the latter ringing in at £ 25 for a half leg wax) though sadly no sauna or steam in which to perspire those troubles away. The exciting crèche facility caters for just 15 children (up to 5 years old) and incurs and extra charge of £ 6 per hour, per child. Bearing in mind that club membership will total 500 mothers and mothers-to-be I’m personally worried about the likelihood of actually being able to get the Munchkin in the damn thing. With no private parking (on street parking charges £ 2 per hour), and tucked a little out of the way for public transport, I can’t imagine that too much wine or champagne will be enjoyed on the premises.

I truly love the idea but can’t help thinking they’ve got it so very wrong. So hideously expensive for such little offered, I can’t help thinking we’d all be better served joining Soho House and running away to Babington House a couple times a year which could all be done before you even equate Cupcake’s annual levy.

You might like the sound of Cupcake. Proceed, but do so with caution.

My love of all things precious, and in particular sparkly, has had me trawling the internet for suitable baubles for my Spring / Summer Look Book.

Not usually being one for dangly earrings I couldn’t resist bringing you these beauties from Alexis Bittar. Beautifully simple and fresh these are sure to be a staple once the weather improves and we can finally scoop that hair up, rather than using it as a human scarf as I’ve done for the past three months.

The Daffs are here so not long to go …

As a new mother, I was one of those abominable women who signs their child up to all and sundry to ensure their rounded development. Simply to assauage the guilt I felt of having a practically no maternity leave and returning to my previous career based life far too quickly, this little lady was sent to laugh and clap at many a music group. It’ll come as no surprise to those with children that my house of cards soon came tumbling down, as I careered (pun very much intended) into a small life crisis.

One of the classes the Munchkin attended was Sing and Sign, and one for which I’ll be eternally grateful. Also to her chaperone, the darling Husband who would spend an hour every Tuesday locked away in a windowless room “sweating like a rapist” with a bevy of yummy mummies, all of whom refused to speak to him.

Perhaps four months is a little young to start, but this undoubtedly has been one of our better parenting decisions. Particularly true to our consumeristic style we of course purchased the DVD. When, after the first batch of classes the Husband felt he could cope no longer with the frostiness, the Munchkin and I would enjoy the DVD in our own time, in the comfort of our own home (the cushions were far nicer I can tell you), and I finally got to learn the songs.

It wasn’t until Madam reached seven months that the fruits of our labour paid off. Demanding to watch some more Bob the Builder, the Munchkin emphatically signed ‘More’, much to great hilarity. From that day on they came thick and fast, our communicating baby our new found party piece. On our results alone I swear they’ve sold hundred of DVDs. The Munchkin of course loved it, she could have us running around after us at the mere click of her fingers.

The one thing we worried about was whether it would impede her the development of her vocal communication. The answer to that is a resounding no. Having quickly found her voice there’s been no stopping her. She’s as louqucious as any other 2 year old.

Now all I need is something to shut her up …

I’ve just endured the process of buying the Munchkin her first bad. So traumatic was it, that in one awful, horrible moment, we found ourselves being dragged around a Dreams superstore, being told to buy THE most disgusting bed I’ve ever seen by a sweet, but way to over enthusiastic Sales Assistant. Suddenly realising quite how low things had become, I whisked us out of there, faster than you could say “cheap MDMF”.

Heading home, I heeded the advice of one of my trusted girlfriends, that ASpace was the place to buy a bed. Having been everywhere searching for a suitable slumber station I was shockingly knowledgeable about the market, not to mention amazing that a single bed could cost so much. Even Dreams was clocking in at £ 350, for a ill-made monstrosity. This latest stage in the Munchkins development was easily going to set us back £ 500, mattress included. Joy. There goes those delicious Gina sandals I had my eyes one.

That said, I wish I’d have discovered ASpace at the beginning of my journey. Here I found exactly what we were looking for, £ 100 cheaper than elsewhere. From beds, to bed linen, mattresses to duvets, this is a one stop shop.

Following Bonhams recent urban art sale anyone who’s anyone are chasing their own bit of Graffiti ’skirt’.

Undoubtedly the place to start is Pictures on Walls. THE inaugural dealers in urban art prints since 2002. Being in with these guys could make you a whole lotta cash as they are the proud purveyors of original Banksy prints.

Of course you need to be up at the sparrows fart and never far from your computer to catch them, these are hotter than hot cakes on the coldest morning known to man. Signing up to their newsletter and regular checks of the site will ensure you have some classic pieces for your walls.

I’m the most unfit person I know, nay possibly the world (barr Rick Waller, but only just).

I long to be the glamourous blonde I often see in her tight Lycra jogging effortlessly past me, without a bead of sweat on her forehead. But I’m not, and I’ve got to come to terms with that.

Following the Husbands new found religion (British Military Fitness) and his biweekly worships on Clapham Common not to mention the two inches lost from his waist, I’m keen to follow muster, except I fear I’m more of a Private Benjamin than anything else.

I didn’t have to worry for long. On the opposing common, Wandsworth Common, I can indulge myself in a thorough workout without a hint of camo. The name gives it away. Fit for a Princess. Well I’m not, but perhaps I could be ?

As I scout the shops for possible Spring / Summer purchases, I couldn’t resist bringing you these cute, and not to mention, cheap and cheerful, sandals from Shellys.

I fully admit that I’m not usually a Shellys girl, finding their designs, particularly of late, somewhat from the left field, and I have the strong suspicion that the brand is flailing following the closure of their flagship store in Oxford Circus.

With all of that said, I thought these cute leather sandals could be a very suitable candidate for my “lived in” sandal of the season. At at £ 25, you can’t really go wrong.

My relationship with the Harbour Club is what can only be describe as the Love / Hate sort.

There’s nothing remarkable about the club whatsoever. The extortiant monthly fees extracted gleefully from members bank accounts serve as small reminder of the dirty little relationship we share.

The Ball Pit, where the Munchkin is abused on a weekly basis by children who’s Philipino nannies are too busy gossiping on the phone or by mothers to expensively dressed to dare enter this padded cell, strangely remains one of her favourite places. This however could be due to my blue eyed, blonde haired God-Daughter, her partner in crime on these trips.

Value for money is not something to attribute to these ‘exclusive’ clubs. A lunch for two children and two adults, no alcohol rings it at £ 45, and laughingly the vegetable portion for the Bambinos includes on moderate sized broccoli floret. When extra was requested, it being a ‘health club’ and all, we were told we’d have to be charged.

The staff are amusingly terrible. At first frustrating and sheer anger making but now I take great pleasure in enjoying their incopetance on a regular basis. My particular favourite being that I request our bill from our waiter only to be told it “wasn’t his duty”.

All that said, I still have a love for the place. The people watching, the JEWELLERY watching, Mark Owen in the Ball Pit, not to mention the Piri Piri Chicken Ceasar of which I regularly dream all contribute to me going back.

It’s wrong, but feels oh so right …