Milk & Manolos

I am particularly loving The Husband at present. Saturday morning I was whisked along with a small person craving sugary treats (oh yes, NOW I understand what they mean about the terrible twos) to West London where I was lovingly placed, bleary eyed, in the reception of The Cowshed and told that they’d see me in an hour. What was my fate to hold ? Ahhhh. Only time would tell.

It wasn’t until I reached the ‘treatment room’ that I discovered that Him Indoors had organised, God love im, a signature facial, featuring not only an ‘extraction’ (I love that word), but a head and shoulder massage, and a plethora of lotions and potions that made my skin feel as soft as the Munchkin’s bottom.

Having indulged in many a facialists expertise over time, I can say, hand on heart, that I’ve never experienced anything this good and the best thing is - it doesn’t cost the world.

So send your him in doors this link and get him pampering you pretty damn quickly. You deserve it.

Before I married the Husband, I was the girl that had every exercise machine known to man. In my studio flat. It wasn’t a good look, but I had convinced myself that by investing some of my paultry bonus into some home exercise gear that not only would I be perma-toned (given my 10 minutes of daily dedication surely this was the least it could bestow upon me ?) but my body would be one step further to being a temple, rather than the delapidated church hall I had sadly created through hours of sitting in pubs and drinking establishments, smoking my way into oblivion.

When the Husband arrived on the scene, my coteree of machines became a deal breaker. It seemed he wasn’t as keen on home exercise as I. He had a fair point, they weren’t the prettiest things in the world.

Imagine my delight at discovering rowhire. Here you can hire, without any commitment to buy, a top of the range water rower or Keiser M3 indoor cycle.

For just £9.90 a week, I can dodge the gym while attempting the whet the Husbands appetite for home exercise. Quite frankly, I don’t see why he’d find me in anyway unattractive, red faced and sweaty, labouring over a state of the art machine that I’m clearly not fit enough to use. Second thoughts, I’ll also buy a lock for the bedroom door.

It’s rare that in my normal, everyday life that I’ll pick up a book and devour it from cover to cover in a matter of days, hours even. Sure, on holidays it’s common fare, provided someone else is keeping a careful eye on the Munchkin, picking up the parental responsibilities I drop as quickly as my pasty hew the minute I’m somewhere hot with a pool.

This weekend, following a two and a half hour train journey to see my mother-in-law, I’ve been unable to tear myself away from Imogen Edwards-Jones Fashion Babylon. To the point of being horribly anti-social I’m ashamed to say. But what’s a girl to do ? Mother-in-law ready, willing and able to steal the Munchkin away for an hour or two and said anti-social daughter-in-law willing to take full advantage her generosity. The gossip in this baby is enough to get anyone going. For a moment or two it almost had me poised to dust off my sewing machine …

The Munchkin has developed a fear of the dark. A rite of passage I’m sure. While she cowers behind me when we enter a darkened room I stand tall, protecting my Bumbalina from all manner of fears, hoping that just a little might rub off on her. Needless to say it hasn’t.

This is where the handy Anti Monster Spray comes in. Before bed, we squirt here, there and everywhere, paying particular attention to under the bed, and ensuring that all closet doors are duly closed and the cat is fast asleep at the foot of the bed, ready to catch any spiders (another fear. We’re working through them one by one).

Let me tell you it works. The lavender, while a touch June Whitfield, certainly has her off to bye-byes in two shakes of a lambs tail, while the bright packaging tells her exactly what she need do should she wake and be scared. Squirt of course !

I love finding quirky gifts to send people. Having spent many a year sending carefully chosen booty bags to the rich and famous I’m always quick to note a must have address for the Black Book.

Biscuiteers is one of these addresses. Lovingly handed to me by a fellow gift giver this is already my new favourite. Who wouldn’t love a small pile of beautifully iced biscuits arriving on their door step ?

Prices range from a very affordable £ 8 through to about £ 37 so there’s something here to fit every budget. I considered for a moment sending The Husband the beautifully hand decorated tin of ladies underwear. After much deliberation I decided against it. It was because of those biscuits that he wasn’t getting the real deal. He’d have to enjoy the ‘Love’ cookies instead …

I feel like a little kid in a sweet shop, about to throw a tantrum. Except I know I don’t have a hope in hell of getting what I want. Frustration to the point of tears.

The thing that I’m desperate for, which will complete me as a wife, mother, daughter, employee and part-time fashionista is the latest offering from Prada, the Prada Fairy bag. Just writing that mad me want to hurl myself towards the ground with great velocity and in full view of the Husband. Surely he can see my pain ?

This bag is just beautiful, but retailing at well over £ 1,000 is way out of my reach. Heavily marketed over the last few weeks this is most certainly the bag to have, and will be until AW 08. Sold out in seconds, if you’re lucky enough to have a hefty wad of spare spondoolies in that bottom draw of yours, get your name on the waiting list toot suite (client.service@prada.com).

In the meantime, I’ll just admire from afar, and consider a short spell of petty crime in order to fund my addiction.

The Munchkin has just received her first history lesson, and boy did we do it in style.  With little in the diary and a small yearning for the educational of we went to Hampton Court Palace.

‘Specialising’ (I fear not an entirely honest use of the word) in the Tudors during my turbulent A-Level years it was time I revisited my past, dragging the Munchkin and Husband with me.  Surely that’s what rainy days are for ?

Convincing the Munchkin she would meet the Queen, and secret hoping Catharine Howard’s ghost would conveniently put in an appearance we bundled into the car and headed down Hampton Way.

Admititably the sixteenth century kitchens were a little hard to bear at 10.30 in the morning. A jolly old fellow, in full Tudor garb talked us through the running of such a cucina, Tudor style. All while boning a pheasant.

Not usually one for audience participation, I was a little alarmed to see it was the road the palace had decided to travel. Quickly I realised that they’d managed the near impossible - they had absolutely struck the right balance. Easy to avoid should you so choose there was something charming about their performers. They imparted great chucks of information with ease and humour that few could achieve, and when you felt you’d had enough, you simply didn’t have to play any more.

Another bonus about these ‘role plays’ was that the Munchkin was able to meet the Queen. While sadly no Henry VIII waddled through the corridors, Katherine of Aragon and her ladies in waiting where happy to pass the time of day. Best of all, the Jester’s show, which I’d initially sniffed at, proved a huge success, with fire eating and stilt walking galore.

Then there was the Maze. The Munchkin ran and ran and for a while there, the Husband and I thought we’d never get out. Narrowly avoiding a sense of humour failure, my homing pigeon ability to head for home soon had us back on the right track.

A walk around the grounds, and a delicious lunch in the Tiltyard Cafe completed the day. We collapsed into the car, the Munchkin having been carefully being steered well clear of the gift shops feeling as though we’d had a proper, old fashioned family day out.

Being the girl that loves a bargain I shall be hot footing in April to H & M when 60’s print designers Marimekko will be launching their range for the under 2’s. Sadly the Munchkin misses the age bracket, however as Tyra says, sometimes we have to suffer for fashion. With much deliberation I decided it thoroughly wrong to squeeze a growing child into clothes far too small for them, so have resolved myself to purchasing for the under 2’s only. With a round of second babies making their way into the world the timing is perfect.

With style icon Jackie Kennedy having given Marimekko the seal of approval way back in the day, what better way to start your sartorial journey.

My daughter is obsessed by all things Willy Wonka. So much so, I have the Oompa Loompa song imprinted into my brain, actually, make that branded into my brain. She trails around the house, when not whining about watching Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, humming what is slowing become her theme tune. When I asked if SHE was an Oompa Loompa, all I got was a tut and dirty look that only a 2 year old could give.

Every cloud has a silver lining, and it’s important I remember this. While we’ve been subjected to Gene Wilder doing his thing at least five times this weekend I now have all the ammunition I need to manipulate Madam into doing pretty much anything (evil cackle). She wouldn’t eat her lunch until I announced it was Willy Wonka Macaroni. Wolfed it straight down. A temper tantrum narrowly diverted by telling her that Willy Wonka wouldn’t like her to behave in that way. Wonderful. Thank Gene.

And the s-w-e-e-t-s ? While she drools like a St Bernard over the lollipops and sings like Bonnie Langford that “the Candyman can” we’ve managed to divert any demands.

Back in the day when I was still in knee highs, and enjoying Albion Market of a Friday evening, we had a house rule. The only sweets we were allowed were on Fridays, which were imaginatively entitled Sweetie Night. Dad would come home bearing two white paper bags full to the brim (or seemed to be) with penny sweets.

We have the same rule. Of sorts. The Munchkin, following a weeks worth of good behaviour is allowed on a Saturday morning only, to go with her Daddy to choose a lollipop at the local sweet shop. Never have you seen such happiness for 5 pence spent.

So it’s true. The Candy Man can, only just in moderation.

Having battled my way through 4 consecutive bad hair days, I’m ready to reach for the chocolate. One I can handle, par for the course surely, but four? Man alive, am I being punished for a previous sin ?

The one saving grace throughout the battle to tame my mane has been the everlasting loyalty of my super duper hairspray. When it comes to getting your hair out of the way and keeping in there, Bumble & Bumble’s Classic hairspray is your one stop shop.

Having Alexa Chunged my style, my otherwise wayward fringe is keep beautifully under control. Thank lord the days of Crystal Carrington hair is behind me. Loving the eighties as I do, that would be a step too far.