Milk & Manolos

Having spent the weekend clearing out my closets, there is now a gapping whole in my shoe collection. Much loved flats, sparkly sandals and heavenly heels all failed to make the “will I get another seasons wear out of them” grade. All having seen far better days they couldn’t even be recycled (to my material benefit) on Ebay, but are currently doing their bit for Cancer Research.

Having carefully assessed my footwear needs, top of my list is a capsule collection of flats. With small chubby feet around, I feel it’s the least I can do. Particularly at weekends.

Perhaps not topping the Times Style Magazine’s hippest shoes, there is still a small place out there reserved for the careful and stylish use of the Ballet Pump to complete a look. When heading down that road there’s only one place to go, and that’s French Sole.

A plethora of colours and styles to choose from this is the sweet shop of leather pumps, and needless to say far better for the waist line. Make mine a black patent leather please. 

I’m a big believer in the concept of New Year, New Start. I’ve cleared out the closet, written my immediate to do lists and agonised over short and long term goals (the Husband insisted I remove Swarovski Crystal Jimmy Choos I plan to own for holiday time, citing them as not only impractical but far too pretty for my rather stubby toes).

As part of my ‘New Me’ plan and upon recommendation from my actress sister-in-law, I invested a mere £ 5.49 in Paul McKenna’s Change Your Life In 7 Days. Cheap at half the price I thought.

Ok, I’m not entirely sure WHAT I want to change, but I’m game, and as they say, a change is as good as a holiday albeit a shoeless one.

Hitting the intro with gusto he already had me in tears with a touching Giant analogy that pulled at my maternal heart strings. Whizzing through my day one task I was ready to hit the CD player and for a touch of hypnotism. With Paul filling the room before I knew it I was 3, 2, 1, back in the room.

With a spring in my step and ready for whatever 2008 might throw at me, Paul holding my hand every step of the way, I’m a new disciple to his genius. Attempting to add ‘personal audience with Paul McKenna’ to my short term goals, I think I may have negotiated my shoes after all. 

As New Year is all about new beginnings, I’m trying in earnest to ignore the Munchkin’s plea for a proper bed. The idea of being hit over the head with a belt buckle at 2 am in the morning, as happened to a friend, is less than appealing.

If I’m honest, I’m also slightly confused about what to do with her bedding - staple the duvet to the corners of the bed to avoid the refrigeration of arms or legs ? Fortunately, the clever people at Grobag seem to have done it for me. Well, not staple it as such, but with the clever usage of zips can help keep the Munchkin toasty all night.

Now all they need to do is come up with something to keep Madam in place.

So here I am, all Spring Cleaned and ready for whatever 2008 may throw at me. The decorations are down, the filofax reloaded, the house cleared of yet another years worth of detritus and the hangover bullet sucessfully dodged.

The latter is thanks to my well stocked Cath Kidson First Aid Kit - ready for any emergency. As you can imagine, it misses dreadfully the heady days of unexplained drinking injuries, the most severe being a small stab wound to my palm whilst attempting to remove a stubborn avacado stone 3 glasses of wine down.

My hangover cure is simple - 2 Beroccas and a sachet of the magical hydrator Diaoralyte. All that’s then needed is a clean glass, cold Evian and a minute or two to knock this heady concoction back and regain one’s composure. Easy Street.

So come on 2008 - whatcha got for me ?

The Husband finds my MBT’s highly amusing on two counts. Firstly, Masai Warriors don’t wear trainers (or shoes for that matter) and if they did they certainly wouldn’t wear ones that looked like they’d been pilfered from a destitute Clown.

He’s not wrong. These are the ugliest things I’ve worn on my feet since Kickers in 1988. However given that the opportunities to indulge in a little cardio vascular workout is few and far between these honeys allow make up for the odd excess here or there.

Based on the theory that Masais are so supremely toned because the suffice on which they tread is never even, these trainers try and replicate that for the concrete trudgers, like I. With rounded soles the body will react to the instability with “intuitive compensatory movements providing neglected muscles with much needed use”. All in a trainer, I tell you, albeit an ugly one.

Working your thighs, gluts, calfs, knees, abs and posture you can’t ask much more. Word on the street is that they also hit those pelvic floor muscles - perfect, everyone’s a winner !

I noticed (and felt) the difference within a matter of weeks - my bottom a little more pert and my stomach a little flatter, my street cred however, on the floor. With word spreading like wild fire it wasn’t long before I found others in on the secret. Sometimes fashion just has to take a little step to the side to allow you a little exercise here and there. It beats being sweaty in the gym wearing the Husbands tracky bums any day.

Back in the lazy hazy summer of on 1978, my world revolved around my Space Hopper. My primary mode of transport, I remember with fondness the endless arguments with my Mother, refusing to take me out of the house on the damn thing. To me, he was an extension of my being and I’d be damned if he was being left behind. Of course I was fighting a loosing battle only being allowed on VERY special occasions to arrive by orange rubber.

I’m no doubt about to enter into the same debate with the Munchkin haven recently found a repro version of the old 1970 toy box classic. I must be a fool, but I can’t bear to deprive her of the joys of hopper travel. Either that, or it’s really just a big fat gift for the kid in me. I’m not entirely sure which.

I’m currently in the midst of toilet training. The Munchkin’s, not mine I hasten to add. It’s been a brave move but one led entirely by Madam who upon being able to piece together the sentence, “no more nappies” proclaimed it so over breakfast last Saturday morning. So far all is going swimmingly, however I have just found myself sitting in a warm puddle in Cafe Nero. Not what you want when you’ve only brought one pair of jeans on a weekend visit to your Mother-in-Laws. Fortunately she’s a dab hand with laundry and I’m currently doing a Nick Kamen as I sit and type.

The Husband thought it most amusing to surprise the Munchkin with a special treat to celebrate this milestone. Enter Mr Poo and Mr Pee, both of whom are clutched tightly to Madam’s being for the majority of the day. So far, we’re yet to tire of the hilarity of ones offspring refusing to be parted from a cuddly toy version of her bodily functions. I am however beginning to worry about our attendance at the Carol Service of our local church should this obsession continue.

Never has Poo or Pee seemed so cute. Credit cards at the ready …

The Munchkin has a true fairy Godfather. This is the guy who upon hearing that she was hosting her very own disco party for a dozen over excited and additive fuelled two year olds, set about biking over a set of disco lights and a revolving mirror ball to ensure she did it in style. I love my friend dearly and catching the look on her face, as the house was transformed into something I can only describe as Studio 54 for small people, I knew she did too.

Buying a Christening present isn’t always an easy thing. Sometimes inspiration flows and you find that perfect little something, other times you can search and search with nothing to show for your hard shopping graft but sore feet and a stress headache.

The Fairy Godfather of course came up with a genius idea and one that I’m desperate to steal, should anyone else be foolish enough to consider me Godmother material.

Presented in an understated envelope the Munchkin received a letter informing her of a case of wine carefully laid on her behalf at Berry Bros & Rudd Ltd. There it will stay until we’re advised that it’s ready for her consumption, in around 16 years or so.

I, of course, have every intention of switching a bottle for something more appropriate for an eighteen year olds palate. Finding a quiet corner I shall sit, glass in hand, with Fairy Godfather reminiscing over the last 18 years and throwing the odd bottle of Two Dogs 20/20 to the to the teens in the other room.

There’s something about a sweater dress which is thoroughly appealing. Particularly so because there’s no waistband to help my muffin top rise, and because it’s a throw on, dress up or down item which makes life that little bit easier. They’re the chicken soup of clothing and praise the lord they’re back in vogue.

For pure luxury Juicy Couture have a classic sweater dress in black cashmere, perfect for the social chameleon in you. It of course took all my might to steer clear of the tracksuits, now horribly out of fashion (but still the comfiest thing since my 1988 Naff Naff all in one) but I’ve cut and pasted the link and sent it straight to Santa, like the good girl I am.

A tip for other Juicy fans, check out the American sites, where items are sold at a slither of their UK counterparts.

A washing machine packed with twenties. The Munchkin has obviously hit the delinquent stage of her development. Fortuitously, it is only her Early Learning Centre washing machine and the twenty pound notes stuffed inside that of the Early Learning State Bank. Does this signify my child’s predilection for a life of crime, or just an innocent 2 year old giving her money a boil wash ? She does have a habit of looking a little shifty on occassion …

Early Learning Centre have been the suppiler of many of the Munchkin’s favourite toys, and for which I gratefully thank them. Particularly whoever came up with the Big Birthday Club which gives you 20% of all birthday related purchases. I should mention at this juncture that not only did I purchase for Madam’s birthday, but also Christmas and a few events in between.

One of these said purchases has been their Sizzlin’ Kitchen. So Sizzlin’ in fact that within 3 minutes of use we decided to remove the battery from said sizzle plate to retain our sanity. Apart from that slightly annoying extra this kitchen has bought us hours and hours of fun, not to mention a minute or two to get on with something not Munchkin related. In fact the Munchkin is fact flambe-ing some peas and icecream as I type.

For Munchkin sized versions of our favourite white goods this is the place to come. Since indulging the Munchkin’s dometisticity (against my better judgement I hasten to add - sadly the work bench didn’t appeal) she has become provided tea and biscuits to a rather shocked Sky + Engineer, offered the Sainsbury’s delivery man a rather scary looking plastic Spag Bol and given Nigella a run for her money in the express stakes.