Milk & Manolos

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.

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.

I honestly feel like I’ve just been mugged by the London Aquarium. The Munchkin suddenly has an obession with all things aquatic. Possibly a young Jacques-Yves Cousteau in the making or maybe just a 2 year old who enjoyed Finding Nemo - who knows what prompted this sudden fondess for all things wet ? So off we trek to the South Bank, mother-in-law in tow to go and find outselves some “Big Sharks”.

Late opening we had to queue outside for 10 minutes while the staff finished their cappuchinos and the fish prepared for their homosapien house guests. It cost a total of £37 for us to get in - praise the lord for free entry for the under 3’s and the mother-in-law’s OAP status, otherwise we might have been on the blower to Carol Vordermann for a quick loan. 40 minutes later we had emerged from our subterainian adventure more than a little underwhelmed. Yes, there were lots of fish. Yes, they were well cared for. Just very little else. Nothing interactive, not buttons to press, only a poor old sting ray to stroke. The only things on offer - face painting and novelty photograph taking, did little to aid a small persons enjoyment of the place only to help make the parental purse a lot lighter.

Maybe the Munchkin was just too young - I’ll give them that, but I honestly felt embarassed that this is one of London’s premier tourist attractions and none too proud of being a Londoner.

Unless they’re seriously into the deep I’d give this one a wide birth if I were you.