Milk & Manolos

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.

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 ?

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 …

So the Munchkin and are off to a concert.  Oh yes, a Mr Ray concert.

Deciding to broaden her horizons, I seized the moment, credit card at the ready and booked away.  Checking out Mr Ray’s website I just know we’re going to have a ball.  I’m entirely unsure as to what to expect but a guy who can get down on a Friday morning in front of Lord knows how many kids has got to be worth seeing.

Personally, I’ll just be glad to listen to kids songs that a) aren’t sung by school children and b) aren’t accompanied by a Bon Tempi.

I SO never got over not going to that Musical Youth concert in 1982.  Can you tell ?

The Munchkin has just enjoyed her first Ballet Class. I guess that officially makes me a pushy mother. Not only has her name been down practically since birth, I allowed my Best Girl to attend looking like a Little Britain character. There she was in her fuschia tights and leotard and everso slightly clashing candy pink tutu.

Worse still, I had to bite my lip to stop myself from crying a total of 6 times during the 50 minute class. The way her chubby little arms and legs flailed around in absolutely no time to the music, nor her teacher, Miss Lucy. The enthusiasm was there in bucketfuls, and with a little coaching (this week we’ll concentrate on the flapping of her fairy wings) I could have a little Darcy Bussell on my hands.

Previously shying away from any form of group activity or class, I’m now beginning to see the error of my ways. Undoubtedly it’s difficult to punctuate you week with various genius creating classes throughout the week, particularly when you work. I now think that perhaps one or two could be beneficial, if not to your purse.

Next stop Mandarin. What ? China’s where it’s at, apparently.

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.

This year we shall be attempting the mandatory childhood photograph. Said child upon the knee of Father Christmas. As all mothers I’m hopeful that the Munchkin will enjoy her brush with the most famous man in the world, however I must prepare myself for it to go horribly wrong.

Last year, a little premature on our part admirably, we took the Munchkin to meet Santa at Kew. Following a queue of about 20 minutes she decided she’d had enough. Still wobbly on her chubby little feet, like a fowl taking it’s first steps, she went darting off , pulling back the curtain to interrupt his current audience. Standing there swaying she shouted what I can only describe as profanities. Thank God, she was only 13 months old and at the time yet to master the art of the English Language. It was like a drunk busting into a church on Christmas Eve I tell you.

I have high hopes this Christmas. So high in fact what we’re going to see the king of all Santas - this year we’re heading to Harrods.

The tales of weary parents queuing for hour upon hour for a quick meeting with his Highness have previously terrified me. There is only so much queuing you can do with a two year old. Fortunately Harrods seem to have taken this on board and via their website are now offering the chance to book a powwow with the man himself.

With our tickets arriving last week and Grandma’s train booked in anticipation, we’re pretty much ready. All that’s left to do is build the excitement and pack some tissues.

There’s something about Autumn that brings out the tourist in me and there’s nothing like spending a rainy Sunday at a museum. Fun for all the family, and a gift shop to boot.

Now that the Munchkin is of an age where the pushing of buttons and pulling of levers floats her boat, where better to start than at the Science Museum.

The reality far exceeded my hopes for the day. Thinking there would be a ‘push’ here and a ‘pull’ there I was amazed to discover the Launch Pad permanent exhibition for kids. Here you can truly spend hours upon hours discovering the joys of science. I wouldn’t be wrong if I said we all learnt a thing or two.

There’s a magnificent water table at which the Munchkin whiled away a lot of the afternoon. So much so I had to retired and treat myself to most delicious hot dog, pushing my ketchup covered face against the viewing panels to ensure she played nicely. Admittedly the Husband was by her side however he had regressed to being 4 years of age and was currently building a dam with one of the other Pas.

The Gallery Garden is a multi-sensory experience. When I woke yesterday morning I never dreamt for one minute I would find myself in the bristles of a giant tooth brush later that day. Lights and sounds a go-go by 4 pm we were ready for afternoon tea.

Retiring briefly for a cuppa and a slice of cake I was insistent we hit the gift shop before heading home. Stopping myself from buying far too much I settled on a kaleidoscope for the Munchkin and a Periodic Table Mug for the Husband. As the son of Scientists I had hoped he might appreciate it - fyi I was wrong. What he DID appreciate was a Munchkin who had had such a good day she was insitant on an early night.

In the Husband’s pursuit of nurturing a young Banksy, Adam Neate or Damien Hirst (can you tell we’re a post-modernist family yet ?) the Munchkin has been encouraged to scrawl on many a medium, some of which I’m not too keen on. Under this category would fall my cream sofa, but that’s a whole other story.

The morning Sammy Duder opened her South London studio, we happened to be passing, each nursing quite serious hangovers. In thirty-seconds flat we were welcomed with open arms, a glass of bubbly placed hospitably in each our hands and the Munchkin aproned and ready to go. We were there for an hour and a half enjoying our hair of the dog, while nurturing our child’s creative development. This is the kind of parenting I like.

Sammy and her team are on hand to offer as much or as little advice as you wish. Sensing they had a young Jackson Pollack in their mists they carefully laid out co-ordinated colours and let the Munchkin get on with it.

The Husband of course had to remind me on a number of occasions that I’m perhaps not quite as artistically gifted as I’d have hoped. Steering me away from any attempts to make my own Christmas presents he reminded me of Christmas 1998. It was then that I discovered that painted gifts were a lot more appealing from the under 5’s than a daughter who would prefer to spend her money on booze and fags.

The result of our visit ? A week later we collected our shiny new butter dish and mugs. Proud isn’t the word. Of course, since then we’ve added to our collection - I’m planning on a dinner service.