Milk & Manolos

The Munchkin is following in my footsteps. The Husband is worried. Fortunately he knows not what is round the corner. I do, hence the sleepless nights.

Already at the tender age of two and a half she sees the importance of a good accessory. Handbags and shoes are her thing. With fierce determination and a stubbornness I refuse to recognise in myself she carefully co-ordinates her daily outfits. Once completed her attention turns to the handbag, fully equipped with lipstick, pen and mock phone.

While it’s adorable to discover her tastes, I do harbour concerns that her style gene is yet to develop. Yesterday she looked like what I can only describe as a chav, complete with pony tail high on her head consisting of all of three hairs and looking far more pineapple than anything else.

I couldn’t resist showing her these sweet little numbers in the hope that she’ll eventually put down the pea green faux leather number she’s become rather attracted too. This little lady has a love for unnatural fibres that compares only to that of Kerry Katona, something most definitely to be ironed out at a later date methinks.

Having discovered Sally Shufflepants while diligently scouring the internet I had at first decided to give it a full body swerve due to the name which was far to sickly sweet for me. But putting my fear of the dentist behind me I double clicked and found a truly great place to help keep my present box stacked up …

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.

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 …

As my favourite hobby is spending money, how could I resist the weird and wonderful world of auction houses ?  

Setting up home with the Husband was most enjoyable, on a number of levels, the first admittedly was that we were kindred spirits in more ways than one.  This was the joining of two consumeristic individuals to make a wholly shop happy couple.   Having bought the house of our dreams we set a little extra mortgage money aside to go on the mother of all shopping sprees.  

We of course hit all our usual hot spots but were advised by many a elder to check out the local auction houses for bargains galore.  The rest they say is history.  Not only do you get the enjoyment of a view, finding the weird and the wonderful but you also get the thrill of the chase too.  

There is always the danger that you could get carried away.  A lesson I learnt pretty early on.  Having decided to bid on a Venetian armoire destined to be white washed and shabby chiced, I of course forgot all about our budget, or the charges added on top and secured the piece at well over what it was worth.  It sat in our living room, unpainted, untouched and quite frankly a little unloved, until we decided that ebay was the only answer.  

Making a smidgeon of a profit it was happy days.  It wasn’t until the new owners were carrying it out that I saw the ‘Made in China’ sticker on the back.  Hastily removed, a bullet well dodged. Having now found our groove, Criterion Auctions is our regular haunt when a piece or two is needed.  Rare these days but it’s fun to window shop… 

I fully admit that I’m not one for umbrellas. I can see the appeal, big time, however I’ve spent my life reaching for a brolly the minute the sky opens to find it missing. I of course blame the Husband, who was last see heading East, his being covered by a leopard print monstrosity (not mine I hasten to add. But if it’s not mine, who the hell’s is it ?). Yet again, no brolly for me and my make-up.

The times I HAVE managed to lay my hands on one of the blighters, I prompty forget about the extra accessory out with me for the day, leaving it alone and desolate and waiting patently for a new owner.

I made peace with my umbrella problem years ago, deciding to take the kamikaze attitude to rain fall. That’s it Ladies, I went commando. Not in the strictest sense I hasten to add. All was fine until this Summer when, not only was the rainfall at record levels, I also had the Munchkin to contend with.

Following on from a disastrous trip out this week where she refused, on pain of tantrum, to neither travel in her buggy nor use her umbrella, I had to contend with the scathing looks of Mothers who had their Children fully under control. How could I expect her to use an umbrella when I was so bravely getting wet, and sporting make-up that would make Alice Cooper proud ?

Having done a little surfing I’ve unearth a genius invention. An umbrella that I finally can’t loose, Buggy Brolly does exactly what it says on the tin. Of course it doesn’t take care of the Munchkin free moments, but quite frankly the fact that they’re Munchkin free ensure swift power-walking through the downfall, and a minute or two to reapply a bit of slap on arrival.

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.

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.

Back in the mid nineties when life moved at the speed of sound, and when house parties would not only go on all night but end with the collective viewing of the Hollyoaks Omnibus, my loved up friendship circle would frequently meet for Sunday lunch. A lunch that would roll into another coffee, then perhaps a glass of wine, and then someone would inevitably suggest we order a bottle or two. Our venue, various smokey public houses, sometimes as dingey as can be. As long as we were together what did we care ?

As it does, life moved on. We all met new people, and fell in love. While our friendships remained intact, our now gigantic friendship circle prohibited the cosy Sunday lunches we had all come to know and love. Of course, they still existed, just not in the same form.
Last Sunday we met friends for lunch at Ditto Bar & Restaurant. Albeit, not my original line up back in 1997 it was certainly my husbands. All hung-over and ready for a roast, not to mention accompanied by the Munchkin, we were unaware of the magic that was about to happen.

Lead to our table one of the first things that hit us was the lovely relaxed feel of the place. Stylishly set up for service there was an inviting buzz, neither too busy nor too quite. As we walked to our table the Munchkin squealed with joy. Tucked in a separate room, not entirely noticeable she had seen what we were soon to discover, was the playroom. And not just any playroom. Upon closer inspection we found what can only be described as Eden for any small person accompanying their parents to lunch - a wonderfully equipped soft play area full to the brim with toys.
Comfortably settled at our table I can safely say that we had the best Sunday lunch since being parents. The food was exceptional with true Sunday staples, the staff friendly and efficient. Having arrived at 1 pm our feet didn’t set out on the sad trudge home until 4.30 pm. Not only lunch but a day out too.

It’s so rare that a place can cater to such differing needs, but Ditto have managed to do it so wonderfully. Not once while in the restaurant did we feel that we were in a family restaurant and all children were amazingly behaved. The brightlights and squishiness of the soft play room certainly made for one small but nicely tired and subdued dining companion.

I love a good coffee shop. Always have. Back in the early Nineties my only requirements was that they served a slice of lemon with your black tea, allowed you to smoke, and played Ned’s Atomic Dustbin at a decent volume. Oh, how times have changed. While I’ll save the joys of afternoon tea at Claridges (www.claridges.co.uk) strictly for the times we’re sans child, Munchkin Lane (Nightingale Lane, SW12) is one of our favourite places to enjoy the wonderfully English custom of a cream tea.

Not only is the food healthy but it’s homemade and hearty. The owner ….. has designed it beautifully. Upstairs is a buggy park, not to mention seating for those without children, many of whom I saw enjoying their freshly made cappuccino in peace and quiet while indulging in a chocolate chip cookie to die for, and exercising their brain with the Times Crossword.

Downstairs is a fabulous play area, denoted by it’s brightly coloured foam flooring. There is a to die for wooden kitchen in a small person sized room under the stairs that has proved popular with both the girls and the boys. The selection of toys is great, and there’s flat screen television which pumped the joys of Disney into the room. The lighting is wonderful - it’s rare to find a basement with a degree of natural lighting, but it’s been achieved to great effect here.

We managed to while away a good few hours here, with my Munchkin able to role play to her heart’s desires with abundance of toys while I was able to catch up with all my favourite glossies.

Definitely one to try.

“I don’t say everything, but I paint everything” Pablo Piccasso. The same however could be said for the 22 month old Munchkin.

Coffee and Crayons (915 Fulham Road, SW6) has been a saving grace for the pair of us. Split over two floors there’s the cafe up stairs and downstairs, well, let me tell you about the genius that is down stairs.

Once your latte is ordered, take sharp right, down the stairs to the basement. Believe me it’s worth it. In my experience this will usually be aided by a persistent yanking on your arm from your toddler desperate to get down there.

There’s a fantastic SUPERVISED play area. For £ 4 (£ 3.50 if your child is under 18 months) you’re able to deposit your child while you curl up on one of the sofas with the selection of papers and magazines provided, or in my case, indulge in a little DS Lite Brain Train time.

There’s a particular emphasis on painting and drawing, as the name suggests. There’s easels, a huge train set, various toys, and a farmhouse style table full to the brim of creative wares for your little one to enjoy. We left after 2 hours with 5 slightly wet, if not very sparkly pictures pictures to decorate the Munchkin’s room.