Milk & Manolos

As a new mother, I was one of those abominable women who signs their child up to all and sundry to ensure their rounded development. Simply to assauage the guilt I felt of having a practically no maternity leave and returning to my previous career based life far too quickly, this little lady was sent to laugh and clap at many a music group. It’ll come as no surprise to those with children that my house of cards soon came tumbling down, as I careered (pun very much intended) into a small life crisis.

One of the classes the Munchkin attended was Sing and Sign, and one for which I’ll be eternally grateful. Also to her chaperone, the darling Husband who would spend an hour every Tuesday locked away in a windowless room “sweating like a rapist” with a bevy of yummy mummies, all of whom refused to speak to him.

Perhaps four months is a little young to start, but this undoubtedly has been one of our better parenting decisions. Particularly true to our consumeristic style we of course purchased the DVD. When, after the first batch of classes the Husband felt he could cope no longer with the frostiness, the Munchkin and I would enjoy the DVD in our own time, in the comfort of our own home (the cushions were far nicer I can tell you), and I finally got to learn the songs.

It wasn’t until Madam reached seven months that the fruits of our labour paid off. Demanding to watch some more Bob the Builder, the Munchkin emphatically signed ‘More’, much to great hilarity. From that day on they came thick and fast, our communicating baby our new found party piece. On our results alone I swear they’ve sold hundred of DVDs. The Munchkin of course loved it, she could have us running around after us at the mere click of her fingers.

The one thing we worried about was whether it would impede her the development of her vocal communication. The answer to that is a resounding no. Having quickly found her voice there’s been no stopping her. She’s as louqucious as any other 2 year old.

Now all I need is something to shut her up …

I’ve just endured the process of buying the Munchkin her first bad. So traumatic was it, that in one awful, horrible moment, we found ourselves being dragged around a Dreams superstore, being told to buy THE most disgusting bed I’ve ever seen by a sweet, but way to over enthusiastic Sales Assistant. Suddenly realising quite how low things had become, I whisked us out of there, faster than you could say “cheap MDMF”.

Heading home, I heeded the advice of one of my trusted girlfriends, that ASpace was the place to buy a bed. Having been everywhere searching for a suitable slumber station I was shockingly knowledgeable about the market, not to mention amazing that a single bed could cost so much. Even Dreams was clocking in at £ 350, for a ill-made monstrosity. This latest stage in the Munchkins development was easily going to set us back £ 500, mattress included. Joy. There goes those delicious Gina sandals I had my eyes one.

That said, I wish I’d have discovered ASpace at the beginning of my journey. Here I found exactly what we were looking for, £ 100 cheaper than elsewhere. From beds, to bed linen, mattresses to duvets, this is a one stop shop.

Following Bonhams recent urban art sale anyone who’s anyone are chasing their own bit of Graffiti ’skirt’.

Undoubtedly the place to start is Pictures on Walls. THE inaugural dealers in urban art prints since 2002. Being in with these guys could make you a whole lotta cash as they are the proud purveyors of original Banksy prints.

Of course you need to be up at the sparrows fart and never far from your computer to catch them, these are hotter than hot cakes on the coldest morning known to man. Signing up to their newsletter and regular checks of the site will ensure you have some classic pieces for your walls.

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 ?

As I scout the shops for possible Spring / Summer purchases, I couldn’t resist bringing you these cute, and not to mention, cheap and cheerful, sandals from Shellys.

I fully admit that I’m not usually a Shellys girl, finding their designs, particularly of late, somewhat from the left field, and I have the strong suspicion that the brand is flailing following the closure of their flagship store in Oxford Circus.

With all of that said, I thought these cute leather sandals could be a very suitable candidate for my “lived in” sandal of the season. At at £ 25, you can’t really go wrong.

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 …

This morning the Husband announced “we’re not doing anything for Valentine’s, right ?”. This suits me fine. Perhaps a delicious meal out, but that’s as far as it goes. No nasty surprises to worry about.

Clearly I’ve been scarred by one James Brown (not THE James Brown I hasten to add, that would just be wrong) and the Valentine celebrations of 1992, when I received my first letter from ‘Bacchus‘. With much hilarity, and a little bit of intrigue I was on a mission to uncover this man of mystery. Within 3 minutes flat it was all over the school. Just who was Bacchus we wanted to know ? The letters continued for the next 4 weeks as I grew more and more wary. The line between Valentine and Stalker becoming hair thin.

Notes were exchanged via library books but still I had no clue. Amazingly romantic on one hand though slightly terrifying on another. “This dude’s watching you” I was told on a regular basis, “doesn’t that freak you out ?”. It hadn’t done, but thanks a lot, you’ve given me something to think about.

It wasn’t until 6 weeks later, that at the first of many 18th Birthday Parties I decided to take a break from getting down with Mr. Wendell, crack open my pack of ten Marlboros and slip delicately at my Malibu and diet coke (I know, it turns my stomach too, but I was only 17). There suddenly behind me I heard a voice utter definantly “I am Bacchus“. All we needed then and there was Tony Curtis and Kirk Douglas to make it a true Hollywood moment.

Nearly chocking on my Marlboro the world went into slo-mo. In the 0.1 seconds it took me to turn around, a million thoughts crashed through my mind.

And there was James Brown, the guy who sat at the back of my history class never uttering a word, sporting the bowliest of bowl haircuts and skin that could have done with a chemical peel.

I let him down gently of course. We’d shared something quite amazing - a romance that never was and he’d found himself a little place in my heart for the sheer derring do he’d displayed. From that day on we always shared a secret smile, or wink and because of him Valentine’s will never be the same.

Fast forward to 2008, and here I am with Mr Wonderful, the Husband, the pair of us mutually agreeing to bypass Valentines and couldn’t be happier. That said, I’m toying with indulging his love of chocolate with a little treat from L’Artisan du Chocolat. Not entirely alturistic I confess. Of course I’d snuffle truffle my way through a few too …

I miss Wish You Were Here.  As the cold winter nights drew in Judith Chalmers and her posse of presenters would jet here, there and everywhere to describe to us just exactly what we were missing elsewhere in the world.  Back in the early Eighties each episode was screened with much excitement as we huddled around our TV to listen to Judith’s pearls of wisdom.  Thanks to her, we spent three consecutive summer holidays in Bulgaria.  Let me tell you, back in 1982 Bulgaria was the place to be.  The phrase cheap and cheerful resounds in my head.

So now, as we battle through those winter months, I start to pull focus.  I need to plan a holiday and NOW.  A task you would think was easy, but as those of you with Munchkins of your own will know, there are other variables we to now consider.

Baby Goes 2 is the place that any discerning traveller can plan vacations galore, each and every one of them ticking the various boxes they so require.   Covering the whole scope of holidays, from villas to resort based trips, Lapland to cruises (apropos the latter, I couldn’t imagine anything worse do with a child, but who am I to judge ?) this one stop holiday shop is quite simply not to be missed.

The villa in Puglia duly booked, all that’s left to do is buy the sun cream, find the trashiest book possible and sit patiently for another four months. 

I fully admit I’m a literary slut. Not something I’m terribly proud of - how I long to be the girl that reaches for an Austin or two prior to 10 days in the sun, but oh no, no. It’s Jackie Collins and her contemporaries all the way. I do have my moments, reaching for the occasional classic or Man Booker Prize winner, but those are few and far between.

Prior to Christmas, I had mentioned to the Husband that’d I’d like Janice Dickinson’s autobiography. What I actually received was Janice Dickinson’s best selling dating guide “Check Please ! Dating, Mating and Extricating“. Was he trying to tell me something ?

In an attempt to steer the Munchkin clear of the literary version of fast food (and let’s face it, being my daughter that’s a risk), I’m ploughing my way through Beatrix Potter each night to help simulate the places that other books don’t reach.

Neatly packed in one giant tomb we sit, like a Werther’s Original advert, cosy and ready for bed, the soporific effect of Miss Potter not missed in the slightest.

As they state now that a child’s feeding habits at 4 are illustrative how they’ll be as an adult, I’m hoping the same can be said for their literary tastes.

Having long since out grown the pull of sweet shops, I’ve merely migrated from the chewy and sweet tasting to the glittery and face making. I’m a self confessed lover of make-up.

For just £ 15 you can have something that revolutionises your look and gives you a minute or two in the chair picking up tips (thank you Space NK). You can barely buy a round of coffees for that at your local Starbucks.

My latest love is Nars’ Nightbreed eyeshadow, perfect for a day to evening make-up bag. Deliciously smokey. Of course it’s slightly terrifying loading the dark powder onto your brush ready for application, but remember, she who dares wins.