Skip to main content

Happy birthday Firstborn

Firstborn turned six yesterday. I think I have at least 16 new grey hairs... one for each of the ravaging beasts, erm...I mean small delightful creatures, who attended her celebratory feast.

As last year was an utterly chaotic affair - the low point being my waking up at 7am on the day of her party, the realisation that I had forgotten to make her a birthday cake like an ice-cold fist in my chest (somehow I managed to get to the supermarket for the essentials and make 24 fairy cakes by 9am so All Was Not Lost ...except maybe for my mind) - this year I tried to compensate by going into crazed SuperMom mode. The party bags were ready a whole week in advance. The gifts were selected and wrapped (well, most of them) days before. Then not only did Firstborn get 30 carefully iced fairy cakes, I made an impossibly ambitious fairy cake... in other words a cake skirt with half a Barbie stuck in it... decorated with at least a million silver balls and half a ton of piped icing, and the piece de resistance, edible paper wings hand-painted using food dye.

Yes, I know. I sound just like a S'Mother. And let me tell you, it wasn't worth it. Those sodding fiddly little silver balls took until 2am to put in place - at which point I collapsed in a frenzy, woke up early in a hideous mood and shouted at Alpha without due provocation. Thankfully the party itself was delightful, all thanks to the care and attention of the lovely people at http://www.coffeeandcrayons.co.uk/ on London's Fulham Road. Alpha was in his element hiding in the cafe upstairs with the other sensible parents. Myself? I was so frazzled and cross by the sheer effort of the whole thing that I spent quite a lot of time with my mouth full of cake in order to avoid having to make small talk with other parents, delightful as they are.

And as it turns out, although all the other beasts had a brilliant time (an orgy of cake and shouting, what's not to love?), Firstborn ended up weeping bitter tears because "the fairies didn't come!" Turns out Firstborn had written a letter to the fairies to invite them to the party, then announced to all her friends that at least one real live fairy would be attending. Apparently she will never get over the shame of the no-show....

Next year we're going for a post-modern ironic theme with lunch at MacDonalds with as many Fruit Shoots as the little darlings can stomach. Or maybe I'll just go to a spa. On my own.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Apologies for being incommunicado this week and hope none of you out there are too distraught not to be receiving the usual almost-daily MotV missives. The reason for the silence is that I'm up to my neck, metaphorically-speaking, in research papers for my first grad course assessment. This experience has made me realise how rigorously un-academic I am in my thinking. It has also illuminated how reliant I am on red wine in order to get through endless evenings typing furiously on my laptop, not to mention the fueling of increasingly colorful curses that I feel obliged to aim at the University's online library system which consistently refuses to spit out any of the journals I'm desperate for (I refuse to believe this is 100% due to my technical incompetence...)Oh well, if this is the price one has to pay in order to realize a long-cherished dream then it's not all that bad... No one ever said a mid-life career change would be easy. Wish me luck!

Recommended & the Mahiki dance-off

My GFs and I went to Mahiki last night, great fun as usual but made me feel a bit old; it seems that Thursday night is the playground of the just-past-pubescent. Oh well. Good tunes though, so whatever.In between taking over the dancefloor - the youngsters may have youth on their side but frankly that shrinks to insignificance in the face of two decades of clubbing experience - one of my GFs and I got into a conversation about why so many people are full of bull.It appears that many people we come across are content to live their lives in a superficial way, skimming the surface of what life has to offer and equating the ownership of stuff (cars, houses, boats, jewelry, designer clothes) with happiness. They converse in terms of status, strut their possessions as a measure of their own self-worth, take themselves far too seriously, are quick to judge others, easily annoyed, complain a lot about very little and their worries seem to far outweigh their joys. Personally, I think all that…

Champix

Following on from the realisation that my lungs are filthy and if I don't give up the smokes soon I face a life of wheezing at best, off I trotted to see the charming Dr T.

Dr T, who's charming by virtue of the fact that he's less jaded than the other doctors in the surgery (in other words, he treats patients as if they're human beings with a right to NHS services rather than annoying fraudsters trying to gain sympathy for imaginary illnesses) promptly put me on potentially habit-forming drugs to get me off the evil weed. Something doesn't feel quite right about this but since I'm so pathetically grateful to have a doctor who's willing to give me more than two seconds of his precious time, I have acquiesced to his demands.

Anyway, this wonder drug is called Champix and promises to have me merrily chucking my smokes in the bin in no time. Or it will if I can get past the possible side effects, the highlights being abnormal dreams, nausea, flatulence, snoring, …