mothers on the verge

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 d

Roused myself earlier to do a bit of blog maintenance (sadly, a rare occurance these days due to my life being a hectic whirl of hobnobbing with c'lebs, manicures, personal shopper appointments etc .... cue hollow laugh... sigh ). OK, the truth is that I am generally useless but who knew how much fun there is to be had from a humble stat counter? Anyway, today's exciting discovery is that there are heaps of random google searches out there leading people to this blog. My favorites: 1. "Alpha Male Annoying" 2. "one percocet a day" 3. "I hate Tiscali" 4. "What's wrong with porn?" 5. "screwing up is a virtue" 6. "postmodern prayer" 7. "why is my toddler obsessed with Cinderella?" So, if you've arrived here through random Google fate, really hope it's what you're looking for. Incidentally, we can provide advice or agreement upon request on almost all of the search topics above except for number

Sometimes a girl just needs a change. No, I am not planning to run away to Bali with a toy boy (although keeping up with Alpha's high domestic standards is very tiring, especially with two small creatures trying to undo my efforts at every turn), nor am I planning surgery or a radical hair restyle. Quite simply, I have jacked in the stressful job. I finish work the same day as school breaks up. The summer stretches out before me like a glorious golden oasis, hooking me with the promise of large quantities of sumptuous food/ wine/ lounging. Yipee!

My little angel has a crush ! A proper, full blown, gangly, gauche, blush-inducing crush. The object of Firstborn's affections is a sweet little thing, let's call him Mr T, in the same class at school. Mr T is French (naturally, Les Anglais being an endangered species in Kensington these days), brown of eye and limb, and really quite charmingly shy. The romance first blossomed in a leafy Kensington square one sunny Sunday afternoon. I knew something was afoot when Firstborn spotted Mr T on the other side of the garden, immediately becoming skittish and exciteable yet throwing a major tantrum when it was suggested she go over to play with him. Firstborn then applied herself to the pretence that Mr T didn't exist, contriving to rush past him as often as possible with a tribe of other kids in her wake, laughing merrily and looking as if she didn't have a care in the world. Poor Mr T didn't stand a chance - not being an Experienced Man Of The World with the knowledge t

It's that time of year again. That time of year when I start to feel a little physically dejected. Don't get me wrong, I love summer. I love sunshine and I love the fact that I no longer have to experience the daily struggle of hoisting up the crotch of my 60 denier tights from their inevitable downwards creep (can someone please invent tights that stay UP? Is this too much too ask?). It's just that now I am irrefutably thirty-something (ugh, the very words stick in my throat) preparing for the Grand Unveiling Of The Flesh is an increasingly mammoth task. Just two years ago, although I was most certainly thirty-something even then, the beautifying regime was a little easier. What has happened in the past two years that a tub of fake tan and my trusty Epilady can no longer remedy? And if this slippery slide is to continue, what fresh horrors are in store as I start to edge unwillingly towards forty-something ? Will I forced to trade in the au-pair for a team of live-in beau

A delightful holiday has been had by all. It is, however, high time for Firstborn and the Smaller One to resume their education. School has many merits, one of them being to give weary mummies and daddies some much-needed peace and quiet. This afternoon a situation occured which rendered me quite speechless (those who know me in the non-blog world will vouch that this is a rare occurance). Firstborn, hithero my sweet darling love, shimmied at me with hands on hips and the sort of hard-assed look on her face more usually seen on a Bronx hottie grinding it up on an MTV special, then snarled: "YeahwellMUMI'lldowhatiwantandyoucan'tstopmesothereandifyouspankmybottomI'llspankyou onyourbigfatbottomandgivemeTimeOutifyouwan'tIdon'tcareanywayI'llescapeandrunawayto Princess landandthenyou'llbesorrythatyoudidn'tletmehaveanotherlollySOTHERE!" Stamp, stomp, pout. "AND YOU'RE A BIG POO HEAD!" screeches the tiny harridan before she turns on her h