mothers on the verge

I'll admit it. I am rubbish at map reading. Truly rubbish. Super, mega, gigantically rubbish. I'll also admit that I am prone to getting us a tiny bit lost now and then, because sometimes the map doesn't make a huge amount of sense, and I get distracted by the children shouting for something or other, or sometimes just start to daydream about how lovely it would be to live in that sweet tumbledown cottage over there, maybe on my own with lovely peace and quiet all day long (of course this is only an idle daydream, brought on by the utter boredom of being confined to car for hours and hours and hours which is about as far away from being amusing as Dullsville could possibly get. Frankly, anyone who views this driving for hours lark as a form of entertainment should be incarcerated for their own safety without further ado). Anyway, I digress. So mea culpa and all that, but why should a small detour from the dull old autoroute onto a quite charming country lane result in such

It being half-term in good Ol ' Blighty , Alpha, the rugrats and myself have escaped the rat-race for a week to sloth out and consume large amounts of croissants/ chocolate/ alcoholic beverages chez The In-Laws. The In-Laws, who are delightful (I am a fortunate Mummy indeed) live in Geneva, which is a marvellous thing indeed apart from the fact that it forces us to experience the rancid charms of the Easyjet cabin crew. Why these orange-clad muppets act as if they are doing us a favour I have so far failed to understand. Added to this annoyance, flying with two children under the age of five is on par with being shut in a small box in the company of a pair of rabid baboons. I am selflessly considering offering my darlings to Her Majesty's Secret Service as a powerful weapon for the War Against Terrorism. The loud and tuneless singing of the three lines they know from High School Musical; the repetitive kicking of the seat in front of them; the endless demands for juice/ c

About to dive headfirst into the whirling chaos that is the school gates, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn. Mme A is standing there, looking impossibly chic with an unreadable expression on her perfectly made-up face. "I must speek wiz you," she says. "OK," I push the kids through the gate, where they are immediately swallowed up by a mass of violently flailing limbs, then step to one side to let the other latecomers through. Mme A has adopted a combative stance. "Eez it true that your cheeld 'as geeven ze teecher a ring? And zis is OK wiz you? Eez it? Eez it?" She has gone mad... insane... all those years of dietary deprivation have finally come home to roost. I smile, trying to placate the poor woman."Erm, yes. It was a plastic ring from her dressing up box. Why shouldn't it be OK?" Mme A looks as if she is about to explode, "My Henri is doing ze copy-cat! He 'as been steeling my rings and geeving zem to ze teecher! Eet is &

Now I know I should never say "never." But the truth is, I can't imagine a scenario where I would take $10,000 and pluck it down on a handbag. (Even if I had it...) But thanks to Hermes, I can now have one — made out of paper! This is the COOLEST site, even better for paper crafters for me. Just design, print, and go. Maybe not during a rain storm like the one predicted for Gotham today. But a fun diversion — and perhaps the trendiest birthday gift bag idea on the planet. And also not a bad way to scout the Hermes site for maybe a trinket or two that I could imagine buying one day. ;)

Walking the Rabbit to school -- and for that matter, home -- has become an exercise in frustration for both of us. It seems no matter what I say I end up with an angry, petulant situation -- and that's just me. The Rabbit fights me at every turn. Holding my hand on the way to school. Mad because I forgot to bring a bagel on our walk in the morning. (This is not her breakfast by the way. That would be the juice, cereal, banana and yogurt that sat out for 45 minutes while she ran around NOT eating breakfast.) Then there are the snotty comments, "You're not the boss of me." (Right.) "I don't want to walk with you!" And the screams that erupt when I say, "Fine" and continue to walk ahead of her (we're talking 3 feet ahead of her.) It's gotten so I don't want to take her nor pick her up anymore. And that I have to steel myself for these walks which I used to look forward SO much. I crafted a career (believe it or not) long before I becam

The Prince's latest gig has him up until 1 am most nights. Now, I am a night owl by nature and so it's easy for me to fall back into my pre-Rabbit rhythm. Not good? Waking up 6 hours later. I'm jonesing for sugar and coffee again, must like my post-delivery days. I know, I know. I should knock myself into bed earlier. (Yawn!) But it's been nice spending this stretch of time with The Prince even if we're both typing away at separate computers. I just wish I was one of those people who could survive on a few hours of shut eye and some meditation. But I always assumed there was a hidden caffeine patch involved in their claims of a few Oms leading to those sunny dispositions. For now? I'm basically mainlining it until I can figure out how get the City of New York to start Kindergarten at noon.

Dulwich Mum's column for the Telegraph is a must-read for any mother with rugrats at a competitive school. This one made me think of when Firstborn had to bring her Reception class toy, the insanely-named Beat Baby Blue, home for the weekend and then write about their thrilling exploits together. I looked through Beat Baby Blue's record book with horror. By that point Beat Baby Blue had been to Grandmere's chateau in France, a holiday pad in the Algarve, the Louvre and skiing in Courchevel, not to mention kiddy yoga, Kumon, a Japanese lesson and Shakespeare's Globe Theatre. Did I mention that Firstborn is five years old? Yup, Kensington kids sure get around. All we had planned for that weekend was the supermarket, a trip to the hairdresser and our usual Sunday genuflections. Although Beat Baby Blue would certainly have benefited from Alain's supreme blowdrying skills (all that travelling and worthy learning having left him somewhat matted) I wasn't sure I coul

This week was a lesson in humiliation. I now know never to underestimate the desire some people have to gain the political upper hand, even if it means making a patsy of someone who has worked their butt off for them for over two years. Yup, that patsy was me. I won't go into too much detail, suffice it to say that I delivered a blinding presentation at a conference last week and was then promptly savaged by an unhappy (and highly influential) meanie in the audience. The Turncoat just sat there, pretending that he had nothing to do with it, despite having approved all the content and complimenting me on it the day before. Worse still, he then continued this pretence throughout the remainder of the conference, directing snide comments at me during meetings and avoiding being seen with me during the networking sessions. And after this unpleasant event, did The Turncoat try to make amends? Did he buggery. What he did was turn to me and say, "Well, you didn't handle that very

My mother used to say that once she had me, the red swollen bumps on her face disappeared. While not an impetus to my getting pregnant, I did look forward to a pimple-free life as an extra perk that would come along with The Rabbit. So why — more than 5 years later — do I still get break-outs? And not little nubby things. Nope. We're talking about the ones where even my daughter stares worryingly before belting out, "Oh Mama! Does that hurt?!?!?" (Oh honey, just you wait.) So here's the thing. Either my mother's a liar (no comment) or else I'm the exception to the rule. Because Mama is trying to imagine how this plays out in say 10 years when we're both warring over the benzoyl peroxide for relief.

“Screwing things up is a virtue. Being correct is never the point. I have an almost fanatically correct assistant, and by the time she re-spells my words and corrects my punctuation, I can’t read what I wrote. Being right can stop all the momentum of a very interesting idea.” -Robert Rauschenberg 1925 - 2008

Happy Mother's Day!

Is anyone else weirded out about Heath Ledger Batman dolls doing a brisk trade on eBay? The dolls are changing hands for over six times the £5 RRP. Odd? Certainly. A touch macabre? I think so. The latest in the Batman stable,'The Dark Knight' is due to be released this summer. The merchandising has, of course, started to crank up already - Batman figures usually sell well but sales for the early release figures are rocketing. Possibly fuelled by the lure of a recently-departed star, the Heath/Joker dolls flying off the shelves. Such is consumer demand the toys, currently only available in the US, are going for multiples of the $9.99 store price. When I last looked the highest bid on eBay.co.uk stands at £31 plus P&P £7.50 - a staggering $75 - with another 17 hours of frenzied bidding to go. We live in a very strange world.

Well, Boris did it; Ken Livingstone is out after eight long years as Mayor of London. But what will London life under the reign of Boris Johnson be like? Boris has promised to get rid of the much-hated 'bendy buses' (billed as the transport of the future until everyone realised that they are fuel-guzzlers with an unfortunate tendency to burst into flames/ get stuck on awkward corners) and bring back the much-preferred old Routemaster -style vehicles. To put plans for a westward extension of the congestion charging zone up for public consultation, and scrap it if residents are opposed (although we have to remember that Ken once spent a huge wad on 'consulting' the public about the Kensington extension then rode roughshod over public opinion when the results turned out to be not of his liking). He will also abandon Ken's plans for a £25 charge on 4x4s (cue a sigh of huge relief from the Yummy Mummy brigade). Violent crime will be a focus. How? One proposal is to ban t

Funny how the weather affects the mood (and manners) of Londoners. Today, for the third day in a row, it is tipping down. Properly raining, the sort of downpour that leaves you soaked to the bone if you are foolish enough to leave home without an umbrella. Commuters seem to be most affected, or at least it seems this way by the way they behave. Tube etiquette (for what it is) is abandoned and the concept of 'every man for himself' is the order of the day. Pushing, shoving and muttered curses become the norm as dripping City boys and other office drones express their inner rage - all caused by sodden trouser hems and flattened hair. Umbrellas are used as lethal weapons as people barge their way out of train carriages. Briefcases become battering rams. Anyone unwise enough to walk at the sort of pace that being soggy from head to toe necessitates are side-swiped with added scorn. It's like the Lord of the Flies in London this week. I beseech you, avoid at all costs if you can