mothers on the verge

By some small stroke of fortune, Firstborn and The Small(er) One slumbered peacefully until well past 9am this morning but this state of bliss had a flip-side. As Alpha and I have come to rely on their shrill demands for breakfast as our weekend alarm call, we too slumbered and missed the 10am Mass. Big deal, I hear you say, finger poised on the mouse as you prepare to go a-blogging in a more secular zone. No, I'm not about to confess my sins and bewail my lack of Godliness; my sleeping for longer than a gnat's fart (as is usual) just happened to deliver an entirely new experience. Rocking up at midday Mass, I felt confused as I scanned the crowds. Where were the coiffed heads of the usual genuflecting Euro-contingent? The designer labels? The dizzying array of cashmere? All I could see were ordinary looking people, mostly on their own, getting on with their churchy thing, heads down in serious contemplation. No sidelong glances, no loud hailing of neighbours and school-gate co...

Kensington mummies are a strange breed. The first point of note is that the British are in the minority in my neck of the woods, and secondly, working mothers are practically an endangered species. I have still not quite decided if either of these things are positive. Kensington mamas are a varied lot. Where each sub-species of Kensington dad are easily recognisable, the mums like to mix it up a bit so as to confuse onlookers. But there are two things that give them away - their BMI and astoundingly high levels of personal grooming. Kensington mamas can be roughly divided into three main groups; the French mamans, the Italian mamas and the American moms. But for the purpose of today's blog, I will focus on the French maman. The French maman would rather be dead than seen out and about looking fatter than a twig and as for looking scruffy; Mon Dieu! Quelle horreur! There is no excuse for such a lapse. French Mamans are moody 99% of the time, which British men put down to them being ...