Peculiar photo of Noah when it was briefly sunny at Kew Gardens. He likes his hat. 

I have a few things on my mind. One is Twitter etiquette. I retweeted something today, and a new follower (oh, the lexicon sounds quite cultish, does it not?) kind-of told me off for it. She then kind-of apologised for that, after I sheepishly mumblingly replied something inane back. And it all felt very embarrassing. And I felt for the first time that Twitter, and by extension blogging, is a bit of a weird thing to do. And maybe I should rein it in a bit. Perhaps, I should even think about, oh, applying for jobs or writing something a little less moi moi moi. Anyway, I was surprised at how intrusive it felt and even embarrassing it can all get. Not for the frist time have I hastily deleted a reply (Matt Rudd, you know to what I refer) or sent a clarifying tweet because I sounded like a total wanker. Something for me to mull over.

New thought, but nonetheless as important. I am finding Debra Barr’s (the mean cocky one from “The Apprentice”) makeup very wrong and quite odd. She comes across (or is edited as) frosty and cold and is certainly crabby-looking, despite those lovely eyes. I would even go so far as to say bloodless and slightly corpsey. And her face unfortunately is always frosted in a purplish cold wintery dusting. The eyeshadow is admittedly artfully applied, but so, so cold, while the pale lilac on the lips suggests she has no heart. Certainly no pulse. Which is mean, but it is quite true. It is like she is channelling Tilda Swinton’s White Witch of Narnia. I am also astonished to find she is all of 24. Surely, even on such an esteemed show (ahem) such as “The Apprentice”, one could attempt to look ones’ age and not be fired forthwith by Sirralan? I am sure a bit of cheeky youthfulness and spirit might even cheer henchpeople Nick and Margaret up. I do find her compulsive viewing, in any case. Oh to warm her up with some Spring Juicy Tubes! Perhaps a jaunty bright scarf!

Somehow must segue onto Sunday. On the way to eat delicious (impromptu) roast at the Thomas Cubitt, a big, shiny and clean grey Range Rover slowed and tracked me on Lyall Street for a bit, then a woman doubleparked and ran out of the shiny beast of a vehicle and raced up to me. I had all three chilluns attached to either myself or red double pushchair, while husband walked briskly and unencumbered ahead of us. (Must ask him to stop walking SO far ahead. Not helpful). 

My point. The woman was all long and clean and young and beautiful. Like Chanel Iman. And she was in white – white jeans, white cashmere sweater, fabulously enormous and (clean) Chanel glasses with snakey Fendi belt. Thin, mixed race, gorgeous and groomed like no one I know. And she politely asked me about my frankly FESTERING double pushchair. (I have to state that I do not clean it more than once a year, and those pesky kids eat cake/fruit/sausages/blueberries/Carluccios’ hot chocolate drinks/mandarins/pizza etc all while sitting in it and so it is FILTHY. I do not exaggerate here).  Ms Iman was asking me if it was any good, and I was a bit sweaty having walked from Bayswater to Mayfair and I told her yes yes it is lovely. And she told me she had an 18month old and a five month old, and needed a new double pushchair and was clueless. She was both charming and, more importantly, all in WHITE! What craziness is this? What parallel world does she exist in? How do I emulate the cleanliness??? And so I was quite entranced and a tiny bit intimidated. And sad about my grubby birkenstocks and mismatched children and eczema hands. Which I know says more about me than her. 

On Tuesday, I had two of my childhood friends (from NZ via cheffing at the Thomas Cubitt and snowboarding in Utah respectively) spend the day with me, and we were comparing early-aging signs and telling tales about who from school turned out gay/fabulous/mentally ill/consecutively pregnant(that’d be me, then). And we wandered down Westbourne Grove and I took a few pictures of the loveliness.

These fellas in here can fix a very dire mummy-cut-my-hair-after-too-much-wine botch. I know this to be true.

Old derelict boarded-up cinema at the bottom of Queensway. Gorgeous and dreamy and mysterious, isn’t it? Bet the seats are still in there, all red velvet and rubbed-thin and slightly sticky.