I just had a specifically New Zealander-related-embarrassing moment. We all (underdressed, watery-eyed and whinging) headed off to the park to get the children tired and the testosterone out and perhaps to get something nice for lunch. We ended up at the south end of Kensington Gardens and headed for Wagamamas (ah, yes, so something nice for lunch turned into something noodley and a bit crap, then).

Suddenly though, weirdly, the sound of a hearty, manly haka filled the air. We grabbed our scooters/double pushchairs/wandering toddlers and ran out of the park, to the Hilton, just as the last “Hi!” was being yelled expertly and sexily by the entire All Black team. And with that, they headed onto their tour bus, all enormous of shoulder and square-jawed and LOVELY. So we stood next to them, while they filed aboard, and beamed, and said “Kia Ora!” in high-pitched excited voices to everyone one at a time and got the baby (dressed in a polyester Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer suit) to wave his fat baby hands and the kids to do some (very bad) haka moves in a clear display of homage to the Cult of New Zealand Rugby.

AND THEY IGNORED US.

We were totally and utterly blanked. Yes, perhaps they were tired, and perhaps they were, ah, too busy getting on the bus, and maybe they still had accumulated bits of muddy turf in their ears and eyes from yesterday’s game, but still. Ignoring the fans/babies/uncoordinated children in werewolf outfits? That is a new kind of Diva. Sporty Diva. As they drove off, I desperately yelled out “We are New Zealanders!” and lifted the baby above my head and waved like he was a candle at a Bon Jovi concert, and still, nothing. A few finally gave us very half-hearted acknowledgments once they got stuck in the oncoming traffic, but I suspect they were the caterers.

Moral of that story? Not sure, really. That rugby players have bodies like cartoon characters, certainly, yes, but no time for off-duty fan-love? In which case, the moral may actually be this:

Famous People Are Not Always *All That*.

So, to the Week That Was.

On Saturday, on a sneaky trip to Zara for some much-needed leopard print, my Luella wallet fell out of my bag somewhere between Whiteleys and Waitrose. The bad part of this was that I had to cancel then reorder all of my cards, have no money for a week, and generally feel very sad for myself because of the logistic hassle. The good part? A new Mulberry Margaret wallet in plum, with a tea and cake crest, atop British bulldogs. All very excellent. I feel the Higher Powers (Leather Goods Division) were intervening in order to facilitate a wallet upgrade. So I did, and now I am sated.

[There was a small matter of me ruining the first Margaret with my cheap and nasty and ancient waterproofing spray which stripped all of the plum dye off, but a quick trip back to Selfridges sorted that one out. Luxury goods counters can be quite kind to the calamitous customer, as it turns out.]

Further, on Friday morning, Mark discovered his van had been stolen from outside our flat. But upon hasty investigation, it turned out it wasn’t actually stolen, but taken by the bailiffs! For unpaid fines. Which made me feel like a very bad lady because along with my inability to help with any paperwork of any kind, sometimes I ignore those Strongly Worded Letters that we get on occasion.

But then, it turned out the bailiffs took the wrong van! Not OUR unpaid fines this time, but someone else’s. Some other White Van Man’s wife has been stuffing the Strongly Worded Letters into the back of the filing cabinet. PHEW, close call.

Moral of that story? Mark needs an office lady who does not revert back to childhood when faced with scary-looking letters.

I also suffered the whole week with one of those spots that look a little bit like Sarah Jessica Parker’s big fat mole, except coloured reddish and shiny with bits of flaky skin around it and so poisonous that my whole face puffed up on one side. And it hurt, and made wearing my Tom Ford lipsticks nigh IMPOSSIBLE.

And I broke with new oven door, dropping a Le Creuset casserole dish onto the inside glass and shattering it throughout the entire flat in little ouchy diamond splinters which the baby found beguiling. There was only a little bit of blood. (MINE, dudes, mine).

Anyway, ’tis soup time. I hope you all had similarly interesting weeks. Anyone want to share?