38 weeks

Posted on January 11, 2010 by theharridan

I am a big waddling lady who breathes very hard and loud when bending down to do up shoes (converse sneakers – not exactly snow-friendly but they have a tiny bit of grip and they, er, fit, which is more than I can say for the many pairs of ballet flats and pirate boots I have languishing at the bottom of my wardrobe…) and I put my hand behind my hip as I weave throughout the house and blow strands of stray fluffy hair out of my eyes. The boys have been fighting but I just say “Please go into your room to scream” and then waddle back down the hall to do some more heavy breathing. It is awesome. I wish I could record this elegance but alas, we have

1. the wrong lens on the canon, and

2. the battery door on the camera fell off somewhere between the statue of the horse and the gates near The Albert Memorial in Hyde Park which renders the canon completely useless anyway, and

3. my iphone has broken itself, and so

you cannot know how round and pink and sweaty I have become. Except for this little fuzzy teaser:

Eeek so we are without a camera, and the Flip video camera is a dud and will not charge, and I have no phone. I am really really hoping that I am walking through the park and my waters break and I am stricken with the uncontrollable urge to push and I have a baby on the snow and ice in full view of the swans and have nothing to record this moment of superhuman bravery and fabulousness, nor a phone to call husband/midwife or to update my twitter status. What a story to tell the grandchildren.

So all this is making me a little nervy. It is nice to be fully prepared for a baby. What we have done is spend all Saturday in IKEA buying things to put stuff in which will miraculously make way for a sixth member of the family. It did kind of work, and the current baby has been relieved of his cot which has been handed down to the as-yet-unseen-one, and I have found a set of drawers to put the blue stained baby grows of which I have possibly a thousand. Barnaby and Noah are in new bunks. All seems well in the refurbished-in-MDF apartment kind of way. And Barnaby says he wants to marry me, which is uplifting for the spirits.

So we wait. And try not to think about the Selfridges sale which is down to 75%, or the fact that Barnaby has a birthday three days after this baby is due, and we shall probably be cutting his cake at the party for 15 when I start to bellow like a cow. I shall think no more about the fact that I may break my bones and tear my pliable ligaments on the ice outside and may well be disabled by the time the baby arrives. Or, indeed, about the fact that the baby seems to be headed for No Name. No more shall I recall that when the Spanish nanny returned from Madrid with an enormous bag of Spanish Christmas biscuits made with sesame and cumin and a lot of sugar I simply ate them all, without sharing, or even pausing to think about sharing. And today I started on the (old) mince pies.

Just so you are not too alarmed by my girth, here is me again, without the belly, head and shoulders relatively in proportion, but kind of dead behind the eyes:

Bit spooky – sorry about that.

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Anniversary

Posted on January 4, 2010 by theharridan

Yesterday, Mark and I had our 12th wedding anniversary. Which meant that we did not do anything different, and no one gave anyone any gifts or cards, but we were kind to each other and went to the zoo. And had slow-roasted lamb for dinner with chocolate Gu pots for dessert. And then watched telly. All in all, a perfectly acceptable Sunday/wedding anniversary. And presents-wise I am still basking in the glory of my champagne Mabel so was happy all round.

So, 12 years ago we got married on the beachfront at One Tree Point, Ruakaka, New Zealand. It was hot, Mark got a burnt and blistered forehead, I wore an oyster and gold dress (still quite stylish, thank you very much – although it no longer does up – SIGH), we had excellent roasted ham (the subject of which unfortunately became the subject of my wedding speech – one of many wedding speeches made by me that are best left forgotten), someone forgot to bring the hired glasses for drinks, the band were a little weak, the wine was bad choice but luckily most of the guests didn’t drink so no one noticed, and the makeup artist forgot to turn up. The Lowest Point Of All was going back to the hall where we held the reception in order to retrieve my makeup box, and finding my parents cleaning up the hall by themselves. So we helped them, sweeping and wiping and packing up chairs – all in our wedding finery and until midnightish. Not an ideal end to the wedding, perhaps.

But it was Our Wedding in the sun on a plot of scrubby family land, and there were horses wading through the water during the ceremony, and my bridesmaids are still women I love and admire, the guests are mostly still people we talk to, and at least one marriage came out of the wedding guest list. The house I got ready in was an old homestead that my grandfather had helped to build. My uncle married us, and said a few simple lovely words which were perfect. And there was some extremely good ham, which I may have mentioned.

Most of all though, in this slightly introspective/New Year-new-me/flashbacky-post, I have the pleasure in acknowledging that I have had a surprisingly good time being married. It turns out it suits us both being married to each other, and that we really do make a good fit. He likes fishing, I like handbags. He likes terrible straight-to-dvd movies, I like net-a-porter clothes. He notices deer and car crashes, I notice accents and perfumes. He never, ever reads my blog, or the paper, only cowboy novels and a bit of weird fantasy-set-in-a-far-off-medieval-land-with-busty-wenches. He has a collection of broken watches, and in storage many, many spades, and Leatherman knives. I scratch my head in wonder, and go play online scrabble with my mother – (never him – he refuses). But it works. I think it may ultimately be our shared love of food which is the glue – maybe the children, but more likely the food. And we do love a good boxset/night at the movies/mince pie.

Here is us cutting the cake. Still eating the cake, 12 years later. Not the actual cake, because it would be bad now, and we do not have the willpower, but some sort of foodstuff, together.

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Naming the baby sucks

Posted on December 29, 2009 by theharridan

Oh the poor poor baby. He/She is going to arrive at the end of January and we have no idea what to call it. Mark is positively bored by the naming process fourth time around – he barely looks up from “American Chopper” when I suggest something. And just bangs on about how he wants to call the baby by the name of our old dog. Again and again. So I go thinking and searching and come up with slightly bonkers names and have to test them on facebook/twitter/supermarket ladies and the best I get is “Well, I don’t HATE it…”. So, ah, I am completely at a dead clueless end.

I like Ned, then Gus. Mark likes Flynn and Mark Junior (and Trevor, Blue and Terminator, but I think he is joking – at least about Trevor). For a girl, it has been a done deal since we were first holding hands. Eliza. Which bores me silly now, but it has stuck. I have just been told that if it is a girl, Mark will let me have Clementine IF he can have Flynn for a boy. And I said NO BECAUSE THAT IS A DOG’S NAME.

Anyway, let this be a warning to you not to keep having children. Aside from the fact that you get looked at funny everywhere you go, and old ladies tell you how ageing motherhood is, while gazing pityingly at your non-botoxed crow’s feet and bits of crusty weetbix on your sleeve, and that you need a 7-seater and you just get fatter and fatter and your stomach more mauled-looking each time you pop one out, it all plays havoc with your imagination and your sense of humour. You turn Harridan-like, even. At least, I do. And you run out of names.

Barnaby and Noah have helpfully suggested Fingers, Batman, St Paul’s Cathedral and Hamster. They have warned me the new baby must not be a girl. Custard has not proffered much other than the dogged practicing of his biting and I fear I know for whom his little teeth wait. He can really only say “apple” and “Allawah” which is clearly an attempt at “Spiderman” – actually, this is probably his suggestion for the new baby.

They are all hopeless and therefore it falls to me to save this kid from mediocrity/bonkersness. If anyone has any suggestions, please do let me know. I am going MENTAL.

These fellas were easy to name. And they like pizza.

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Boxing Day

Posted on December 26, 2009 by theharridan

Tis the day after Christmas, and we have settled down to watch The Sound of Music, which is exactly the right thing to watch on Boxing Day, as everyone in the entire world knows. But I have just poured hydrogen peroxide into my eyeball, so I am less watching, more squinting and wincing with watery-eyed pain. We have been out at the park, frolicking amongst the mud and hungry squirrels, but that surprisingly sunny excursion was unfortunately topped off with a desperately wrong lunch at Pizza Hutt. I am culinarily defiled. You see, today has been a day of extremes. In fact, the whole Christmas break has been a mix of good and bad. A list, if you will:

Presents

The good: The kids liked their Playmobil Mega Farm set, their Lego fire engine/castle, their Transformers, scooter, jumping dog, pirate paraphernalia, etc.

The bad: I was given the Least Number of Presents On Record Since 1977. Now, I fully appreciate that I am supposed to be above this terribly childish pouting. But I am not. So I wept a little on the inside as I was handed an unwrapped Dirty Dancing cd (what – ten years too late?) and counted about three presents in total under the tree for me to open – mostly from my lovely sister-in-law who knows the value of a slab of Rocky Road – but cheered when Mark agreed to letting me buy a new Mulberry Mabel. For the record, I solemnly vow not to burn this one on the top of the stove.

The ethically questionable: I was given some pot pourri on a gold tray. I would like to give this one straight to the Trinity Hospice charity shop. But the giver is someone who frequents the flat weekly – and who will do so for the foreseeable future. Do I HAVE to keep it? Do I HAVE to use up rare and valuable shelf space for pot pourri? Can’t I just Never Mention It Again and hope the giver doesn’t notice? I am ethically confused with no love for dried foliage.

Party

The good: We had a party on Christmas Eve. We had 10 adults quaffing champagne and scoffing brie en croute and 12 kids screaming around the flat dressed variously as Batman, the police, and Mrs Claus-in-a-scanty-nightie. The ham was good, the egg nogg apparently excellent, the clean-up very quick. There were only two fights between the children resulting in tears – and they were my kids so I didn’t mind.

The bad: Noah did a poo on the floor of his room mid-festivities, but luckily it was artfully placed on a shiny Maisie book and so slid off terribly easily. The kids didn’t seem too bothered, although did keep a wide berth from the bookshelves. The bread rolls were left in the oven and so lacerated the gums of all who dared to eat them, and we had only two champagne glasses. The mackerel pate, while wildly successful thanks to Stylish Liz, left a fish-smell-residue on everything in the dishwasher, and I spilled the ripe juice from a huge wodge of gorgonzola down my dress before everyone arrived. I smelled like sick for hours.

Christmas Day

The good: The children slept in until 8:45am. Weird, but like a Christmas present to us in itself. We did not feel very hungry owing to the party the night before, and so had hammy-leftovers and low-key Christmassy things instead of eating like piglets. The kids were happy all day playing with their stuff. There was no pressure, and it was very quiet.

The bad: It was a little too quiet. And we missed our mums and dads. And it didn’t snow.

Right. So, here is a photo of Noah dressed as a Villager in the nursery play (the one in which he had a kip midway). He is minus the headscarf, and showing the camera a wooden ball he later nicked:

This is the children getting driven around Seymour Street in Cinderella’s pumpkin coach a few weeks ago. They all subsequently fell to the floor in a slump as soon as the horses took off:

Here is us at the work Christmas party at the Tiroler Hut about to be fed mountains of pork knuckle and assaulted aurally by cowbells and bad versions of Edelweiss. mark looks suspiciously Eastern European but I swear he is not. And I am in my gorgonzola frock:

That is all. Now back to watch the Germans hunt Maria and Georg down.

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The Owl and the Villager

Posted on December 16, 2009 by theharridan

It is the last week of school/nursery before Christmas, and thus, it is the Season Of The Nativity Play. Or, in the case of Barnaby’s school, the  Season Of The Scarecrow In A Meadow. Something fairly odd and autumnal, anyway.

So last week, Noah was cast as a head-scarf-wearing Villager in the nursery play which was all about Jesus in the manger. Rarer than you may think, this staging of the Jesus story. So, anyway, he was dressed in white, and had a most excellent tartan teatowel on his head. He did a bit of singing, quite a bit of playing with his shoelaces, some yelling of “Mum! Come sit over HERE!” (pointing to the space next to him on the stage) and then, when it all got a bit much, he found a stray pillow and lay down and had a bit of a snooze. I was extremely proud.

Today Barnaby had his turn. The Scarecrow In A Meadow performance was at 1pm, which was awful timing, so I had Susan come over to watch the sleeping Custard while I took Noah up to school. Noah came down with a shaky fever but insisted he come with me, so I said that was ok. We decided we would race out the door and get a cab as it was snowing and with the fever and my enormous girth it seemed the best idea. Unfortunately, Noah, known for impeccable timing, did a poo in his corduroy trousers about 12 seconds before we needed to run out the door. I changed him, crossly, then we raced out to grab a cab in the snow. There were no cabs, though, or none that were happy with my choice of pick-up zone. So I grabbed Noah, all shaky and ill, and waddled about a block and waited and realised with Maternal Doom that it was 12:57. Three minutes to go before my Firstborn performed as an Owl in his FIRST SCHOOL PLAY! I decided crying wasn’t going to help, nor was swearing, so we waited, getting colder, and wetter, and sadder.

Of course, a cab did come, and got us there about 8 minutes past one. After I thrust a fiver at the taxi man and told Noah to hop out quickly, he decided that he preferred the cab to the Cruel Outside though, and shrank back into the bucket seats. I had to grab him by the leg and drag him out and carry him running to the reception with him crying about the lovely warm taxi. So I run puffing to the reception, all wild-eyed and panicky, only to be met by The Evil Evil Office Lady (she of the Mean Glare and the Cranky Sigh). She calmly told me that yes, the play had started, and that I had to pay £1 before I went in. I thought that maybe she would let me pay on the WAY OUT when I wasn’t TEN MINUTES LATE FOR MY FIRSTBORN SON’S FIRST PLAY but apparently not. (For this, Dear Reader, I shall forever hold a grudge). So I scrambled around in my broken wallet looking for a stray pound holding a whining Noah, while she watched me and helpfully remarked that “He looks sick.” Indeed.

Up the stairs (two flights, two sets of heavy firesafe doors, writhing sweaty three year old in arms, huge belly, big coat, bag and scarf in tow) and then, through the last set of doors, I whack Noah’s head against the edge. He starts screaming, we enter ONTO THE STAGE interrupting a magpie reciting his lines. All parents stare angrily, Headmistress does a rolling of the eyes. I mouth “Sorry” and get off the stage, through the audience with a wailing Noah who is shrieking “You hit my HEAD!” and dump him in the library. Barnaby is dressed in brown tights, brown tee shirt, owl mask, and big feathery owl wings. He is singing, earnestly, and swaying to and fro clearly doing the Wees Dance. He keeps fiddling with his willy, obviously about to pee all over the floor, but does so in a very relaxed, owlish manner. He says his lines, I cannot contain my grin, or the little proud tears that squeeze out a little bit. He is quite clearly the most talented, genius child in a cardboard meadow of wildlife. I do wonder why he wasn’t cast as the Scarecrow, but figure happiness is not to be found following this line of enquiry. So I charitably Push Them Thoughts away.

I retrieve Noah, who has a very pale lump on the side of the head, and who, thankfully, appears to have been knocked into some sort of quiet stupor. I love him again this way. We marvel at the costumes, the singing, we wonder what is going on in the unfeasibly difficult-to-follow-plotlines, we applaud, and we leave. Christmas is clearly on its way.

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Goldfish

Posted on December 8, 2009 by theharridan

This is where we are going for the Christmas work party. I have no love for the Tiroler Hut and the leiderhosen-clad waiting staff and that man who insists on the cowbell-playing at full volume mid-meal. Deep, deep, heartfelt sigh.

Anyway, I digress.

Last night (or rather, early this morning), after the 4:29am wakeup call from Barnaby who wandered in wondering aloud if it was morning time yet or not, I lay awake and thought of many, many Terribly Interesting Topics to blog about. I was almost tempted to go and write then, but common sense suggested I stay in the bed until I got the bladder call – a call that currently comes every 45 minutes through the night. So, alas, I am bereft of genius today. Sorry. However, there is this:

Topics That Are Swimming Around My Head Akin To Goldfish In a Bowl

1. My new hair. I have become rather fond of nipping to the Aveda salon of a Sunday afternoon, in order to get: a) a pregnancy massage; b) new cut and colour; and c) a pedicure. Clearly, the only necessary treatment here is the pedicure, because I cannot reach my feet, or in fact even see them. But Go To Aveda I Must, as it makes me groomed and blonder and flushes out the water in my tight sausage calves, and it means that I get a rest from those pesky kids. In the salon, they give you stuff. Like water and cappuccinos and hand massages and head massages and magazines and not one salon staffer asks you to take them to the toilet or for peanut butter and jam sandwiches and perhaps most pertinently, I have never seen anyone from Aveda punch anyone else in the stomach or call them a poo. So I am in total heaven. And if you get small gay 25 year old Irish Stephen to do your hair, he talks exclusively about the X Factor and lets you in on tales of his nose job, botox injections, tooth veneers and cheek fillers, all paid for by his mum. And you cackle and scream a little bit and then you walk out considerably poorer and yet, all the richer. With curly blonde hair.

2. My parents. I would really like them to come and stay in our lounge. I would like them to meet Custard and to watch telly with Noah and the baby while I take Barnaby to school. I would like to go and see some stuff with them, and bring them along to the nursery play and show them the myriad punctuality certificates Barnaby (ahem!) has been awarded. I would like Dad to look at our filing system and maybe apply a little common sense to it. And mum could draw with Barnaby. Maybe they could work out how to stop Noah from biffing bits of food under the couch like a very premature male anorexic. That is perhaps my Christmas wish. Sigh.

3. Alongside a Mulberry bag (as has been discussed) and some money to spend in the January sales.

4. Which brings me to how much I love Christmas in London (even if I haven’t seen a family member in ABOUT 3 YEARS). In New Zealand, it is gorgeous but very different. It is hot, and the beach features heavily, and swimming and baches (a.k.a holiday homes for the uninformed) and dolphins and salads and crayfish and men in shorts and bad sandals are all a big part of it. But here we do get to do things as nature intended. The coldness is ok because it is relatively new, and everyone is enjoying their new coats/scarves/gloves and there are Christmas things aplenty. We have been seeing Santa every week for a month now – in Marylebone (1 hour 20 mins wait, one teddy bear each), in Connaught Village (half an hour wait, box of magic tricks/jigsaw/paint your own racing car), Seymour Street (he didn’t actually arrive but we did get a ride in Cinderella’s carriage) and Selfridges (no wait at all, three of the same books about Paddington Bear). There are a few German-esque markets scattered about, meaning there is no shortage of bad mulled wine and bratwurst sausages. The lights on Oxford Street (although endorsing a Christmas movie) are beautiful, and the window displays in Selfridges are camp and gorgeous. Real Christmas trees are for sale on lots of corners, carollers are dotted about of an evening. It is lovely.

5. Kitchenaid coffee grinder. It stopped working, which has meant having to buy pre-ground coffee. I SCOFF at pre-ground coffee (and I scoff at all the Nespresso-lovin’ in this town but that is another story). So we called Kitchenaid to ask about repairs and guess what? They just GIVE you another new one! A straight swap. Genius. So everyone who lusts after a Kitchenaid food mixer -do it. Yes, it is the price of a small car but you don’t get a new car when you prang your old one, do you??? Hmmm?

That is all. The head cupboard/goldfish bowl is bare.

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Napping (or not)

Posted on December 2, 2009 by theharridan

All I want to do this afternoon is to lie down on that Ikea couch and wrap myself in an on-sale (now quite nutella-and-peanut-butter-soiled) Brora blanket and have a little doze. Just for 20 minutes. And I want to mull over some boys’ names for the as-yet-undetermined forth child. Hunter? Miller? etc, etc. And then have a little half-dream about giant mince pies being delivered by the Abel & Cole man who may sing a few carols for the children and keep them entertained before taking the recycling away without me shoving it into his arms pointedly. But such a reprieve is being denied me as I have children. One in particular is interrupting my nap by running up to the couch and demanding more peanut butter and jam, which is to be picked off the bread, wiped on his shirt and the blankets and a few walls/light switches, and then I am to spread on a little more so the process can be repeated. I say no. He yells. I yell. No one gets a nap.

Anyway, one of the reasons I am a little on the weary side is that, apart from the 32 weeks pregnant thing, I went out to something Very Stylish and a Little Bit Cool last night. Jo, she of the new baby and lovely new haircut and litheness and fresh-face and Alexander McQueen scarf, asked me to go with her and some friends to see the Yeah Yeah Yeahs at the Brixton Academy. That, quite frankly, is a Proper Young Person’s Outing. So pushing through the pain-barrier of tiredness and ennui, I went and had a lovely time. Also, I had two gin and tonics. This caused me to sweat a little bit and when we were waiting for Karen O and her Band’O’Noise to come on, standing, the place got hotter and more crowded and I did my Heavy Pregnant thing of feeling like I was going to vomit/faint/die.  So I said I had to go. Jo, ever courteous, said she would find me a wheelchair. This was not quite the effect I was planning to have on the crowd, my vintage polyester red frock and McQueen tuxedo jacket threatening to get lost in the folds of a wheelchair, but heyho.

But (and this is the point here, fellas – take NOTE!) for the disabled/heavily pregnant/swooning among you at a gig, there is a ramp that one can go to – a Disabled Person’s Ramp – which is actually just another term for Really Good Seats With An Excellent View – away from the throng of Abled Bodies who, while obviously feeling good and healthy and fully in charge of their limbs, are also squashed in and involuntarily mooshing. Well, there is one of these genius ramps at the Brixton Academy, in any case. So Jo and I took our seats and could watch Karen O in her PVC and tubular crinoline and her violent smashing of the mic completely unobstructed.  And the faintness passed, the risk of spewing left me and I was fine, although a little more tiredy than usual today.

Tonight is Book Club – a whole new Queens Park literary adventure. I am going to try to sound faintly intelligent. This is no easy task these days. I fear that amongst the beautiful TV producers and architects and documentary makers and lecturers, my contributions may fall flat. We shall see. In the meantime, here is my Custard in a nice jumper.

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Rocket

Posted on November 28, 2009 by theharridan

We have borrowed a dog. A small, young, weirdly-well-behaved little jack russell/village terrier cross. He is so good that I suspect he is a little bit slow or just internally FREAKING OUT. He just kind of hangs around, unobtrusively, and allows the children to tickle/follow/chase/wrestle/squeal/poke him, and just kind of looks resigned to it all. He has a face that says “well, what’s a dog to do?’ as he is kissed on the lips by slobbering toddlers. Amazing. He uses the middle-distance stare a lot – probably in an effort to remind himself of his proper home, with 50-something gentle owners who give him a few walks around the block and leave his endlessly fascinating “scratchy chin” and “vampire teeth” alone.

Needless to say, when I dragged all three chilluns on the 25 minute sprint to school on Friday with my big bump and the double pushchair filled and a boy on a scooter zigzagging wildly and a little dog trotting out the front, I got more than my usual stares. Yes, General Public, We Are Insane.

Noah is enchanted and may never speak to us again when we have to give Rocket back. Noah is not that keen on humans, really, and now he has been introduced to boy-and-dog-love, I fear we shall never compensate. Welcome to one of Life’s Greatest Truths, son – dogs are a bit annoying and do require poo-scooping, but at least they do not complain about the content of your blog/hassle you about the household accounts/refuse your lasagne.

Weekly #FAIL becomes Weekly #SUCCESS

I got a call from Mulberry. My Roxane Tote, once a thing of covetable beauty, now charred and holey, cannot be repaired. And we have no insurance that will cover it. Hardly third-world-famine-type stuff, but deeply saddening all the same. So, in the spirit of Keeping Calm and Carrying On, I have decided to send the dead Mulberry to Amber, where her genius upholsterer-type father may may fashion some solution out of leathery bits, and I shall just get another one. HURRAH! Everyone wins, this way, and I get to choose between an emerald Mabel and a Mabel Hobo. Genius.

We got SKY installed this week. Not sure if this is a #FAIL or #SUCCESS. See what calm has descended upon my living room:

I am confused. Do I despair at the overload of terrible TV and the threat to my family? Or do I just go and read Vogue and have coffee and sneak out to go raid the second-hand shops? I will report back once this conundrum is sorted.


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eyeliner

Posted on November 23, 2009 by theharridan

In an effort to snatch back my formerly cheery (if slightly moany) blog from the last post’s sermony-ness, I have decided to write a list. Of good stuff.

1. Slap. I have discovered, really quite late, the transforming, essential power of a whole lot of slap. Every day. And alongside this, is the fortnightly early morning browse around the Beauty Hall in Selfridges, where I sample and just might buy something that has been flagged up in the mags. This week, it shall be to the MAC counter I go, for a black greasepaint stick. This, apparently, will give me saucy panda-eyes that look like I have just rolled out of bed. Coupled with my never-brushed hair, I should look suitably Bardot-esque. The whole 7 and a half months pregnant thing may negate things a little, as will the fact that I only have about two things to wear (and maternity clothes are not saucy, no matter how tight they get) BUT I think it is all in the mind, really, and so as long as I project the air of glamour and fabulousness, I may well have the General Selfridges Public believe it. (Until Custard topples out of the pushchair as he is wont to do and starts wailing and then I bend down in an ungainly fashion to rescue him and I go red with the exertion and start to sweat a little because the yelping is loud and the acoustics in the mirrored Beauty Hall are good and soon everyone has their eyes on the Not Coping Very Well Mother and the whole effect is shattered. I reckon I have about 4 minutes though.) Ahem.

Anyway, the secret to Lots of Slap begins with Chanel foundation, Nars blusher in…look away, easily offended types! “Orgasm”, Lancome mascara (thanks Elizabeth) and a whole lot of black eyeliner. Last seen on me when about I was about 11 and experimenting with black felt tip. And now, at the ripening age of 32, I have become an Every Day Is a Lashings of Kohl Day kind of person. It is a little bit gothic, a little bit barmaid, a little bit wrong. Whatever, it helps me look awake which is a jolly good start. Concealer, Chanel Brilliant red when I am bold, mostly Smith’s Rosebud balm when I am not, and out the door I swish.

2. Husbands. I have a good one. He is kind and fun and likes my cooking. Just the right amount of hairiness. Likes a cup of tea, fond of a mince pie, has questionable taste in jackets. Gives the kids a bath, wrestles with them so I don’t have to. Fixes a flat tyre on the pushchair like a tyre-repair-genius. Doesn’t read my blog. Would have six children and two dogs and two cats if I agreed.

3. British Vogue. I know, I have banged on about this before, but it is a work of utter genius. I know Wintour gets the attention, but Alexandra Shulman is brilliant. And quite normal, giving the high street big ups. I would really like to grow into an Alexandra Shulman.

4. Supermodels in my ‘hood. I have not sufficiently gone on about my Eva Herzigova episode on Saturday. She and I, her all lionessy and fabulous, me a little less so, were DEFINITELY sharing some sort of wordless moment over the amusing antics of our children. I just know it. There has been Jacquetta Wheeler at the supermarket, Elle McPherson in the bathroom (not mine, hers) and Angela Dunn moving in two flats away from us. I am just waiting for the right moment to share my marshmallow slice with her, all neighbourly-like. Will report back.

Here is a photos of my husband. See #2 for details.

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maybe some blog rules?

Posted on November 22, 2009 by theharridan

Here it is. A week of two incidents involving this blog – the rambling, sometimes incoherent and entirely subjective drivel that I spout – and so it is time for some RULES to be laid down in manner of Camp Mother.

1. A blog is like a journal, kind of. And when you come across a blog, or get invited to take a look, I think it requires a form of two-way generosity. Generosity from the reader – who, for whatever reason, actually bothers to spend a few minutes searching for and then reading your words, taking them into their heads for a bit, laughing or disagreeing or nodding off or becoming outraged or even just mildly bored. That is an act of generosity and for everyone who has ever bothered with what I write, I am grateful.

Generosity also on part of the blogger. Because blogs are like a little peek into someone’s journal, an invite into whatever is bouncing around a blogger’s head at a particular time, it is quite the act of openness and trust and respect and generosity to publish these things, whatever they may be. It can lay you quite bare, and can give the reader an in-depth understanding into Proper Private Stuff (or tales of mundane cake disasters and plum tree crises, if it is my blog you choose to read). This is generous of the blogger and should be respected.

2. So, with this in mind, I want to say that in reading a blog, you may come up against something you do not like. A lot like reading a journal. You enter at your own risk. Do not read if you might get snippy, or cranky, or outraged (unless you like feeling that way).  Do not read a blog unless you are prepared to share a little of someone else. People get shitty, irrational, annoyed at their husbands and kids and traffic jams and Louis Walsh – this is the stuff of real life, ugly and precious and demented and marvellous and all those things in between. If this is too real, then go read fiction.

3. Comments. I love them. Thank you to anyone who bothers to make one. I like a bit of praise (am motivated entirely by praise, actually, so the more you write, the more I write. No pressure or anything).

4. Um, I think that is it. Lecture over.

Next blog post will be full of tales to make you snigger. I promise. I may even put makeup on the boys again and take photos purely for your pleasure. Now I am off to eat dinner and despair at the school run on the morrow, and at the full-sized fridge that has made its way into our hallway and for all intents and purposes seems rigged up and ready to stay. You get rid of the leather jacket, you inherit another fridge. SIGH.

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