The Harridan

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.

The weekend proved to be a journey into utter Englishness. Which I find quite fun and a bit odd and still a novelty. We were taken to the Hyde Heath Village Fete with some friends and it was all the best kind of spring-ish nutty festivities that I can remember from Milly Molly Mandy. The books were being sold at 80p,the fresh lemonade and strawberry-marshmallow-chocolate kebabs at £1.60, the fudge for £1 a bag. There was a dog show, so enormous newfoundlands and little poodles were everywhere, and classic cars lined up in the field.

Mark won the kids plastic swords (they are sleeping with them, and attacking each other in their waking hours). Thanks for that.

Missed the Morris Dancers actually performing, although I have been assured that was quite the wise move. I think they look most stylish and, er, energetic. The young bloke next to them lends them a little street cred, in any case.

Oh how the crowd loved it all:

So that was Saturday.

On Sunday we had a little mishap in the garden. 

We four sans Mark who was supposedly “working” all trooped into the communal garden (my idyll, my sanctuary from the wilds of Bayswater – oh, how I love to turn my exclusive key in your tightly-protected ornamental gates) alongside lots of other families and people I didn’t recognise because They Have Jobs. I set the woollen blanket up by the swings, and plonked Custard down to play with some plastic. Ahem. And Barnaby and Noah raced off into the little square houses the other garden kids had made with the marble blocks the builders had left out. These had been out all week – little marble blocks which will line the paths in a Grecian-hilltop-town kind of way. The little houses had walls up to waist-height and without cement, were kind  of DANGEROUS. But, as I am not American, or European, and my kids are often quite grubby and I let them do stuff, I didn’t stop them playing there. I figure that if they did fall down, they wouldn’t die, and their legs probably wouldn’t break, and we would all learn a valuable Life Lesson. So, off they ran, into the houses, and then SMASH. The walls came down. Little N from upstairs had pushed the walls down on PURPOSE. And from all around the garden, heads stuck up into the air like little stoats and everyone came running. Barnaby was still in the ruins, but entirely unscathed.

But Oh! Panic and yelling and stressful noises and angry looks erupted. No more were young families lying on blankets eating strawberries and sipping champagne, no more were rounded toddlers missing football kicks padding softly in their direction, no more were groups of slightly camp young bankers who are still employed lolling about with their beers and BBQ. They all swarmed over to the rubble and began telling off the Upstairs N (who, I might add, is 5. 5!!!) for his Terrible Behaviour. And the head of it all, the middle of the flapping and the sharp intake of breath, was Italian Mama. Italian Mama is a total pain in the ass. She is the meanest busybody of them all. Like an overfed brown pigeon who does a lot of head-bobbing and quite a bit of flapping and casts cranky looks out of the sides of its head. She was Very Cross about it, and managed to spare a few mean and outraged looks in Barnaby’s direction. And at me. Like I was somehow implicated in this Very Bad Incident.

So I herded my children to me, and watched as Upstairs N’s dad was yelled at and heckled and effectively forced to leave. We skulked out soon after.

Life Lessons Learned:

1. Kids are naturally curious and will play with stuff that looks interesting and if you don’t want them to play with said stuff, then PUT STUFF AWAY.

2. Kids sometimes do stuff that may not have been a great idea in hindsight – they are impulsive. That is what makes them fun. And 5 year old boys are the Kings of Impulse.

3. Some people should learn to mind their own business.

4. Most Italian Mamas are lovely and probably cook well, but this one is to be avoided at all costs.

My inner harridan is scowling and moaning and shrieking this morning, but no sound is actually coming out of my vaguely hungover-dry mouth because I am simply too tired to bother. The children have happened upon a new idea – something to do with 5:00am and waking up loudly. I cannot work out what/who to blame. The nephew who stayed in their room and set the alarm too early? The pesky early-morning sun? Some karmic punishment for having gone out to Bloody French last night and drinking too much lovely red wine? It is probably that. Ah well. A lovely time was had by all, until our friends gave us the news that he has lost his job. Ouch – this recession nastiness is snarling and biting our friends and circling closer and closer all the time. 

So I think a little list of nice things is needed to redress the  balance.

Things I Like:

The La Pavoni is my most favourite thing in the kitchen – nay, the whole flat. It is unfortunately dirty, but delivers every morning and every afternoon regardless, soldiering on in a duty-bound, caffeine-fuelling kind of way. We bought it in a little industrial town outside San Gimignano (sp?) in Tuscany about two years ago. It is the original 1950’s design, handmade, maybe (but not likely) by an ancient, stooped, little, rumpled Italian grandfather in a dusty workshop.  The design is considered so iconic and lovely that it is shown in the MOMA – and, on my kitchen bench. We carried it back on the plane nestled at our feet while struggling with B and N who were squirmy and tiny, and I was also pregnant with Custard. 

The coffee is best with Monmouth beans from the Borough market, but Coffee Planet on Portobello Rd does lovely beans too (and they are much cheaper than Monmouth). We have a KitchenAid grinder – also a good design. These sit next to the dreamy Dualit red 4-slice toaster. What gluttons for lovely kitchen things we are. 

Sales:

My mother taught me the value of bargain shopping. It was she who took me to second-hand shops and garage sales and showed me how to look for treasure. I love rummaging at markets (Portobello esp) and antique shops and go to TRAID on Westbourne Grove and the Queensway Trinity every week.  Every time I need a little splurge, off to TRAID I go for a vintage dress. And it nearly always delivers. The Trinity has supplied me with the following delights:

A Marc Jacobs blue wool checked coat with oversized buttons and puffed sleeves

A Mulberry satchel

A Valentino vintage red billowing blouse

TRAID has given me:

Two Miu Miu denim skirts

A Christian Lacroix blue blazer

And once upon a time, before the makeover, OXFAM on Westbourne Grove was responsible for granting my wardrobe:

A teal silk Freda deep-V neck dress

A black vintage YSL silk shirt

A green Prada cashmere cardigan

(Incidentally, to whoever thought the OXFAM makeover was a good idea –  it really wasn’t. You ruined it, with your black paint and your remade jewellery. Ill-judged. Frown.)

Sample sales also fill me with joy. The Chloe sample sales have furnished me with two bags, the Betty and a gold one, a frock coat and a wool cardigan. The recent Matches sale had a great little Stella McC short jacket, from £600-ish down to £145, now in my pleased-with-itself wardrobe.

The boys:

As probably stated before. I am mad for them.

Am in much better mood now. There is much more to tell, but we have a trip to Amersham to get ready for. Woo hoo!