Bloggering Off

I’m swanning off to South Wales for two weeks. ‘Swanning’ being the appropriate word, since I am trying to maintain a cool, calm and collected appearance on the surface (see my graceful, slender neck gulping back this glass of sparkling wine), but underneath I am working frantically to get everything packed and ready (see my big broad feet thrashing around among the boxes in the loft).
This time we’re off for a week camping on the coast with one of my brothers and his family, followed by a week staying at my mother-in-law’s house. There’s lovely!
The camping should be interesting, since my brother’s family are seasoned caravanners, but have never taken the canvas plunge. I have told them that camping is ‘the holiday the weather can’t spoil’ but for some reason, they don’t believe me. I just don’t think they realise how little there is to spoil.
My emergency camping supplies are two wine boxes, both Hardy’s and both £17.99 from Tesco. One is Cabernet Sauvignon and the other Chardonnay. I haven’t tried either of them before, but since both grape types are generally good ‘crowd pleasers’ I reckon they will be just what we need. If not, I am prepared to slug the lot back on my own.
It is Friday though, so no matter how busy I am, there is always time to pause for the Friday Night Fizz. This week it is a bottle of Angas Brut (Oddbins £7.49) an Australian sparkling wine which has a delightfully smooth and creamy taste that somehow reminds me of strawberries. This is excellent value if you like fruity fizz, and I intend to stock up on several more bottles for the Drunk Mummy Wine Vaults.
In my absence, I thought you might like to read an article I wrote for the July edition of Dulwich Life & Style magazine. I don’t live in Dulwich. I doubt I would be allowed to, since I don't own a single pair of white jeans (unlike Dulwich Mum who was up to double figures at the last count). The article looks a bit outdated now, since it was published at the end of the school summer term, but never mind. Here goes:

A Question of Sports Day

It’s the end of the Summer Term - the time of year when many schools realise that parents can’t possibly have any annual leave left, so they organise a Sports Day.
At my children’s school, which terrorises parents on a regular basis, some bright spark decided it might be ‘fun’ to have some races for parents during this year’s Sports Day.
I have always felt that I embarrass my children enough in public without having to make a special effort, but my daughter had other ideas. She pointed out that I am always urging her to ‘join in’ so she wanted to know why I wasn’t entering the Mothers’ Race. My defence (that I was wearing a push-up bra) was scornfully dismissed, and within minutes I was lining up with assorted long-limbed and athletic mums. There were a few nervous jokes, and the occasional high pitched laugh, but there was no disguising the air of steely resolve.
Now, the race itself seemed to happen in slow-motion, but that could just have been the actual speed I was running. Still, in my mind, I was a streamlined gazelle, bounding gracefully over the grassy plain. The video footage taken by a sadistic parent revealed a much harsher reality. I had been right to worry about the push-up bra.
The Fathers’ Race which followed, proved to be a triumph of ambition over common sense, and no doubt, resulted in months of brisk business for the local physios and chiropracters. The testosterone-fuelled dad who won looked delighted with his victory, and when he faced the cheering crowd, his moment of glory was only slightly tarnished as he realised that he had run the whole race with his flies undone.
Of course, there were other competitive events at Sports Day. The Picnic Display was hotly contested, as parents vied to provide the most nutritionally smug lunch. At one point, a wholesome mother offered me a piece of home-made cake which consisted entirely of chickpeas, yogurt and toddler spit.
Over at the stall selling ploughman’s lunches, there was some Long Distance Queuing. Unfortunately, the line of shuffling participants was forced to witness the disturbing sight of a mother trying to cut a large wheel of extremely ripe Brie into sixty four equal portions. There was some concern about what was likely to crack first – her perky smile or her sanity.
Finally, there was the Pimm’s Bar Relay (a personal favourite), where contestants had to get the next full glass lined up and ready just before they finished downing the last one. In my opinion, Pimm’s should be classed as a health drink, by virtue of its five portions of fruit and vegetables in every glass. It is also a much livelier alternative to a ploughman’s lunch or a picnic.
I seem to remember at some point during the Sports Day, there was a rumour that the children might be running a few races, or something. But like most of the parents there, I was way too busy to watch any of that.

I am off to enjoy the last two weeks of this glorious English summer (cue hollow laugh). I will be back in September.
Cheers!

We'll Take Manhattan

Our visit to Manhattan was a combination of slick, high-speed living and slow, patient queuing. We had a great trip to the Statue of Liberty and took all the requisite photos of ourselves grinning like chimps, with the ethereal green statue in the background. The Museum of Immigration on Ellis Island was fantastic, and seemed to offer an insight into what ‘being American’ means for millions of people. We also managed an early morning trip up to the top of the Empire State Building. At the time it seemed that the visibility was rather poor, but that could just have been my hangover - a result of over-indulgence in the delicious Californian ‘Toasted Head’ Cabernet Sauvignon. It certainly felt like my head had been toasted.
We also managed rides on the subway and in yellow taxis, went to the Central Park zoo, and popped our heads in at Tiffany’s. We ate fantastic Chinese food downstairs at Wo Hop, superb pizza at Arturo's and drank root beer with our burgers in the Big Daddy Diner. Add to that the bagels, pretzels and ice cream we consumed, and we can safely say that we took the most almighty bite out of the Big Apple.
In a slightly surreal moment, we passed the apartment block where I spent a very happy, party-fuelled year, in the days when I was single, solvent and sexy (yes, it was a long time ago). I explained this to the kids, who nodded vacantly, just to humour me. The only interest shown was by the youngest who asked if he had been around then. No, I explained, Mummy didn’t have children then. Ah, but was he in my tummy? No, not even there. Ah, but wasn’t he inside me, even as a tiny, tiny egg? Okay, yes, on that basis, I suppose so.
My God, how depressing. There I had been, thinking I was living a fantastic, carefree life as a sassy single girl, but all the time I had really been a mother of three children. It’s amazing how children can not only colonise your body and your every waking thought, but they can re-write your personal history too.
I am posting early today, as my brother and his family are coming to stay with us for a while, and I can’t blog again until they leave next week. He and his wife have two-year-old twins, and an eight month old baby, so H and I are going to try and give them both a bit of a break. Our reward will be to punch the air every time they are out of the room and shout ‘Thank God that’s not us any more!’
We have been trying to remove as many ‘swallowable’ items as possible from the living room, but just clearing the Lego pieces and the Polly Pocket bits has taken us hours. I remember my youngest child swallowing a metal ball-bearing from a Magnetix set when he was two. I never knew if it ever came out of him, but I was tempted to make the other two children swallow a magnetic bar each from the same set, so at least I could click them all together when we needed to cross the road.
I am planning for tonight’s meal to include several bottles of Yalumba Shiraz-Viognier (Ocado £5.49 down from £6.99 until 11/09). This hearty, full-bodied red is bound to be a big hit with my hearty, full-bodied brother. It tastes of licquorish and plums and is lovely and smooth.
I am also going to need several bottles for tomorrow’s Friday Night Fizz, so it can really only be the great La Marca prosecco (Ocado £5.99). Its light, fragrant sparkle will match my light, fragrant sister-in-law, as she settles down to get hog-whimperingly drunk with me.

Noo Joysey

Back from the Good Ol’ US of A, after a fabulous holiday of sun, sand, sea and sauvignon.

Saving me from the inevitable ‘post vacational tristesse’ and among the barrage of grim or threatening correspondence, were a couple of cyber-gongs!
So, before I do anything else, I need to thank Akelamalu for this:



Mother at Large for this:


And The Good Woman for this:
Almost as important as the shiny badges (but not quite – I can be very shallow) were the kind words they used when ‘presenting’ the awards. Thank you all very much – I have already been toasting your future health and happiness! I know I am supposed to pass two of them on, but having been away for so long, I feel I have rather missed the boat – and everyone I would have suggested appears to have been nominated already!

Anyway, our family holiday was a fantastic trip. The flights were painless, courtesy of the in-flight films and interactive games. In fact, the boys spent the entire flight immobile apart from their thumbs. I have no idea if deep vein thrombosis is a risk for the under eights, but I did check them for bed sores.
We spent the first week in Bay Head, New Jersey, which must be one of the prettiest, most manicured towns I have ever visited. I don’t think there has been any crime there since an ugly incident two years ago when a feckless resident allowed his front lawn to become slightly overgrown. He was fined and probably had his membership of the Yacht Club revoked. I believe the public shame and humiliation forced him to sell up and move to a neighbourhood more suited to his slovenly habits.
Even the beach in Bay Head is sparkling clean and litter-free, since you aren’t allowed to eat anything while you are on it, and you can only take water to drink (which seems rather uncivilised). No-one locks the doors of their house or their car, because the town groans under the weight of so many ‘enforcement’ squads – law, traffic, beach. I knew without asking that topless sunbathing would be forbidden. There’s probably a ‘boob enforcement’ squad somewhere, ready to pounce on unsuspecting European sunbathers and cover them up with bandeau bikini tops.
Even if you told your whinging children to ‘run along and play in the traffic’ they would be safe in Bay Head, because all the traffic yields to pedestrians. There is even one road down which the residents avoid driving, because the local kiddies like to roller-blade and ride their bikes and skateboards on it. My children already suffer from the delusion that the world revolves around them. Staying in Bay Head just confirmed their belief.
Such a squeaky-clean place would have had me snorting with derision when I was in my twenties. Since the town doesn’t even have a bar, I would have seen no reason to stay longer than to sneer a few well-chosen insults about a ‘police-state’ before retreating to the nearest den of iniquity. But as an aging mother of three, I loved it and didn’t want to leave. Ever. It was like living in a Doris Day film, but cleaner and more wholesome.
H and I spent the week eating the local specialities - lobster, clams, oysters. Attempts to get the kids to sample these delicacies ended in the usual theatrical face-pulling from them, and mutterings about ‘casting pearls before swine’ from me. They preferred to gorge on those other local specialities - hot dogs and burgers. Even then, faced with the cornucopia of options (Tomato? Onion? Dill pickle? American cheese? Cheddar cheese? Swiss cheese? Lettuce? Ranch dressing? Blue cheese dressing?) they still opted for ‘just ketchup please.’ My irritation with them was soothed only after several glasses of a delicious Napa Valley Miller Ranch Sauvignon Blanc.
We drank some fabulous wines during the holiday, but they were nearly all from California (with the notable exception of a Willamette Valley Pinot Noir from Oregon). My ‘Friday Night Fizz’ was a bottle of Korbel Brut Champagne - a light and crisp Californian sparkling wine which is allowed to call itself ‘champagne’ without invoking litigation from the French producers.
Despite making (fairly illegible) notes of the wines we drank, I have only been able to find a UK supplier for one, so most of them will have to remain a distant but tasty memory. The one I can get here is a Fetzer Valley Oaks Cabernet Sauvignon (Ocado £7.49) which I am drinking right now, and desperately trying to recreate that holiday feeling. Despite its delicious black cherry and spicy taste, it just doesn’t have the same magic as it did when we were away. I suppose it must be similar to the disappointment of a holiday romance, when that waiter who looked like a sleek stallion in Santorini, just looks like a greasy gelding in Gatwick. Another glass, perhaps, and I might be able to rekindle the romance.

We finished the holiday with some time in Manhattan, but I need to sober up a bit and engage in some hand-to-hand combat with the laundry before I get the chance to write about that.

Faking It

I could not resist any longer, and now my recklessness has come back to haunt me.

I am not talking about an extra-marital affair here. I am talking about my inability to withstand the lure of the fake tan bottle. However, as with an extra-marital affair, I am left with a sense of guilt, disappointment, and a concern about how I am going to get the stains out.

Being the less-than-proud owner of very pale skin, I have always been fascinated with fake tan – but only on my legs. I am happy to ignore the obvious discrepancy between the colour of my legs and the rest of my body, and have always spent the summers looking like one of those children’s books where you flip the different parts of the head, body and legs to create a hybrid creature.

My love affair with fake tan started with the late Eighties arrival of the mighty (stinky) Duo Tan. The directions promised that after liberal application of this clear cream, I would wake up in the morning with beautiful bronzed legs. In fact, although my legs always did change colour (more ‘rust’ than ‘bronze’) this was eclipsed by the horror of looking at my bed sheets. I still remember the heated discussions with my mother that, no, I really didn’t need to take Immodium.

Then there was a craze for tanning tablets, which my mother forbade me from using (this from a woman who, in the post-War period, used to soak her own legs in cold tea). These tablets consisted mainly of beta-carotene and carrot powder, so you can imagine the resultant shade of ‘tan’ that they produced. I believe you can replicate this effect in your kids if you give them plenty of Sunny Delight to drink.

You would think that I would have seen enough fake tanning products to put me off for life. But no, like the gullible fool I am, I am always ready to try a new one. Of course, it always ends in tears. The initial rush of delight and euphoria quickly wears off, along with the tan.

To try and prove the triumph of optimism over experience, I have recently been experimenting with the much-lauded Johnson’s Holiday Skin. It all started off really well, and the last few days have seen me springing about with apparently sun-kissed limbs. But this morning I noticed pale streaks on my shins, and dark, dry patches on my battle-scarred knees. The overall effect suggested by the nicotine shade is that my legs have a forty a day habit.

I have a glass of Wolf Blass Yellow Label Cabernet Sauvignon (Tesco £5.48 down from £8.48 until 15/5), and as I am enjoying its slightly minty smoothness, I am stretching my blotchy legs out in front of me.

Presumably I will either have to wait for the fake tan to wear off, or scrub at my knees until I remove the top layer of skin. Or, I could do what I probably should have done in the first place, and just wear trousers.

Catalogue of Misery

The thud of slippery plastic bags onto my doormat this morning heralded the arrival of (yet another) clutch of catalogues. Or should the collective noun be ‘an envy’ of catalogues, or ‘an over-spend.’
In catalogue-land there are no longer only four seasons – more like eight. They include such periods as ‘early Spring,’ ‘late Spring’ and ‘deep mid-Winter.’ The inference being that I need to reassess the state of my plastic bowls, doormats and towels according to the weather conditions.
Sadly, I am incapable of throwing these catalogues away without at least a cursory flick through. Perhaps subconsciously, I think I am about to discover the one item that will deliver the Holy Grail of a well-ordered home. Instead, I am just left with the vague awareness that nothing in my house either matches or co-ordinates with anything else. Unless you include the contents of the wine rack.
Therefore, I really should have known better than to look inside the latest offering from “The Sleepover Company” which sells everything you supposedly need in order to have another child stay at your house for the night. If ever there was a publication designed to up the ante on competitive parenting, this is it. My eldest is only just dipping her toe into the sleepless world of the sleepover, yet it’s easy to see the inevitable slide into full body immersion. On the rare occasions that I had a friend over to stay when I was young, it merely involved pulling a mouldy sleeping bag out of the loft, and going to sleep on the floor. According to “The Sleepover Company” not only should you completely re-decorate your child’s room with a stowaway bed and matching furniture, but you will need to install a trampoline and outdoor activity centre in your garden. They even sell stripy ‘Popcorn bags’ for the little emperors and empresses to hold (or maybe hook over their ears), while they sit in front of your 40 inch wall-mounted home cinema system.
I am drinking a soft, vanilla-like Patache Médoc Cabernet Sauvignon (£5.99 down from £7.99 until 6/05 at Ocado) and realising that, if I’m being honest, I am against sleepovers for two reasons. Firstly, the ‘away fixture’ requires me to stay off the vino in case I am needed to pick up my blubbing child at 2am. Secondly, the ‘home fixture’ requires me to stay off the vino in case I have to console someone else’s blubbing child at 2am. That looks like a Lose-Lose situation to me.