Thursday, 12 August 2010

I don't normally do this...

...but when I saw this e-mail pop into my 'potty mummy' inbox I decided it could only be of benefit to any pregnant mums out there to know that from today until Sunday, Isabella Oliver are offering 33% off their new autumn range.

Admittedly, their clothes are not cheap as chips, but every blossoming mum needs something in her wardrobe that makes her feel gorgeous, and this is as good a place as anywhere to look for that. So go on, click through - what are you waiting for?

Note - this is not a sponsored post...

Calling all preschoolers...

Dealing with parents can be an uphill task. Getting their attention when they are otherwise engaged in boring domestic tasks (be it emptying the dishwasher, tidying your toys away, cooking your dinner, or ferrying you from one playdate to the next) can be frustrating and almost impossible at times.

So how do you ensure that your immediate needs are dealt with now, not at some unspecified time in the future when your Dad has put down the newspaper or your Mother has switched off the computer?

We at PLEAD (Push to the Limit to Ensure Adults Deliver) Solutions have the answer. After a 7 year survey in which we have conducted laboratory standard experiments in crossing parental boundaries, we can report that there are a series of short and easily completable actions and commands which, with a little training, can ensure you never have to shout for attention again.

For example, want your parent/carer to stop making the beds and instead get your breakfast ready? The answer is simple; find a handy chair or window seat and stand next to the open window waving your arms and threatening to throw a hard-edged die-cast truck out onto the street below. Or want to break up one of those long summer car journeys and get out to stretch your legs? Threaten to play the 'wee card' on your brand new car seat. Or if your intransigent and unreasonable parent is standing between you and a ride on the fairground carousel? A short and sharp session of face-down-on-the-pavement screaming may well yield the results you are looking for.

For all these tips and many more explained and illustrated, simply send 4 week's pocket money to PLEAD and by return of post you will receive your 'I'm In Charge' starter pack*.

*All applications which arrive by the end of August will receive a complimentary pack of fake poo smears and snot stains with which you can reward or discipline your newly trained parents as required...

Disclaimer: No parents were permanently scarred in the creation of this product. Please note that grandparents may require a different package.

Monday, 9 August 2010

Existential homesickness...

Dammit. I've just spent half an hour trying to download some music onto a flip video to show you just how gorgeous - yes, just GORGEOUS! - London was today. No joy though(my ignorance, not the flip's), so you're just going to have to take my word for it.

It's funny; up until now, I've not really felt homesick for London. I guess that the excitement of being in Moscow and the attendant stresses and strains have distracted me from the fact that really, this city is my home. This city is my manor.

Since we got back from France on Friday, it seems as if London's been putting on her best face for me. Suddenly she's put on her lippie, thrust back her shoulders, and been strutting her stuff for my delectation. And it's not just that I've had the opportunity to spend some quality walking through Hyde Park this afternoon in the sunshine - although lord knows, I'm not sure that there are many capital cities with such an amazingly beautiful park in the centre of them. No, it's more that I've been reminded of what it is that I really love about this place and which is so noticeably absent from the streets of Moscow.

Diversity.

And you know what? It's not even celebrated diversity, because that would imply that it's noticed. No, London is full of diversity - and no one gives a shit because that's just the way it is, and has been for a long time. Funnily enough, that's what a number of my Russian acquaintances have said they like about my home town; the fact that they can walk along the street speaking Russian as loudly as they like, and no one cares. In Moscow, if you single yourself out in any way, it's noticed; not necessarily in a bad way, but you're still aware that you're 'other'.

But here? You speak French, Swahili, Russian, Chinese, Arabic, Spanish, Lithuanian or Finnish? Well, so what?

God, I love that.

Which is why the fact that we can't fly back to Moscow as planned on Wednesday - due to the thick brown tar that is currently masquerading as air - is somehow not bothering me so much...

Saturday, 7 August 2010

Thoughts during a haircut...

When I'm in the UK I always try to get my hair cut at the same place. It saves on those agonising conversations that one often seems to have in a new salon when we establish that:

  • yes, I do have very fine hair
  • yes, it is very straight
  • and quite short, yes
  • and no, I don't want it too much shorter as I can't take that nowadays (a cut-glass jaw-line no longer being in my possession, sadly)
  • I am starting to go grey
  • Yes, there does seem to be a lot of that going on around my temples
  • But not quite enough to do anything serious about
  • No, I don't really want to grow it out. Because of the fine straight thing we already talked about. Because that makes it look shit. And doesn't work on my face. And I really can't face the year or so it will take to make it look like a style instead of just looking like I forgot to fit in a hair cut...
  • Can you just get on and give me the same cut I had 2 months ago, please?

So I save myself the pain and go to the same salon that I've been using for 10 years, where I have had my hair cut by the same stylist (a feisty French woman who is searingly chic) for all that time, in the vain hope that some of her chicness will transfer itself to me by osmosis. It hasn't happened yet.

And every time, I have almost the same conversation with myself...

Oh God. Tell me again why I travel to the centre of town to get my hair cut at a salon specialising in cutting Japanese hair, when mine is as European limp and fine as you can get? I mean, look at the other clients. LOOK AT THEM! With their gorgeous black tresses that look like they've stepped straight out of vogue...

Oh, I want her hair. The long hair. The thick long hair that softly waves at the bottom...

No, no, wait, scratch that. I want that hair. THAT hair - the short and sassy blunt bob sitting just above the shoulders.

Or maybe the mid-length shaggy cut... Stop it Potty. Stop it! You know your look. Short, practical, occasionally a bit funky if the length and humidity are kind to you. It's taken you 40 years to find a cut that works, step away from the style magazines...

But whilst we're at it, how come hair stylists always look so skinny and on-trend? Is that something they learn in hairdresser school? You know; how to throw on a t-shirt, a pair of rock-chick skinny jeans and a little belt and make those of us to whom 'little belts' are a but a distant memory get carried with the right-on-ness of the place and spend far too much on product as we leave?

Is there any way that I could ask them for a hair transplant? Maybe I should get a perm. No, wait. I did that already. In the 80's. The poodle hair photos are still too horrible to look at.

So, over to get my hair washed. And no, they still haven't changed the set-up - I still have to climb into the barber's chair whilst some teenager half my size has to try gamely to pump it up to the right height for the sink... Maybe I should offer to climb out so she can do that without giving herself an embolism? No. Better not. That would just draw attention to an already embarrassing situation.

Ho hum.

She's still pumping. Perhaps those extra helpings of bread and cheese and the one or two glasses of rose on holiday weren't such a good idea after all...

Right. Rolled up towel over the eyes. I. Am. Liking that. I can think about lists and worries without having to make conversation... or, I can nod off whilst she shampoos, conditions, rinses, and gives me a lovely head massage and............

God! Is that over already? Did I nod off? Did I dribble? Please god, let me not have dribbled. Oh, thank heavens. No drool-patch on my shoulder. Although the towel seems suspiciously damp around my face. In fact, maybe that's why they use the towel; to save their clients blushes...

Ah. Yes. What would I like? Well can you change the nature and colour of my hair to something like yours (long, black, straight, possessing about 3 times as much body as I get with the most powerful hair dryer known to man), in a limited time-frame and on a limited budget? No?

Same as usual then, please.

And yes. I WILL buy that new product to try at home. Obviously.

Thursday, 5 August 2010

The Bigger Picture

It's tempting, when on holiday with your children and finding yourself - you think - run ragged by your little prince and princess's demands, to lose sight of the bigger picture.

Just in case that's happened to you recently (as it has to me), here's a video from Unicef UK entitled 'Put it Right', which they've created to support their 5 year initiative to inspire action to protect the rights of children everywhere.

And before you click away, there are no images of gratuitous violence against children on it; just kids doing what they do everywhere and simply getting on with their lives. But in circumstances that may make you weep.


Tuesday, 3 August 2010

Life-guard duties and wake-up calls...

One of the great things about holidaying with friends who have children of a similar age to your own is that the job of entertaining your offspring all is not just halved but quartered. Not only do you have other like-minded adults to help with the camp organiser duties, but the kids themselves are quite happy to tear the place up themselves with no thought to asking for adult interference.

In fact, it appears that they prefer you don't get involved at all, other than in essential cases like reaching the too-high handle of the freezer door to access the ice-creams, providing an endless supply of snacks and meals (the less healthy the better, obviously), and to act as life-guards around the rather too-deep pool (well, you can't have everything).

This sudden - and very welcome - reduction in duties has meant that over the last few days I've had the opportunity to laze in the sun and try to -unsuccessfully - tan out the strap marks on my feet acquired due to an early summer spent in an unwise choice of strappy sandal (admittedly, choices of affordable footwear are limited in Moscow but really, what was I thinking??), and also - less trivially, perhaps - to ponder the fact that come September, when Boy #2 joins his older brother full-time at school, it's time to start putting my money where my mouth is and start motoring on 'the writing stuff'.

I had already formulated an extremely sketchy strategy (involving getting paid large amounts of money and being generally lauded for my extreme fabulousness, in return for minimum amounts of work, obviously), when I came across this post on the BlogHer site by Her Bad Mother, which provided something of a wake-up call.

In it, Catherine (Her Bad Mother) writes of how she was detained when travelling through US Customs by Homeland Security because - get this - she told them that the purpose of her visit to the United States was to attend a Yahoo conference as a mum blogger, and the male officers she was being interviewed by didn't believe that to be such a thing could possibly be a real, professional, paying job. To the extent that the question 'who do you really work for?' was even asked.

This does seem a rather short-sighted misogynistic attitude on their part regarding the validity of basing a career on writing about being a mother. I don't think, for example, that if a male writer for Loaded magazine told them the purpose of his visit to the US was to go to various bars to find girls willing to take part in a feature called 'We Like Big Boobs', he would be pulled aside for an hour long interview. I hate to say it, but I rather think they would shake his hand as he was waved through the VIP channel...

But I think that what really bothers me here is that if Her Bad Mother - a very successful blogger - gets pulled up and asked these sort of questions (and let's face it, which of us hasn't been faced with blank faces and questions like 'Hang on. Do you mean to tell me that you write about your life with the kids and people not related to you actually read it? And then come back for more?'), what chance do I stand of making this 'writing stuff' work?

Hmm. That strategy I mentioned earlier? May need fine tuning a little...

Sunday, 1 August 2010

British Mummy Blogger of the Week

It's exhausting, this holiday malarky. No matter how good a time you're having, I have to ask; is 'holiday' the best word to describe a trip away that takes military levels of organisation and which sometimes feels just like being at home - only without the convenience of a working washing machine and internet connection?

On top of that you also have to take responsibility for the packing and repacking of your stuff, the kid's stuff and - if you're particularly unlucky / saintly (delete as appropriate) - your significant other's stuff too. Small wonder that often trying to buy, and then find space in your luggage for, all the blockbusting summer novels that you promised yourself you're going to have the chance to read on your 'relaxing' summer holiday, gets prioritised down to a last minute dash to the bookshop in Duty Free...

For those who have small children, are not holidaying with benevolent grandparents attached as doting babysitters, and who have forgotten what it is to sit in the sun with a good book, I'm talking about the books you read in the time you have to yourself.

You know, on your relaxing summer holiday? Time, that is, when you're not making trips to the local supermarket hunting for non-sugar rich breakfast cereal whilst sneaking a croissant or two yourself (it won't show under the control-top swimsuit, surely?), tidying away explosions of beach kit scattered like shrapnel immediately inside the front door, drying out towels and swim suits stiff with salt or chlorine, hunting for the kid's sun lotion, applying said sun lotion, persuading them that wearing their hat in 35degC IS a good idea (I said it IS a good idea, well I don't care if you don't like it; you're wearing it anyway, and stand STILL please whilst I put this factor 50 on you or you'll get it... all over my skirt), and so on.

Which is why I'm being extremely lazy and rather than trawling the members list of British Mummy Bloggers to find you something new to read this week, I thought I would instead gift you (yes, I like that word; 'gift'. It implies great sacrifice on my part rather than simply pulling out a post I wrote earlier for this very occasion) with a full list of ALL the British Mummy Bloggers to-date.

Who needs to pick up a chic-lit novel the width and weight of a telephone directory, when you have the following list? With one click-through you can have access to writing far better than you'll find on most airport bestsellers' lists...


May 2009










February 2010

The Rubbish Diet


April 2010

Paparazzi Mum


For the British Mummy Bloggers Ning, click here. (Note; it's called 'mummy', but dads can be members too...)