London Mums Blog

I have a cunning idea...

It is the school holidays. We're standing in a queue. Children fidget. Watches are checked. It is like a visit to the Post Office. People tut under their breath. Eyes flash suspiciously at would-be queue-jumpers. Someone close by – possibly the dandruff-flecked bloke standing just in front, or perhaps the 5-year-old inquisitor inside my own head – utters the immortal words 'are we nearly there yet?'

As is predictably the case, we are not. We wait. We shuffle. We wait some more. And then at last, bingo, the clock strikes ten. Oh goody, I think as 'Cashier Number 4!' cavorts loudly through my thoughts. I wonder if perhaps the sunshine is going to my head, or maybe I really am now losing my marbles… but I have no time to ponder further as B grasps my hand and drags me forth. The doors to the Science Museum are ceremonially opened. We make our way gratefully in.

W is for...

Alexandra came out of reception today with chocolate smudged on her face and a ripped open package of Maltesers in her hand. Half were still stuffed in her cheek, bulging like a hamster.

Who's birthday was it today? I asked knowingly.

I'll give you a hint. It starts with a wah, she said slipping her slightly sticky hand into mine.

William?

MY London

London - MY London - today is grey, cold, and rather gloomy, and not a little emotional. It feels as if it might burst into tears at any moment, rather like a premenstrual teenager. As if nobody understands it. As if it stayed out too long at the weekend and it's parents have withdrawn priviledges for the rest of the month.

The many tourists are banked up on street corners, shivering as they stub their cigarettes out on the pavement, and muttering mutinously to each other "But zey told me zis was a party town! 'Ave you seen ze prix of zat pastry? And Starbucks is much too bizzy! Excuse me, madame, where is ze tube station?" "That would be the building behind you. And please don't - spit your gum out on the street. Too late, I see..." At which point they look at me uncomprehendingly and I stomp crossly off down the road.

My wasdrobe is back to back black

No darlings, no typo, I’m far too considered for that. I suppose it’s more of a wardrobe misfunction. Or really a malfunction. Actually, it’s a nonfunction. No, no, sorry. It’s a gone-function.

‘Wasdrobe’ is my new name for what was my work wardrobe. It came to me as I opened up the white doors to find something to wear for my child-free bout of weekend socialising. I rifled through the rails marvelling at all this smart stuff I haven’t worn for months and had a small but perfectly formed revelation. A very obvious and great divide had evolved….

You see, while I’ve had time on my hands, I’ve put it to good use. I’ve done what every good girl should, but no frazzled full-time-working-bread-winner-plate-spinning Mum can do, I’ve colour coded my wardrobe (yep, I bet you’re jealous).

Egypt -- a tourist mother's guide # 1

Yes, we've arrived. Despite the post that follows we're having a fabulous time. There's so much to write about I hardly know where to begin, so I'll start with this...

A short guide to taxi journeys from Cairo Airport

For the taxi driver:

Hang around the arrivals lounge at Cairo Terminal 2 late in the evening for the London flight to arrive.

Scan the passengers for potential fares as they arrive. Pay particular attention to families who look as if they were rather expecting to arrive at Cairo Terminal 1, where there is a state-sponsored taxi-stand. Narrow that down to families with small children and a buggy, who really can’t face the shuttle bus between the two terminals, and hang around incessantly offering them your services until they give in just to shut you up.

Don't call me...

I don’t know what is more unnerving – the fact that little L has missed her due date and that every passing day brings me closer to the whole drip-epidural-induction-nightmare; or people that keep on calling, texting and commenting on the fact that my belly is still occupied territory.

‘Where is little L?’, ‘L?’, ‘Is she still in your tummy?’ and ‘Isn’t she a bit late?’ to mention just a few considerate questions I receive. Daily. My favourites were this week’s comments on how high up my belly still was (‘too high to go into labour anytime soon’), and that Braxton-Hicks contractions would indicate another 4 weeks of pregnancy to come. I would be 45 weeks pregnant by then, how sensational!

In sickness and in health

I have just recovered from flu, which then morphed into a chest infection. It was soul destroying and went on for so long, that at one point I doubted whether I had flu, and thought perhaps that I was inflicted with something more sinister. I've never had real flu before. The thing about flu is that the body and soul is ravaged from all angles. Nothing is left unturned. I was racked with pain and negativity and at moments vaguely high on Syndol painkillers. For the first couple of days I couldn't speak. For the whole ten days I coughed all the time, and woke up with each morning with the mother of all headaches. The worst part was that I was in a foul mood and when I wasn't being foul I was depressed. It was like having severe pmt for 10 days. Can you imagine having to live with someone like that?