London Mums Blog

Men are from Mars, women go to Cadbury's

  Do you ever feel that you don't understand the man in your life? Do you, perchance, feel that it's hard to communicate with the opposite sex? Well, worry no longer, for, as a reknowned expert on misunderstandings, contretemps and, indeed, divorce, I have decided to step into the fray and provide the world, and most particularly Dulwich, with a quick translation service.

What a woman says:

Darling, I love it! I'm taking it back to the shops the moment they open

You shouldn't have! You should have, and weeks ago

I love you This could be it - with a little work, you really might be a decent prospect

Careers advice

The children and I were chatting idly about life and stuff the other day, when Child Two piped up. 'I want to find a nice boyfriend at university,' she confided.

Fair enough, I thought, and not at all difficult to achieve. University was, I dimly remember, a place uniquely well-stocked with potential boyfriends in my young day, several millennia ago - though, looking back on it, I'm not sure how many were nice.

'Why do you want a boyfriend?' Child One asked her. Child One has already informed me that my example has put her off men for life.

'I want to get married straight after university, so that I'll never have to get a job,' said Child Two blithely.

Eeek!

Duvet Days

Once upon a time, four child-free days would have been a dream come true. Nowadays I dread sending my little dears off - it happens much too often and gives me much, much too much time to think. A friend in a similar leaky boat told me the secret is to keep busy, so I have drawn up the following lists:

Things I would like to do while the children are away

1. Go on a holiday mini-break with True Love. This would involve poking around a scenic medieval capital, browsing the art galleries, having a few delicious dinners under warm, starry skies and generally gazing into each other's eyes in a way guaranteed to sicken any passers-by.

He who stuffs the stocking

This is an example of the way that Mr X makes everything difficult. A simple thing like a divorce, you might think, could be run in a civilised way, with everyone making small-talk over the mince pies at Christmas. Nope. We have to have total apartheid of all relatives and friends, no-one is allowed to speak to the enemy (me) and there must be no mention of my name or doings to darken the festive spirit. Huh. Well, as if all that isn't bah-humbug enough, now Mr X has instituted a further layer of division between us. While the treasures' stockings are filled, at my house, by lovely Father Christmas (when the darling is not too busy cancelling my parking tickets at Southwark Council, see previous blog), at Mr X's house, presents are brought by the Little Mouse.

Who?? I hear you gasp. Well, quite.

Glad Tidings

My loves, I bring you glad tidings - there is a Father Christmas! Yes, as unlikely as it seems, the Jolly Red-cheeked Rotund One is alive, kicking and bringing in, I do hope, a decent wage - at Southwark Council! I know this because I have just been let off a parking fine and there is no other rational explanation.

The story started way, way back in the summer - remember, those times long ago when hedge funds were something only impoverished gardeners talked about and you could pop into Woolworths any day of the week for pick 'n' mix, without being coshed over the head by rabid grannies desperate to get their mitts on the last Best of Val Doonican CD in civilisation.