Diary of a Mummy Misfit #1 (46 page)

Ooh, just made myself feel slightly nauseous.  Off to have a glass of 3 for 2 and a fag.

Wednesday 18
^th
March

Max came running happily out of school today, waving a letter about piano lessons - an extra hundred and fifty quid a term.

“I really want to do them Mummy.  I know I’ll have to wait until the messy corner and the toilet lid thing start working, but I can do them then, can’t I?”

Can still see the confused and bemused looks on Gestapo and the Gnome’s faces.

Ned thoroughly miserable tonight.  The redundancy timing just couldn’t have been worse.  The credit crunch is seeing thousands losing their jobs in the city and very few opportunities for employment.

Realised we’ve only got about five weeks until the summer school fees are due and it’s looking more and more like the Marchant credit is in for its own crunch.

Added a picture of a swanky house and fancy car to our wealth corner - visualisation is very important as a key to success.

Went to bed leaving it all in the laps of the Feng Shui deities - Fuk Luk Sau.  No kidding, I’ve done my homework.

Thursday 19
^th
March

Met Fenella at the school this morning and she begged me to go to the local coffee shop for caffeine and croissants.  “My treat.  I’m so frightfully bored, Sweedie.  At least when we had some work coming in we had something to do.”

Concluded that maybe the city cullings were beginning to make the Meemies think twice about throwing money at organised parties - if it comes down to a kid’s party or regular manicures we know which they’ll plump for.  Maybe we should take a course in acrylics?

The coffee shop was brimming with equally bored mothers, some familiar Manor House faces with their pre-school toddlers, and also what looked like a recently formed mother and baby group.

“Good grief,” Fenella exclaimed, “How on earth have they managed to get themselves out at
this
 hour?  When I had Todd, I couldn’t prise him from my breast in time to get out before lunch and that was only if I had to.  And as for getting dressed … Josh almost had to surgically remove my dressing gown, I’d become so attached to it.”

Slightly annoyed by the pile up of buggies which made it virtually impossible to navigate our way to our table - sure I wasn’t so thoughtless when parking Max’s.  Not one of the new mummies batted an eyelid as we manoeuvred and juggled their wheeled monstrosities to get through - all too busy with their tits hanging out or cooing over their hideously wrinkled offspring.  Whatever happened to discreet feeding?

Their (clearly self-appointed) leader sat, perfectly toned Armani legs crossed, with a beatific looking baby thrown over her shoulder (amazingly not a sick or dribble mark in sight) and a very expensive diary on the table.  We struggled to conduct our own conversation as her booming voice kept dragging us in with, “Coffee at Angelina’s on the fourth and ‘tums and bums’ next Thursday at three.”

Fenella scooped the froth from her latte and leant over to me, “The Manor House mummies of the future.  Bet old ‘Bossy Breeches’ has had her sprog’s name down since conception.  It’s all such a silly business isn’t it?  The competitiveness, the constant striving for perfection.  Sometimes, I just want to throw it all in and head for the simple life in the country.”

Couldn’t quite see Fenella in wellies (unless they were designer of course), mucking out the pigs and foregoing her regular beauty treatments, and told her as much.

“You’re right of course, Sweedie.  But I can dream can’t I?”

Our conversation was interrupted by another very loud voice, this time a Manor Houser in the corner asking her (green!) snotty nosed toddler, “Are you
sure
you don’t need a poo?  You’re very smelly.  Here let mummy get you the loo-loo.” And she proceeded to unfold some kind of portable potty
in the middle of the café!

The child was reluctant to leave its ‘Babycino’ - what an absurd concept.  Coffee addicts at three!

“Oh Lord, I’ve seen it all now,” Fenella said with her head in her hands.  “Whatever next?  Will one of the babies need a change and we’ll have to clear the tables so that the crappy nappy can be removed amongst our lattes and pastries?  EXCUSE ME,” she called across to ‘Poopy Mummy’.  “Could you take your child to the toilet to do that?  I really don’t think it’s appropriate to let him drop his load in the middle of Starbucks.”

Although agreeing with her, I was mortified with embarrassment  - I’m very much the disapproving but keep quiet type.

A bit of a fracas broke out then, with Fenella and ‘Poopy Mummy’ throwing comments back and forth and, at one point, almost coming nose to nose.

Thankfully it was all brought to a rather swift ending when ‘Poopy Toddler’ deposited the contents of the ‘loo loo’ all over the floor.

I led a raging Fenella back to our table and a trainee barista calmly informed us that we and ‘Poopy Mummy’ were now barred!

Told Ned tonight and he thought it was absolutely hilarious.  “You really should choose your friends more carefully, Lib.  Always knew Fenella was a trouble maker.”

Never been barred from anywhere in my life.  Wonder how long
this
will take to get to the school gates?

Dreamt that Fenella had been caught smoking in the toilets at Manor House and Hinge & Bracket expelled both of us.

Guilty by association!

Friday 20
^th
March

Lower school disco - 4.30 - 6.30

Word at the school at last count had snowballed to Fenella having broken ‘Poopy Mummy’s’ nose!  The story had evolved at different stages of the day from “The potty was emptied over Fenella’s head” to “Security called the police and they were cautioned.”

Our fifteen minutes of fame were over by the time the disco started.  Lots of mums turned up to help because (a) they fancy Mr Rooney and (b) they fancy the DJ, Mr Sparklepants, who’s done the school disco for years and gained himself a reputation as a bit of a charmer.

Wish we’d known that was the way to get volunteers when we were doing the Christmas fair. Must add note to files before we pass on to next unsuspecting organisers.

Spent most of the time boogying like manic things - relishing in the fact that Max and Todd aren’t yet at the “Oh my God, you’re so embarrassing” stage.  Best work-out I’ve had for years.  Had to keep going into the playground for fresh air and water.  Fenella said it was our ‘chill out and come down’ zone! 

Trudged home - sweaty and exhausted.  Max’s first school disco and I felt like I used to after an all-nighter at a club.

“Golly that
was
fun wasn’t it, Lib,” Fenella giggled.  “Not sure we’ll be able to walk tomorrow though.  Or stand the excitement of Seedlings drinks at Fiona’s either.  Bet there won’t be much boogying there!  Just the bog standard stuffy chit-chat.”

Think it’s good to see how the other half live.  It always makes me green with envy for a few days but eventually I recover - and there’s always the lottery tomorrow.

Saturday 21
^st
March  AM

Seedlings drinks chez Fiona & Charles

Was woken obscenely early for a Saturday by a phone call for Ned.  It was a Manor House dad, asking why he wasn’t at the golf course!

After much confusion and Ned explaining that he didn’t play golf, the dad realised his mistake.  “Oh sorry, wrong Ned.  You must be the one who’s married to the coffee shop trouble-maker,” he laughed.  “Sorry to have troubled you.”

I’ll kill Fenella when I see her tonight.  Blood will be shed on Fiona’s new shag pile or coir matting or whatever’s de rigueur in flooring at the moment.

PM

Mum and Bert arrived to babysit, complete with ‘When Harry Met Sally’ - would love to have been a fly on the wall to find out if Mum actually understood the table-slapping diner scene.

F&J picked us up in a cab and we left to Mum shouting down the garden path, “Aren’t your shoes a little ‘last season’, Libby?”

This from the woman who only ever goes to Clarks because they do a lovely ‘wide range’ that accommodates her bunion.  Think she was just showing off in front of Bert.

Sunday 22
^nd
March

Am pleased to report that the green-eyed monster didn’t raise its ugly head, as Fiona and Charles’s house was cold and sterile.  It was obviously once stunning but they’d chucked bucket loads of cash at it until it resembled a vulgar show-home.

Ned got chatting to Charles and discovered that the fabric on the walls in the family room cost more than a large family car.  Why Charles felt the compulsion to divulge this information is beyond me.  Perhaps I’ve got the small talk business all wrong and should be discussing the price of our new roof or the amount outstanding on our credit card.

Fiona politely informed her guests that those drinking red wine should refrain from going into the drawing room (a funereal looking affair with massive flower arrangements and endless black and white posed family shots), as the Persian rugs were priceless and she’d be “simply heartbroken” if anything was spilled on them.  Fenella’s bloodshed would have to wait till another time.  Found myself becoming unusually clumsy and dropping bits of canapés, so decided to stay in the kitchen where the least amount of damage could be done.

Ladies in the kitchen were asked to remove footwear as the heels were “monsters for damaging the marble”.  Noticed that Fiona was herself barefoot beneath her linen trousers, with an immaculate pedicure.