Pressure

Posted by dulwichmum on Sat 20 October 2007

Dear friends,

I must apologise for my blogging hiatus of late. I have been simply run off my feet!

Along with meeting various work deadlines, and ensuring my munchkins are appropriately occupied for their two week half term school break, I have been wading through great complimentary chests of premium skin care and perfume, offers of sponsorship from prestigious cosmetic companies, organising plans for a regular column on a super prestigious web-site involving the inevitable compulsory regular review of illustrious spa’s, and then to top all of that, James decides that he requires my company at some imminent rugby match today in Paris.

I am sitting here typing at my dressing table in the George V, before I scoot off around the shops of gay Paris. I really didn’t need to leave London today, but my underwear drawer could do with a little re-stocking, and so I may be back to meet James in time for the match – but it is Saturday, so I have instructed him not to wait about for me. Rugby is just not my thing after all.

I really cannot see what all of the fuss is about, I shall be back in time for the after match dinner (Johnny Wilkinson has fingers the size of Tesco’s finest sausages you know). I just hope that England win, otherwise these affairs can be dreadfully somber.

I shall be back on form imminently. Oh how I miss my munchkins, our paths have crossed so little of late. It is terribly difficult being a working mother you know… I think I can feel a headache coming on…

(No Ratings Yet)

 Loading ...

Comments: 10 Comments to Read

 Le Crunch

Posted by dulwichmum on Sat 13 October 2007

Earlier this afternoon, myself and the poppets travelled by car to Chelsea Harbour with James in order to liaise with a small group of his clients. The select few consisted of the great and good from the City of London, high powered movers and shakers, esteemed magnates and moguls every last one, all assembled for a corporate rugby jolly to Paris. My casually dressed man (chinos and polo shirt) disappeared up to the suites and emerged ten minutes later from the lift with a selection of louts all clad in white rugby shirts, white wigs, and white grease painted faces with red crosses. They looked like a shameful group of vulgarians.

OHMYGOD!

I naturally greeted them all warmly with a kiss on each cheek while my darling babies cowered behind a nearby sofa.

My husband (a Wales supporter) naturally did not wear the English strip (thank God). He looked so very conservative and dignified in comparison. The men took a cab to Battersea heliport, and myself and the poppets waved them off from a local riverside pub, no longer interested in a trip to the heliport. The munchkins were horrified, and darling Max in particular was more than a little distressed by the tableau he had witnissed.

“I am so very glad papa did not dress like those frightful men,” he said.

“I much prefer the way daddy dresses for a rugby match,” he continued.

“Indeed,” I replied dryly.

When attending a Wales match, James usually wears a red curly wig, red grease paint on his face, a fifties style white dress (full circle skirt) with a busy Welsh dragon pattern, red tights and high heels (sigh).

The children careered about on their scooters for half an hour while I sank a very large Pinot Grigio from the bar… My poor boy will grow up so very soon and be just like his daddy.

(No Ratings Yet)

 Loading ...

Comments: 18 Comments to Read