Chatter

Posted by dulwichmum on Mon 30 June 2008

I returned from work this evening to discover that my perfect poppets had been joined by their little chum Tushar for a play date. The jolly troop were about to embark upon a game of spies, but no agreement could be reached regarding which characters to play:

My name is Blonde, James Blonde, announced six year old Max (diddums!).

That is not his name, screeched Tushar, helpfully.

Do stop procrastinating, or we shall be called for supper, and run out of time for play… scolded my five year old jewel Freya.

I heard her use the words nonchalant  and exuberant  appropriately only yesterday (OHMYGOD!).

I am so confused. I am proud, and yet I fear for all of our futures.

God I need a drink…

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 Hail King Gordon of all Brown

Posted by dulwichmum on Wed 25 June 2008

Our perfect Prime Minister, Gordon Brown, has been at the helm for one whole year (sigh). I have the biggest crush on this man (OHMYGOD!). He is clearly so very uncomfortable in the shallow, dishonest, self obsessed world of politics, spin and insincerity. If he makes a mistake, he is not proud, he backs down, he says he is wrong. He seeks advice from experts and I imagine that he has lots of Excel Spreadsheets and a huge calculator on his desk.

I am delighted by the fact that he is not photogenic, Gordon is not some shiny wet boy sporting a cycling helmet and a bottle of Evian, followed by a 4×4 crammed with body guards. I can imagine David Cameron as a boy, with his sick note for matron, hoping to be excused from contact sports. I can just see him drinking organic soya decaf latte (gasp). Master Cameron is just not very manly and in my opinion is better suited to a career in estate agency.

I would love Gordie to be my boss. I imagine that he is a perfect manager, uninterested in office gossip and spin, just keen to get on with the job in hand. He is busy running the country, concerned with global warming, the rising cost of fuel, and the war in Iraq.

He is not one of those fathers who climbs into the birthing pool next to his labouring wife and makes a nuisance of himself, hyperventilating and hogging the entinox gas.

I imagine that he wears carpet slippers and a v-neck, cable knit cardigan with chunky buttons. He is not a shiny wet boy. I don’t know my right wing from my left wing from my west wing – honestly. I haven’t the last clue about politics, but Gordon is a real man and long may he rule (swoon).

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