The Perils of Beauty Products When Combined With a 2 Year Old

So, let’s have a little story about beauty products this time. I do love a beauty product. But, now it appears so does my 2 year old Bubette. Crikey.

Oh yes, Bubette is not only already showing a flair / interest / opinion on ‘the fashions’ (she recently told me that she needed some ‘peace and quiet’ while she ‘read’ American Vogue), she also seems to love a beauty product – but not necessarily for their intended use.

We’ll start with my Jo Malone Vitamin E hand cream. I kept that handcream lovingly on my bedside table (next to the dog’s ashes…). However, one evening the hand cream was no longer there.

It had vanished.

Into the Bermuda Triangle of beauty products.

It had been bubba’d – as we call it in our house.

Naturally, 2 words immediately flashed through my mind :

‘Madonna’s hands’

Would my hands begin to age right away?

Would there been an immediate need for me to wear fingerless gloves ?

If you read ‘certain publications’ you may subsequently think Madonna wears these gloves to disguise her ageing hands. This is completely unfounded and untrue – it is totally obvs that all that self crucifying would play havoc with anyone’s hands, whatever their age.

The Jo Malone hand cream was never found, but has  been replaced with this rather gorgeous Lanolips Rose Balm – all I need to do now is nail it down…

The next saga was a certain Estee Lauder lip gloss, a nice jolly pink colour. (Excuse the lack of technical knowledge on this one… I bought it simply because it was a ‘nice jolly pink colour’).

How I chuckled when I asked Bubette if she would like to go to the shops and she replied that she needed to ‘Put her face on first’.

I don’t even do this.  I have always aspired to be one of those women who can actually be bothered with make up. I’d love to be able to say that I don’t put the bins out without 3 coats of mascara, but I do, and in a trackie, with holes in the thigh, acessorised with cave woman hair, oh I how digress…

Anyhow, Bubette proceeded to ‘cutely’ paint streaks of this lip gloss all over her face. Unfortunately, somehow in the process of her doing this ( and while I turned my back for a millisecond) Bubette also applied the rest of the lip gloss to her bedroom carpet.

Result :

Cost of lipstick about £14.00

Cost of a carpet cleaner bloke £80.00

Total cost of lipgloss I wore twice £94.00

Ouch. Easy Tiger.

The next saga was a certain, rather amazing Laura Mercier Fresh Fig Honey bath that Bubette ‘bought’ me for Mother’s day. Bubette was about to go to bed, I had a spare half hour, so I decided to have a nice relaxing bath combined with a read of  Jilly Cooper’s ‘Imogen’ (again). I poured the recommended amount in, turned round to get a towel ready and yes, in that millisecond, darling little Bubette had emptied the entire rest of the jar in the bath.

Total cost of that bath, well, I dread to think. Bubette was delighted at all the bubbles though…

Aside from lip balm, bath oils and hand cream, my other favoured beauty product is a really good intensive hair conditioner.

Problem is I don’t have 15 minutes in my day to sit around waiting for one to work. And I dislike the chemically plastic smells of so many of them . I chose to try a Gielly Green Hair Repair Mask initially simply because I saw the words ‘Leave it on overnight for amazing results’ on the website.

‘Leave it on overnight’.

Jurassic. Park.

Perfect.

I can do that.

And it smells wonderful – Vanilla and Lemongrass scented hair and pillow anyone? A quick rinse in the morning and I have super glossy hair (because, really, it’s ‘all about the hair’ isn’t it?). And, yes, this gorgeous hair mask now currently resides very high up on a bathroom shelf that a certain little person cannot reach …

Is a day with a 2 year old as tricky as a day with a certain kind of ‘creative fashion type?’

So, my darling little Bubette is now 2. The infamous terrible twos. Whilst it is lots of fun, it is also, frankly, utterly exhausting. To be perfectly honest I’m not sure whether I have ever had to work this hard in my life.

Indeed, for the past couple of weeks I’ve been thinking about whether a day spent with a 2 year old is as stressful as a day spent with some of my more tricky bosses.

It wasn’t without good reason that I originally wanted to be a Zoologist. However, I was side-tracked into the equally highbrow world of Fashion PR (oh do stop sniggering).

Obvs I’ve been lucky enough to work with some utterly wonderful people, but I’ve also worked with some, shall we be polite and call them ‘creative fashion types’ who had really bad coke habits – sorry, I mean really stressful jobs.

My intensive and surely ground breaking study shows that these ‘creative fashion types’ behaviour patterns are eerily similar to my 2 year old’s.

Examples / Total Proof as follows below;

They both love bananas.

They both hate (in case of fashion types, are scared of) bread.

They both throw things when they can’t get their own way.

They both jump up and down in an irrational rage at things that are quite simply not worth getting that worked up over.

They both drop things and refuse to pick them up, expecting someone else to do so for them. ( I ‘worked’ with someone who, when he dropped his pen on the  floor would simply call the intern to bring him a new pen rather than just bend down and pick it up – twat)

They both throw things when they can’t get their own way

When one tries to rationalise with them (which is nearly all the time) one needs to talk really slooooowly, in an encouraging, upbeat voice.

They both eat an almost inhumane amount one day and then refuse all food for the next few days

When in public with them one often needs to grimace and apologise to strangers for their behaviour

They both throw things when they can’t get their own way

They both have an inability to let me do anything but attend to them:

When I do try to read my current book; Carrie Fisher’s ‘Postcards from the Edge’ – v. appropriate non? Hahahahaha, Bubette will instruct me to ‘put the book down whilst closing it for me’

Similarly, they both have an inability to read books by themselves. Bubette poss because she can’t read, and lacks co-ordination. And I was once told to turn the pages of a book (‘you do it for me’) by a top style magazine editor. I couldn’t work out whether he was so self-important that he deemed turning book pages himself beneath him, or if he was just so ripped to the tits that he lacked the co-ordination to do so. One will simply never know.

They both throw things when they can’t get their own way.

They both think nothing of behaving like an utter twat in ‘nice’ restaurants. Bubette has a habit of shouting ‘I want chips / ketchup / a balloon’ at waiters. Fashion creative types, well they can be just excruciatingly rude and besides, they hate food, so why are they there?

They both have a special favourite toy / member of staff, this never lasts long;

Bubette currently loves Woody, she is so delighted to see him each morning, she coos to him, sits him on her knee at breakfast and feeds him. However, I know that Woody’s time is limited because I’ve seen this behaviour with other toys. Pretty soon Bubette will hand me Woody and tell me to ‘put him in the bin’.

Similarly, I once had a boss who announced that he loved the new PR girl very much because she was ‘so thin’. That PR managed to work with us for about a month before she passed out over her desk and had to leave…I think for some sort of clinic…

They both throw things when they can’t get their own way

They both repeat themselves ALL DAY LONG

Bubette ‘Where’s Woody Mummy?’

Me ‘He’s in your toy box’

Bubette ‘Where’s Woody Mummy?’

Me ‘He’s in your toy box’

Repeat ALL DAY LONG

Boss ‘Can you send those 3 belts to the designer to wear out tonight’

Me ‘Ok, the 3 belts are identical. Is the designer going to wear 3 belts at once, or can I just send one belt and use the other 2 for press shoots (silently in my head i.e. my job)?

Boss ‘Can you send those 3 belts to the designer to wear out tonight’.

Me ‘OK’

Boss ‘Have you sent the belts?’

 Me ‘Yes they arrived, here’s the signature’.

Boss 1 hour later ‘Has the designer received those 3 belts to wear out tonight?’.

Repeat ALL DAY LONG, next day replace ‘belt’ with ‘shoe’ then ‘scarf’ then ‘bangle’ etc etc. Take a bollocking at the end of the month for not getting any press on said items, as they were never in the office.

It is crucial at this point NEVER to tell the 2 year old or the ‘creative fashion type’ that they have already asked you to do that. This would confuse the 2 year old. They just need reassurance. And it would infer to the creative fashion type that you think they are insane. They are of course, ‘not’. They just have a very stressful job (coke habit) and are ‘tired of having to think for everyone’

Indeed, I once made the mistake of telling a really nutty boss that I had already been asked by them to do something and had done so yesterday.

The result; I was summoned to their office to receive a half hour rollocking on my attitude / arrogance / who did I think I was etc etc. When I didn’t react to this (because by this stage in my career I had been heavily on the Buddhist books and knew never to react) said boss started madly jabbing at their head with their pointed finger whilst shouting ‘I know you think I have a problem, I know you think I’m not very well’.

When I still said nothing, said boss ran towards me with hands outstretched towards my throat. ‘Great, I thought, I’m going to get strangled now’. Anyway the boss lurched towards me and threw their arms around me, told me I was ‘fucking brilliant’ and that they ‘just loved me’.

But, of course, a couple of hours later they hated me…again…

Another example of the type of utter twonts who (unfortunately) live in the same part of the Shires as us

So, picture the scene. Easter Sunday. An idyllic day at my parents. 4 generations. All rarely together. Far too much chocolate and tea. Toddlers running around the garden screeching with joy. Fond goodbyes. Journey home, only 1 hour.

Not a lot can happen in an hour can it?

Darling Husband Mr T was driving. Reason being I don’t ‘do’ motorways or dual carriageways. Reason for this being that the world doesn’t need yet another fuckwit on it’s busy roads.

Mr T goes to pull into our driveway, then abruptly pulls off. He drives down the road. I ask Mr T if he forgot where he lives. He replies that something really odd is happening , that the car behind is ‘following’ us. I say something like don’t be daft. But sure enough the car pulls in nearby. Mr T drives back down the road, the car follows, Mr T drives round and round the local town. The car follows. Mr T pulls up outside one of those Costcutter type shops that always reek of Rothmans. The car stops across the road. Nothing happens. We sit there. They sit there. Mr T says he is going to ask what their problem is. I tell him not to. They are clearly batshit crazy.

Anything could happen.

Or could it?

Actually?

Round here?

I tell Mr T to drive to the local police station. Let the fuzz sort it out. By now I am starting to shake, as it’s just too weird. Then I turn round and catch a good look at them. The driver is a sort of old boy toff type a total fop, with great big fuzzy hair combed over really high. The passenger is a horsey middle-aged woman not letting the phone drop from her ear.

She’s wearing really small, really tight to the face black wrap around shades .Think Bono. Yes, in a nutshell, Think WANKER.

We pull up outside the police station. I’m trying to phone them to come out. Naturally, 118500 is trying to put me through to a police station in London…

The major weirdos pull up just behind us.

By now I am shaking with rage and fear. I tell Mr T to lock the doors. Then a police car pulls up behind us.

The copper comes over, asks Mr T to step out of the car. I can’t hear them talking. The copper is one of those jobsworth types who I can’t help but feel sorry for, because he is having to do a job where he’s trying to be taken seriously, but he clearly doesn’t even have any facial hair yet .

Now, I’m very wary of the police ever since I was merrily walking my dog home through Hyde Park years ago and a member of the filth stopped me on ‘suspicion of attempted murder’. Reason being, he explained was that a bloke had just been stabbed by a woman in a denim jacket with a dog. Despite the fact that even to the thickest of twonts if I had just stabbed someone, then surely me, my denim jacket, or my dog might have had some sort of blood up us, this utter prick kept me there for 20 minutes as a suspect. During this time he was ferociously rude to me. Then he got a message down his walkie talkie. He turned to me and casually said, ‘nah its not you, the witness says the suspect’s dog was a staffie, you can go now’. No sorry to me, or my denim jacket, and, most crucially, no apologies to my dog for muddling him up with a staffie. Tosser.

So, here I am, Easter Sunday. Totally razzed up. So, I wind down the car window and enquire ‘Excuse me officer, but exactly what in fuck’s name is going on?’

The copper explains that Mr T had cut a bend on the main road. Therefore, despite the fact that there was no oncoming traffic, despite the fact that the road was empty and everyone does this on that road anyway, the major losers in the car behind deduced that Mr T must be pissed and decided to spend an hour of their sad sorry bastard little lives following us whilst on the phone to the police.

Mr T, as I explained to the officer doesn’t touch a drop of alcohol when he drives. Never. Not even one beer. He has always said it isn’t worth it. Mr T I explained to the officer, got his neck broken round the corner from here by a ‘irresponsible driver’ last year. Mr T is therefore very safety aware. And another thing officer, if that mentalist ever follows me again I will accuse her of harassment.

The copper, he just smiled, apologised. Said it was clear Mr T hadn’t been drinking. Seemed a bit embarrassed. Said he would have ‘a word’ with them.

So, to the deluded bitch in the shitty old beige Peugeot, if you are reading this, whilst I understand that it was a bank holiday and therefore you were prob bored off your posh little tits because Cath Kidston was closed and Boden weren’t delivering, there is no need to come over all Claire Danes on my Mr T. In short, cock right off.

Where Have All the Fashion PRs Gone Part 2

Since writing my (soon to be published, don’t you know) piece ‘Where have all the Fashion PRs gone’ http://mrstiggywinklesdiaries.wordpress.com/2012/03/16/where-have-all-the-fashion-prs-gone/   I have been ‘fortunate’ enough to receive yet more calls from headhunters about PR roles.

When they aren’t trying to extract my contacts from me ‘oooh do you know anyone who would be good for that role?’  ’Er yeah, of course I do, but you can feel free to pay me to do your job actuellement’ then they are patronising me with that favourite catch phrase inflicted on the working mother ‘lifestyle choice.’

Allegedly said lifestyle choice is that I would now not only be expected to work my arse off at all hours (nothing new there), but I would ‘need’ to spend all my evenings attending odious drinks / launches / social events.

Really?

So, as well as not seeing my daughter all day, at night I would now be expected to spend my little bit of ‘family time’ bored off my tits by canapé botherers, instead of dancing round the sitting room to the In the Night Garden theme tune, before staging diving competitions with a doll and one of those Upsy Daisy bath mitt type things, before hitting the gin (he who dares, gins) and Eastenders.

This ‘need’ to attend unlimited social events is a rather interesting new concept to me. Because I did fashion PR for 17 years and I nearly never attended drinks / launches / social events that weren’t for my actual clients. The rather obvious reason for this being I that was too busy working for my clients to be out socialising and promoting myself.

Indeed, someone once commented to me (actually an editor who later threatened to kill me – but that’s a story for the book – once commented to me) that everyone in the industry knew my name but very few people knew what I looked like (blonde, big tits btw). Isn’t that the point of PR, hard-working, background people, it’s all about the client….?

I realised things had changed drastically on this front though,  when I received word that a former PR boss of mine recently spent more time posing on the red carpet than any of the celebs at the event she was ‘organising’. She always was a vacuous twat, I thought, but a very successful vacuous twat indeed.

Most press hated being pushed to stand around at these evening launches, with me blundering on about yet another collection to them (dutifully repeating ‘inspirations’ that the designer had undoubtedly made up after spending way too much time dancing with the white lady – and then rather sadistically told me to repeat)’

In fact, at the last press launch I ever did, when I was trying really hard not to snigger whilst showing an £800 evening bag that looked like a seashell to a well-known editor, she said ‘Actually, can you just bring your dog down here, it’s him we’d really love to see.’

I could tell you countless stories of loyal long-standing PRs being sacked whilst on maternity leave, being sacked for getting pregnant, being asked in job interviews if they plan to have children (all by household name designers whose businesses only exist because of women), because one must devote one’s life to the cult that is ‘the house’ but, instead I’ll leave you with one story from my time as a PR for an outwardly very woman friendly brand:

At the end of my interview for said uh-amazing job, the Director of Communications walked me to the door and, out of earshot of the CEO and the designer, and, most crucially, the HR girl, he whispered ‘They really like you, just one thing, ‘You don’t have a husband or kids to get home to at night do you? Or a serious live in boyfriend?’

This should have been a warning sign to me (and isn’t it illegal to ask that?) but well, I was so keen to work for this design house – and such a naive little twont.

Later, having been installed as a PR dolly for some time, I was deemed worthy enough to visit the design studio. There I noticed a very serene, very stylish woman who seemed to be in charge of everything.

I asked da boss what this chic woman’s role was.

His reply? ‘Oh, you don’t need to bother with her – she’s basically just a housewife’

When I asked him to elaborate he explained that this woman ‘only worked 4 days a week, and even then she left at 5pm to spend time with her kids’ whilst waving his hand around like he was shooing away the work shy.

I later found out that this ‘housewife’ was in actual fact the chief designer – she designed and oversaw everything that was sold under this designer’s name. IE without this ‘housewife’ there prob would have been no credible design house and without this ‘housewife’ my rather twatty boss prob wouldn’t have held such a prestigious job, or even been fortunate enough to work with such lovely products.

I didn’t have children then, but I admired this woman so much for being strong enough to insist on juggling her talent with her home life and I admired the company for letting her do so.

As for that boss, he still works 20 hours a day. He has a face like 50 bloodhounds running south to prove it…

My First School Run

Last Monday I took part in that huge mile stone of any mother’s life, My First School Run.

Bubette is 2, so I thought I would try her out at a little nursery school.  I’d checked out all the local nurseries and also one of those Montessori schools. When I explained to the rather twatty woman in charge of the Montessori place that I’d really just like somewhere for Bubette to play with other children a couple of mornings a week, she looked me up and down and snarled ‘Honestly, I don’t know why some people bother having kids.’

Tosser.

So, as I haven’t really been parted from my beloved Bubettte for 2 years, and, especially as she is going through one of those really clingy phases (everything is a phase is my parenting mantra), it was totally understandable, as a mother, that I lay awake for most of Sunday night, worrying myself senseless about what to wear.

After I had finished laying awake wondering what to wear, I started to lay awake making a mental list of really crucial things I felt I might ‘need’ for the school run:

1. A Chelsea tractor

2. A Hairbrush or

3. A Brazilian blow dry

4. A tan from ‘Verbs’

5. One of those Polo belt type things threaded through ‘nicely’ ironed (by staff   naturellement) jeans

6. Plain pair of non-branded, non blingy, tasteful (i.e. like nothing I own) Black lunettes super glued to my face

7. A Cup of very strong tea for the car, as I will be knackered after all this grooming

8. Some sort of top half to the outfit, oh fack…

Boden, Kiely, Kidston, I’m afraid I don’t own any of those things. I just can’t inflict it on myself. I’m the kind of mother who ‘pretends the TV is broken ‘ when Mr Tumble comes on. I don’t really like other people’s kids (and find it hard to pretend otherwise). I can’t cook. When Bubette first started speaking she’d stare meekly at what I had ‘cooked / inflicted’ on her, before telling me to ‘give it to the chickens’.

And, besides, the right or wrong look for the school run can make or break parent friendships. Nothing too trendy (a friend of mine once rocked a Balenciaga biker jacket and was subsequently blanked at the school gates for 6 months). Nothing too showy / nouveau… or one simply won’t be invited for coffee at the local farm shop. But, get it right, and, well, I might even get asked to be on the committee that is organising the local Dad’s donkey race (for charity, obvs – isn’t everything, always in these circles).

Most people in the countryside hate fashion. Nothing closes a conversation faster than someone asking me what I do / did for work. Blank stares, stutters, tumble weed, I might as well drop in that I think hunting is cruel, or that I get upset by the amount of beautiful ‘dead by Audi’ wildlife I see on the side of the roads and yes, actually I sometimes drop the fact that I’m a vegetarian in too, because that really pisses on their fire.

Anyway, I woke in the morning and decided to use the allotted grooming time as extra sleep time. I therefore dressed totally as myself and roared straight into the school car park with ‘Careless Whisper’ blaring out of the car windows. And, actually the other mother’s there were v friendly, a couple did those quick smile / too busy (doing what?) to stop waves. One shouted my name and came running across the car park, ‘delighted’ that I was there.

The school run gossip was that ‘Boden is expanding in America’ ( I resisted the urge to say ‘good they can keep it’), after it’s ‘success’ in France ( again, I resisted the urge to say ‘I bet Bonpoint is crapping itself, not’). And that apparently Boden has its own online ‘community’ in which like-minded people can converse about leather totes and learn how to bake the perfect Victoria sandwich.

Well, Fuck. Me. Senseless.

Turn Around, Bright Eyes.

Oh, sunshine why do you have to come out on the day we put our house on the market. Why do you have to appear making the surrounding countryside so very beautiful, and why can’t even you make the locals smile? One of the greatest unsolved mysteries to man is how people can live where I do, surrounded by some of the most stunning countryside ever and still have a face like a dog’s chew toy…

Christ knows where we are going to move to, except it will be nearer family because it’s nigh on impossible for me to work properly and spend quality time with Bubette otherwise. (so rigid are the hours of nurseries and Nannies around here).

I’m not holding out much hope of finding anywhere to live easily, as most estate agents seem oblivious to even the simplest levels of taste. I spent ages explaining what kind of house I like to one estate agent. I thought he’d got it, I really did, and then he emailed me through details of a bungalow (or ‘chalet’ as they like to call them now – makes them sound more fancy…) which was totally bastard well ugly, with a huge great chimney right up the front. The agent then actually had the cheek to ask my thoughts. I said one word ‘Crematorium’ and hung up.

I’ve noticed Estate agents have also taken to describing houses as ‘painted in antique white.’ Translated to non bull shit speak this means ‘Magnolia’. No matter how much they try to ‘Farrow and Ball it ‘ (and I know a lot about Farrow + Ball btw, I mean I live in the Shires, it’s practically in one’s deeds that ‘one must paint one’s shed Parma Gray’) it is still tossing well ‘Magnolia’.

Anyway, aside from ‘Antique White’, today’s important discovery was that Bubette’s head seems to have grown way too big for her sun hat. So we ventured into the nearby town to try and get a new one. Bubette sucking a Fab ice lolly (soz Jamie) in the Bubbagoo, me with Bonnie Tyler’s ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ in my ears and whether ‘Dave’ Cameron has been spending my stopped child tax credits on botox in my thoughts, both of us dodging the local Boden Botherers along the way. Naturally, no-one sold sun hats (although, to be fair, one can buy a gun, a ferret or a cream tea easily enough ). We even tried Cath Kidston. The assistant told me they didn’t have any yet, but she ‘was sure Cath will do one this Summer.’ I resisted the urge to say ‘of course Cath will, no object is safe from her slapping a print of that dog of hers / a cowboy / some roses on it and charging a fuckload of cash for ‘

I now plan to have a lovely  glass of Pinot Grigio Blush (I’m all class) in a bath filled with Laura Mercier’s rather amazing Fresh Fig Honey, which Bubette got me for Mother’s Day. She’s so chic our Bubettte, I love the idea of her toddling into SpaceNK and choosing me such a gorgeous gift.  Whilst bathing I plan to read the very wonderful Mumsnet’s guide to Toddlers in an effort to learn how to ‘deal’ with Bubette’s tantrums. Apparently these are typical of being 2. Fine, maybe, whatever, but (and I’ll say it before anyone else does)  my own tantrums lasted until I was at least 34…so who knows…

Where Have All The Fashion PRs Gone?

So, basically I keep getting headhunted for all these full on ‘power PR’ type jobs. This could potentially be viewed as flattering, but I believe that this is actually probably because no-one of a certain age and experience, who isn’t zipped up the back, wishes to do Fashion PR anymore.

All these huge great prestigious brands have problems finding PRs in the UK. I think there are several reasons for this, the primary one being that these brands are, in terms of general HR, mostly stuck in the early 90′s. I.E. one must be in the office sat at a keyboard with all the panache of a stuffed chimp (whilst squashed into runway look 1, even though no-one’s going to see it) for 20 hours a day, or one simply isn’t working hard enough… You know, one simply isn’t ‘living the brand’.

Well, fashion design houses do let me introduce you to an object that goes by the name of the Blackberry. This device enables one to still be in touch with the office, the press and designer from the outside world. Therefore one can juggle one’s life with work – radical, yet so very threatening, I know.

Why do I want to sit in an office for 20 hours a day? Do not, reader, make the mistake of thinking press offices are glamorous, they are, in fact, usually the last thing on a company’s mind when it gets some really uber architect type to design it’s beautiful offices…’oh shit we forgot, we need to put the PR team somewhere, lets just shove them in the cupboard under the stairs, they don’t need windows or light…. they’re living the dream.’

And, despite rumours otherwise, I worked really bloody hard in my day. I have the best names on my CV and a wrinkle shaped like the logo of one of my more stressful former clients on my forehead to prove it. You don’t get that by arsing around The Wolseley all day…

So, headhunters if you don’t mind, for the moment I think I’m far happier wiping my kids arse than a fashion designer’s, that is until someone wakes up and smells the year 2012 or at the very least the blackberry.

Besides, I ask myself:  ‘Did my career peak with my double page photograph in New York magazine’s ‘Fresh off The Runway special?’  An arty panoramic black and white shot of the jostling crowd before the …………………… show in Paris. The central point being little old me, looking utterly gormless, accessorised with a clipboard and a headset (I usually tuned this in to the local radio station) whilst ‘pretending not to notice’ Kanye West needing to be seated nearby.

In fact, I just threw a birthday party for my 2 year old Bubette, this was actually sort of similar to the fashion events I used to ‘organise’ – totally messy and with plenty of tantrums. I was just dying to stand on the door with my beloved clipboard. ‘No, Florence and Jack you are not on the list, therefore we cannot accommodate you at this event’. Or ‘will you just piss off’ as I prob used to hiss when I’d had enough of ‘edgy blaggers’

Now, instead of difficult fashion types I deal with tricksy mothers. Just last week a Mum at swimming asked me if Bubette’s Bonpoint dress was from Monsoon. An innocent enough comment, but I had to really try hard not to tell her to wash her mouth out… Perhaps I am ready for fashion again after all…