Milk & Manolos

Ugh. I’m slightly ashamed to say that my mircowave until this morning stunk.

Of course I tried to convince the Husband that the best way forward was for us to reinvest in a new state of the art one, I however was annoyingly reminded that this one was only a year old. Damn. I HATE it when he out smarts me.

So with his list of house chores the length of my arm, I thought I’d don the old rubbers and set about sprucing up the old thing and rather proudly it worked. Excellente, that’s £ 150 for me to spend on sundry fashion items surely ?

So I Listened with Mother, or more aptly To Mother and I set about my mission.

Placing a mug of boiling water with three wedges of lemon lovingly placed inside I set the timer for three minutes and enjoyed my morrning cuppa. Once finished I left it a further 4 minutes for the lemony steam to get to work on those horrible odours and crusty food spills. Enough time for a biscuit too.

Once the hard part was done, I simply set about with my regular anti-bacterial spray and gave the inside a once over, amazed at how easy all the gunk was removed. The turn table went into the dishwasher and Bob’s your uncle, job done.

The Munchkin is following in my footsteps. The Husband is worried. Fortunately he knows not what is round the corner. I do, hence the sleepless nights.

Already at the tender age of two and a half she sees the importance of a good accessory. Handbags and shoes are her thing. With fierce determination and a stubbornness I refuse to recognise in myself she carefully co-ordinates her daily outfits. Once completed her attention turns to the handbag, fully equipped with lipstick, pen and mock phone.

While it’s adorable to discover her tastes, I do harbour concerns that her style gene is yet to develop. Yesterday she looked like what I can only describe as a chav, complete with pony tail high on her head consisting of all of three hairs and looking far more pineapple than anything else.

I couldn’t resist showing her these sweet little numbers in the hope that she’ll eventually put down the pea green faux leather number she’s become rather attracted too. This little lady has a love for unnatural fibres that compares only to that of Kerry Katona, something most definitely to be ironed out at a later date methinks.

Having discovered Sally Shufflepants while diligently scouring the internet I had at first decided to give it a full body swerve due to the name which was far to sickly sweet for me. But putting my fear of the dentist behind me I double clicked and found a truly great place to help keep my present box stacked up …

I fear I may be turning into a snake. All of a sudden my skin has turned horribly dry and scaly, and each time I wake I wonder whether I’ll find the shell of my former self lying next to me. Of course, this could have it’s benefits. If the worst were to happen surely I’d find a wrinkle free me underneath ?

But let’s face it, the likelihood is slim, and fortunately so. Despite the thousands I would make selling my story to the tabloids I would be fit for a freak show.

In a vain attempt to keep my old leathery skin soft and supple I’ve pulled out the big guns. Oh yes, it’s time the Neal’s Yard Avocado oil.

There’s no getting away from the fact that I’m one of the largest fans of these green fruits known to man, so the notion of slathering myself in their nutritious oil is quite a pleasant one. The green hew of it is undoubtedly of small concern, however after years of use I’m yet to see it displayed upon my person.

A heavy oil, it’s not something you’d want to use everyday, but for the boring dryness I seem to get at the change of every season this bids it bon voyage, while keeping me salad fresh.

I am particularly loving The Husband at present. Saturday morning I was whisked along with a small person craving sugary treats (oh yes, NOW I understand what they mean about the terrible twos) to West London where I was lovingly placed, bleary eyed, in the reception of The Cowshed and told that they’d see me in an hour. What was my fate to hold ? Ahhhh. Only time would tell.

It wasn’t until I reached the ‘treatment room’ that I discovered that Him Indoors had organised, God love im, a signature facial, featuring not only an ‘extraction’ (I love that word), but a head and shoulder massage, and a plethora of lotions and potions that made my skin feel as soft as the Munchkin’s bottom.

Having indulged in many a facialists expertise over time, I can say, hand on heart, that I’ve never experienced anything this good and the best thing is - it doesn’t cost the world.

So send your him in doors this link and get him pampering you pretty damn quickly. You deserve it.

Before I married the Husband, I was the girl that had every exercise machine known to man. In my studio flat. It wasn’t a good look, but I had convinced myself that by investing some of my paultry bonus into some home exercise gear that not only would I be perma-toned (given my 10 minutes of daily dedication surely this was the least it could bestow upon me ?) but my body would be one step further to being a temple, rather than the delapidated church hall I had sadly created through hours of sitting in pubs and drinking establishments, smoking my way into oblivion.

When the Husband arrived on the scene, my coteree of machines became a deal breaker. It seemed he wasn’t as keen on home exercise as I. He had a fair point, they weren’t the prettiest things in the world.

Imagine my delight at discovering rowhire. Here you can hire, without any commitment to buy, a top of the range water rower or Keiser M3 indoor cycle.

For just £9.90 a week, I can dodge the gym while attempting the whet the Husbands appetite for home exercise. Quite frankly, I don’t see why he’d find me in anyway unattractive, red faced and sweaty, labouring over a state of the art machine that I’m clearly not fit enough to use. Second thoughts, I’ll also buy a lock for the bedroom door.

It’s rare that in my normal, everyday life that I’ll pick up a book and devour it from cover to cover in a matter of days, hours even. Sure, on holidays it’s common fare, provided someone else is keeping a careful eye on the Munchkin, picking up the parental responsibilities I drop as quickly as my pasty hew the minute I’m somewhere hot with a pool.

This weekend, following a two and a half hour train journey to see my mother-in-law, I’ve been unable to tear myself away from Imogen Edwards-Jones Fashion Babylon. To the point of being horribly anti-social I’m ashamed to say. But what’s a girl to do ? Mother-in-law ready, willing and able to steal the Munchkin away for an hour or two and said anti-social daughter-in-law willing to take full advantage her generosity. The gossip in this baby is enough to get anyone going. For a moment or two it almost had me poised to dust off my sewing machine …

The Munchkin has developed a fear of the dark. A rite of passage I’m sure. While she cowers behind me when we enter a darkened room I stand tall, protecting my Bumbalina from all manner of fears, hoping that just a little might rub off on her. Needless to say it hasn’t.

This is where the handy Anti Monster Spray comes in. Before bed, we squirt here, there and everywhere, paying particular attention to under the bed, and ensuring that all closet doors are duly closed and the cat is fast asleep at the foot of the bed, ready to catch any spiders (another fear. We’re working through them one by one).

Let me tell you it works. The lavender, while a touch June Whitfield, certainly has her off to bye-byes in two shakes of a lambs tail, while the bright packaging tells her exactly what she need do should she wake and be scared. Squirt of course !

I love finding quirky gifts to send people. Having spent many a year sending carefully chosen booty bags to the rich and famous I’m always quick to note a must have address for the Black Book.

Biscuiteers is one of these addresses. Lovingly handed to me by a fellow gift giver this is already my new favourite. Who wouldn’t love a small pile of beautifully iced biscuits arriving on their door step ?

Prices range from a very affordable £ 8 through to about £ 37 so there’s something here to fit every budget. I considered for a moment sending The Husband the beautifully hand decorated tin of ladies underwear. After much deliberation I decided against it. It was because of those biscuits that he wasn’t getting the real deal. He’d have to enjoy the ‘Love’ cookies instead …

I feel like a little kid in a sweet shop, about to throw a tantrum. Except I know I don’t have a hope in hell of getting what I want. Frustration to the point of tears.

The thing that I’m desperate for, which will complete me as a wife, mother, daughter, employee and part-time fashionista is the latest offering from Prada, the Prada Fairy bag. Just writing that mad me want to hurl myself towards the ground with great velocity and in full view of the Husband. Surely he can see my pain ?

This bag is just beautiful, but retailing at well over £ 1,000 is way out of my reach. Heavily marketed over the last few weeks this is most certainly the bag to have, and will be until AW 08. Sold out in seconds, if you’re lucky enough to have a hefty wad of spare spondoolies in that bottom draw of yours, get your name on the waiting list toot suite (client.service@prada.com).

In the meantime, I’ll just admire from afar, and consider a short spell of petty crime in order to fund my addiction.

The Munchkin has just received her first history lesson, and boy did we do it in style.  With little in the diary and a small yearning for the educational of we went to Hampton Court Palace.

‘Specialising’ (I fear not an entirely honest use of the word) in the Tudors during my turbulent A-Level years it was time I revisited my past, dragging the Munchkin and Husband with me.  Surely that’s what rainy days are for ?

Convincing the Munchkin she would meet the Queen, and secret hoping Catharine Howard’s ghost would conveniently put in an appearance we bundled into the car and headed down Hampton Way.

Admititably the sixteenth century kitchens were a little hard to bear at 10.30 in the morning. A jolly old fellow, in full Tudor garb talked us through the running of such a cucina, Tudor style. All while boning a pheasant.

Not usually one for audience participation, I was a little alarmed to see it was the road the palace had decided to travel. Quickly I realised that they’d managed the near impossible - they had absolutely struck the right balance. Easy to avoid should you so choose there was something charming about their performers. They imparted great chucks of information with ease and humour that few could achieve, and when you felt you’d had enough, you simply didn’t have to play any more.

Another bonus about these ‘role plays’ was that the Munchkin was able to meet the Queen. While sadly no Henry VIII waddled through the corridors, Katherine of Aragon and her ladies in waiting where happy to pass the time of day. Best of all, the Jester’s show, which I’d initially sniffed at, proved a huge success, with fire eating and stilt walking galore.

Then there was the Maze. The Munchkin ran and ran and for a while there, the Husband and I thought we’d never get out. Narrowly avoiding a sense of humour failure, my homing pigeon ability to head for home soon had us back on the right track.

A walk around the grounds, and a delicious lunch in the Tiltyard Cafe completed the day. We collapsed into the car, the Munchkin having been carefully being steered well clear of the gift shops feeling as though we’d had a proper, old fashioned family day out.