Why James O’Brien is wrong….Sigh….

Why James O’Brien is wrong….Sigh….

I listen to talk radio. Daytime talk radio. Doing dishes, folding laundry, packing kids’ sports kit (football boots or trainers? Shorts or joggers? Shin pads, gumsheild, check, check) and ok fine, sipping a post-school run cuppa and perusing Mail Online’s Sidebar of Shame. Oh heavens no, I don’t actually phone in… much. In any case, LBC is my poison, what I like to think of as the cerebral alternative to daytime telly. (There is little more humiliating than the white van man catching you in flagrante glued to Homes under the Hammer eager for how much the modernised semi in Swinton fetched.) I’ve outed myself, haven’t I? Moving on. Yesterday, during James O’Brien’s program one of the hot topics was Brexit. Yes....

September start-line

September start-line

And they’re OFF! Visa is first off the block with shoes and piano lessons, but coming in fast is Paypal with swim class, footie fees and a spanking new book bag. Bringing up the rear’s Mastercard with name tags, pencils and multi-coloured Sharpie bonus pack (ever so handy in a pinch when said name tags are perpetually lost in the post), but as they round the bend it’s AmEx overtaking from the outside with karate club, violin and rugby. It’s a photo finish…. and.. and… AmEx TAKES IT it by a school uniform! Sound familiar? If January is when we all feel the poorest, September runs a close second for most eye-wateringly expensive month of the calendar– start of school compounded by that last minute package holiday in...

The not-so final word

The not-so final word

OOPS. That’s gonna leave a mark. That darned referendum has a lot to answer for. You know the one we gave little more than a passing fancy not even a year ago, offered lip service to but which nobody was meant to take seriously as anything other than political balderdash?? Seems a few of us missed the memo. PEOPLE.  WHAT THE?? You don’t cash in your bargaining chip. You hold onto it, leverage it, wield it like the SNP. (Nevermind the politics Sturgeon, love your style. Totally brill. Can we have you down here?) Bygones. Forevermore (well, the next few months anyway) across Zones 1 and 2 the air will stir with the low hum of London luvvies comparing planning applications and square footage of their soon-to-be compounds in the Dordogne. Cheers for that....

The Mourning Protocol

The Mourning Protocol

It’s been a funny year so far, (no, not funny ha ha), the world losing an eerily high number of influential and dare I say iconic entertainers. Whilst all are unfortunate and many untimely, I can’t say I’ve been personally compelled to express any sort of remorse into cyberspace. No, none have affected me as the death of the artist formerly known as The Artist Formerly Known as Prince. Ah yes, Prince died this week. (that’s me, finger-on- the-pulse. You’re welcome. Eat your heart out TMZ.) This is sad, shocking and in no uncertain terms a bit of a bummer. No, I’m not weeping in my Wheaties, but still it’s worthy of a word. Upon hearing the news there I was, with the rest of the world straight to my antique iPhone 4, quick...

The lost art of wasting time

In a vain attempt to find a suitable and all too often elusive date for the girls’ book club, (yes. Book Club. Let it go. ) there was a moment of slight hesitation before clicking that send button. Did I really want to go there? Hmmm… An hour later, eyeballing my inbox heaving with a 20 message-strong thread of emails I knew then and there I had embarked upon a task of utter frustration and sheer futility. This was gonna be painful. Wednesday worked for some, but another was travelling. No, no not the 20th, out with clients, another, dinner party got there first. What about tuesday? (TUESDAY?!) Saturday? Saturday is just a no-go. (When did weekends become so untouchable?? Ah right, kids. Them again.) You get the picture. I could almost feel myself...

Posh caught flat footed- I heel her pain.

Posh caught flat footed- I heel her pain.

Abandoning her early-Noughties fear of legs resembling golf clubs, La Beckham has thrown in the towel and embraced horizontal shoes, stating the epically obvious to us mere mortals, that 6in heels are just no longer practical as a working mum. Thanks for the tip. Groundbreaking. Anybody got a pen? But no, Posh, I feel your pain. (Lashings of apologies for the pun. It was there.) Sadly, I haven’t the multi-grillion pound empire to back it up, but hear you all the same. When I decided to quit my “good on paper” job in the City to tackle this new, wild, wonderful and not a bit daunting role of motherhood I thought I was prepared. (NEWSFLASH- juggling a career with children is rather hard, or hadn’t you heard?) In the spirit of full disclosure though, I was...