Yesterday I once again found myself in Bloomsbury, as I went to meet my friend, A. She is off to Greece today to see my good friend B, so I wanted her to pass on some letters and late Christmas presents for me. A is a lovely, bubbly person, always up to something interesting. She recently completed her MA in performance. She is into improv theatre and last time I saw her was at an 'alter ego' fancy party she hosted. She does manages to do all this withour seeming pretentious. She is also the one who got me into life modelling, so I have a lot to thank her for. She gave me a cuddle towel B had made for me and took pictures of J, who was very cross after an hour bus ride, most of which had been taken up with crawling up Oxford Street. A then had to go back to work, leaving me with a screaming, read faced bundle.
I then headed off to find somewhere to feed J, ending up in Lambs Conduit street. I went to 'tutti' to get an ice coffee (still off the hot drinks) and enjoy their big comfy sofas. A very friendly 4 year old chatted to me about her pretend baby, who apparently can grow and do poos and everything. Obviously technology has improved since I was a kid. I had always been impressed that my Tiny Tears doll cried 'real tears' and wet her nappies. After a good look at the amazing Lambs bookshop, which was having a sale (hooray!) I headed to the Brunswick centre, to use the infamous Starbucks toilet and buy bananas and taste the samples in Waitrose.
While I was walking around, in the vicinity of my old University, I realised at one stage that I felt sad. Trying to put my finger on why though, I wasn't sure whether it was because being in this familiar landscape reminded me of my awful experience at University, or if it reminded me of my fantastic experience at University.
Awful, because of the impossible amount of work I could never keep on top of, because of the competitiveness of the law department, because of the dangerous stalker who hounded me in the first and second year, because of the weird guy in Tottenham who waited at the end of the road for me, because of the cockroach infested shared houses, because of the job I did in second year, where I worked nights for an abusive disabled man who manipulated me into not leaving until he'd literally driven me insane, because of the loneliness I felt when my boyfriend went to India for his language year abroad, because I was in my first trimester of pregnancy and vomitted my way through my finals, because after all that I left with a sub-standard grade.
Fantastic, because I met some amazing friends, because I met the love of my life, because I was constantly learning and feeling stimulated, because I did some great things, like organising a non-sweatshop fashion show, because of all the films and extra seminars I attended, because I had amazing, inspiring tutors and lecturers, because of the small, mundane pleasures like reading the Guardian in the union, drinking Fairtrade tea from a paper cup and eavesdropping on other people's conversations.
I realised that basically, those University years were intense; intensely stressful and intensely wonderful. I also realised that I never really had a chance to recover, going from that period of intensity, to being pregnant, and then to having a child. I guess this relates again to my being a young(ish) mother, giving birth at a stage of life earlier than I would have planned. But then I imagine however well prepared people think they are, however settled they appear to be, having a baby is a bombshell. It knocks women and their partners for six, not just physically. I met a woman in a baby changing room the other day, who had a 2 week old, and got chatting to her about sleeplessness, breastfeeding and mastitis. It was clear she was feeling as I had, totally at sea, having to cope with the most all-consuming task imaginable, looking after a baby, without ever having the opportunity to recover from the birth, which is probably the most traumatic and painful event a woman ever experiences. I think its close to post-traumatic stress, a feeling like your whole body has been almost violated, but then just having to carry on, in a fog of exhaustion and confusion.
Talking to her, however, did make me realise that in a sense, I have come a long way since then. It was strange listening to myself reassure her confidently, that breastfeeding would get better, that her baby's sleep pattern would settle down. I guess that is a reflection of the capacity of women to recover, to get over the car crash that is child birth...
So right now I am feeling very mixed, trying to figure out whether I am on top of the world or ready to crawl into a cave. It doesn't help that I don't feel very supported in this time of confusion by the health professionals who are supposed to be around to support me. I haven't heard from the mental health worker at the ante-natel clinic I attended, who was supposed to phone last month. My health visitor, who was supposed to come on Monday to see how I was coping, and whether or not I have PND, did not show up or phone to cancel. I am yet to get through to her. So I don't know how I feel these days, but then no one seems to asking.
Wednesday, 9 April 2008
Monday, 7 April 2008
William Curley and Rococo; Chocolate Pilgrimmage Continues...
On Saturday we set off to Richmond to explore their branch of the William Curley shop. It was a rainy, grey day, and after having a look at the river and a wander down the cute lanes that surround the Green, we sought refuge in this bright little shop down Paved Court. There is only one table, with two high stools, so we were lucky enough to nab this and sit down to enjoy one of their spectacular little cakes. J slept peacefully in her buggy, so unusually I didn't have to juggle breastfeeding and cake-eating.
N was disappointed when he saw the selection; he had been swotting up on foodie internet forums, and had already got his heart set on something particular. I had done no such planning and felt a warm glow as I looked at the exquisite creations, like little sculptures. I chose a Dark Madasgascan dome, which positively gleamed, topped with a stalk of candied orange peel, with Grand Marnier cream, clementine segments and chocolate mousse inside. As well as being beautiful to the eye it was also an adventure of a cake; each spoonful gathered a different combination of the composite elements, making each mouthful a new experience, although the general theme, that combination of orange and chocolate, held the whole thing together. There is always something special about chocolate with orange, whether it is one of those Terry's things everyone gets in their Christmas stocking, or whether it is this creation by a prize winning chocolatier.
N ordered Petit Fours, and generously gave me plenty of little tastes. The small scale of the four creations made it look all the more an artistic masterpiece. My favourite tastes were of the choux pastry of a choux and cherry thing, and some chesnut mousse, which came as part of a little chocolate and chesnut cup. The taste of chesnut is one of my favourites, reminding me of the chesnut puree you can buy from the supermarket, and either use in dessert recipes, or, as I prefer, spoon straight from the tin. On a rainy day, this was perfect comfort food, but also made me feel far more glamourous and special than I had done when I entered the shop, with my wet hair and rain misted glasses.
The only thing that almost shattered this play at sophistication, reminding me of my true hapless self was when, in an act of characteristic clumsiness, I managed to drop the glass top of the teapot... I held my breath and time stood still as the tea pot lid bounced off the table, off my lap and fell the floor... but when I refocused, I saw that it hadn't broken. The staff were polite and quickly fetched the lid and returned it to the table, while I silently swam in a mixture of relief and embarrassment.
This didn't last for long. After finishing our cakes, J woke up and N announced that it was time to choose the chocolates we would take home as souvenirs. After choosing a House Dark truffle, Jasmine, Sea Salt caramel, Heather Honey and Thyme, and Pistachio and Toscano. I walked J around the shop, trying to educate her by showing her the chocolate dipped orange slices, the little bakewell tarts, the hot chocolate flakes. Meanwhile, N was more being more adventurous in his choices, opting for, along side the House Dark and Honey and Thyme, a Wasabi, a Szeuchan Pepper and a Japanese Vinegar.
William Curley is married to another master chocolatier, Suzue Curley from Osaka, Japan. So, as well as Scottish and French influences, they also offer Japanese inspired creations, such as the mentionned chocolates, and according to their website, Green Tea ice cream and miso and walnut biscuits. It seems a shame that, despite her inspiration and graft, Suzue Curley does not get a mention in the name of these shops. I wonder if "The Curley Wurlies" has been considered...
We started eating our chocolates on the train ride home, and managed to make them last until the next day. I have to say, going back to what I said about L'Artisan du Chocolat, on the whole, the adventurous flavours were not quite what they promised. We could taste the gentlist hint of jasmine, wasabi, and vinegar, but had we not chosen them ourselves and remembered their names, we may not have known what we were supposed to be tasting. This does not apply to the Pistachio and Toscana, or to the Sea Salt Caramel. On biting into the former, I could admire the cross section of the chocolate that showed a layer of chocolate ganache and a layer of bright green pistachio cream. The classic chocolate/ pistanchio combination worked perfectly. The Sea Salt Caramel was composed basically like a Rolo, but the buttery caramel and fine dark chocolate made it a particularly luxurious, memorable Rolo, one that you would only hand over to someone VERY special.
The next day we visited Rococo, Marylebone High Street. A trip to Marylebone High Street is always makes a foodie's day. N used to work in that area, and has many happy expectations. The chocolates we sampled were delicious, though perhaps no more special than the other places we visited. N and I would both recommend the pistachio truffle. But what I found most pleasing about our trip there was the look of the place. They have established a very stylish trademark aesthetic, so I wasn't surprised when I read that the founder, Chantal Coady. graduated in Textile Design before embarking in the chocolate shop business. We only tried two each of their chocolates, which at 80p each were expensive even for that end of the market. But I think we will be returning to that shop, to try some more of their flavours and oggle over the beautiful packaging and accessories.
N was disappointed when he saw the selection; he had been swotting up on foodie internet forums, and had already got his heart set on something particular. I had done no such planning and felt a warm glow as I looked at the exquisite creations, like little sculptures. I chose a Dark Madasgascan dome, which positively gleamed, topped with a stalk of candied orange peel, with Grand Marnier cream, clementine segments and chocolate mousse inside. As well as being beautiful to the eye it was also an adventure of a cake; each spoonful gathered a different combination of the composite elements, making each mouthful a new experience, although the general theme, that combination of orange and chocolate, held the whole thing together. There is always something special about chocolate with orange, whether it is one of those Terry's things everyone gets in their Christmas stocking, or whether it is this creation by a prize winning chocolatier.
N ordered Petit Fours, and generously gave me plenty of little tastes. The small scale of the four creations made it look all the more an artistic masterpiece. My favourite tastes were of the choux pastry of a choux and cherry thing, and some chesnut mousse, which came as part of a little chocolate and chesnut cup. The taste of chesnut is one of my favourites, reminding me of the chesnut puree you can buy from the supermarket, and either use in dessert recipes, or, as I prefer, spoon straight from the tin. On a rainy day, this was perfect comfort food, but also made me feel far more glamourous and special than I had done when I entered the shop, with my wet hair and rain misted glasses.
The only thing that almost shattered this play at sophistication, reminding me of my true hapless self was when, in an act of characteristic clumsiness, I managed to drop the glass top of the teapot... I held my breath and time stood still as the tea pot lid bounced off the table, off my lap and fell the floor... but when I refocused, I saw that it hadn't broken. The staff were polite and quickly fetched the lid and returned it to the table, while I silently swam in a mixture of relief and embarrassment.
This didn't last for long. After finishing our cakes, J woke up and N announced that it was time to choose the chocolates we would take home as souvenirs. After choosing a House Dark truffle, Jasmine, Sea Salt caramel, Heather Honey and Thyme, and Pistachio and Toscano. I walked J around the shop, trying to educate her by showing her the chocolate dipped orange slices, the little bakewell tarts, the hot chocolate flakes. Meanwhile, N was more being more adventurous in his choices, opting for, along side the House Dark and Honey and Thyme, a Wasabi, a Szeuchan Pepper and a Japanese Vinegar.
William Curley is married to another master chocolatier, Suzue Curley from Osaka, Japan. So, as well as Scottish and French influences, they also offer Japanese inspired creations, such as the mentionned chocolates, and according to their website, Green Tea ice cream and miso and walnut biscuits. It seems a shame that, despite her inspiration and graft, Suzue Curley does not get a mention in the name of these shops. I wonder if "The Curley Wurlies" has been considered...
We started eating our chocolates on the train ride home, and managed to make them last until the next day. I have to say, going back to what I said about L'Artisan du Chocolat, on the whole, the adventurous flavours were not quite what they promised. We could taste the gentlist hint of jasmine, wasabi, and vinegar, but had we not chosen them ourselves and remembered their names, we may not have known what we were supposed to be tasting. This does not apply to the Pistachio and Toscana, or to the Sea Salt Caramel. On biting into the former, I could admire the cross section of the chocolate that showed a layer of chocolate ganache and a layer of bright green pistachio cream. The classic chocolate/ pistanchio combination worked perfectly. The Sea Salt Caramel was composed basically like a Rolo, but the buttery caramel and fine dark chocolate made it a particularly luxurious, memorable Rolo, one that you would only hand over to someone VERY special.
The next day we visited Rococo, Marylebone High Street. A trip to Marylebone High Street is always makes a foodie's day. N used to work in that area, and has many happy expectations. The chocolates we sampled were delicious, though perhaps no more special than the other places we visited. N and I would both recommend the pistachio truffle. But what I found most pleasing about our trip there was the look of the place. They have established a very stylish trademark aesthetic, so I wasn't surprised when I read that the founder, Chantal Coady. graduated in Textile Design before embarking in the chocolate shop business. We only tried two each of their chocolates, which at 80p each were expensive even for that end of the market. But I think we will be returning to that shop, to try some more of their flavours and oggle over the beautiful packaging and accessories.
Friday, 4 April 2008
Glasses
I collected my new glasses from Specsavers today. The frames we got from Camden Lock Market, for only £18. Then I had managed to talk the guy at Specsavers into getting them glazed with an anti-reflective coating for £40 instead of £70. I thought I had been so clever with my thriftiness.
Unfortunately, like all glasses they are too big for my face. They look a bit silly in fact.
Paying £58 to look silly is not at all clever.
I kept looking at myself in mirrors (in Specsavers, in reflective windows, in Starbucks' toilet, in apostrophe where I went to feed Jasmine) to see if they had got any less ridiculous, just like I always do when I get a bad haircut. I look in mirrors praying each time that everything will be okay and I will look great. It didn't work, of course.
In apostrophe, I eavesdropped on two girls who were at SOAS, the University that I attended, somewhat disasterously (I was in my first trimester of pregnancy, so puked through my exams and messed them up hideously.) It was weird hearing them talk about their friends, lectures, hanging around at the union. It all seems like a lifetime ago. I was so busy eavesdropping and staring at one of the girl's earrings (beautiful, gigantic tear shaped things, with colourful threads. Very SOAS) that I dropped my book on the floor. They must have thought I was a bit of a weirdo. I am not very subtle when I eavesdrop. At least I didn't do what I was tempted to, join in the conversation and talk about SOAS.
I left there, came home on the bus, ran to the mirror, and saw that, yes, my glasses still look ridiculous.
Unfortunately, like all glasses they are too big for my face. They look a bit silly in fact.
Paying £58 to look silly is not at all clever.
I kept looking at myself in mirrors (in Specsavers, in reflective windows, in Starbucks' toilet, in apostrophe where I went to feed Jasmine) to see if they had got any less ridiculous, just like I always do when I get a bad haircut. I look in mirrors praying each time that everything will be okay and I will look great. It didn't work, of course.
In apostrophe, I eavesdropped on two girls who were at SOAS, the University that I attended, somewhat disasterously (I was in my first trimester of pregnancy, so puked through my exams and messed them up hideously.) It was weird hearing them talk about their friends, lectures, hanging around at the union. It all seems like a lifetime ago. I was so busy eavesdropping and staring at one of the girl's earrings (beautiful, gigantic tear shaped things, with colourful threads. Very SOAS) that I dropped my book on the floor. They must have thought I was a bit of a weirdo. I am not very subtle when I eavesdrop. At least I didn't do what I was tempted to, join in the conversation and talk about SOAS.
I left there, came home on the bus, ran to the mirror, and saw that, yes, my glasses still look ridiculous.
Young Mum goes off to Make Friends...
Today I went to the NCT group again. When I arrived no one else was there, which was a bit disconcerting, I wondered if it had been cancelled or something. But after about half an hour, people began to arrive. No talk about moving this time, which was encouraging. In fact I really enjoyed it, the atmosphere was very warm and it didn't feel like I was with a bunch of people I had only just met. I guess having a baby gives you a real connection to other mothers. At least I like to think that.
I was amazed at how beautiful and glamourous some of the women were. Most days I don't get it together to even brush my hair and I haven't worn make up since before J was born. But there were some women there who looked like they belonged on a magazine cover. I see these yummy mummies around everywhere, and I wish I knew their secret.
K, my not quite mother-in-law, asked me over lunch at (the very friendly, highly recommended) David's Deli (West Hampstead) how old the women at the group had been. I replied that I had definitely been the youngest, the rest I guessed were all at least in their thirties. I am nearly always the youngest mother wherever I go with J. Not surprisingly, as the average age to start having babies is I believe now 29. As I said to K, in the context of that group, it wasn't really an issue, like I said above, having a baby gives you so much in common it overcomes any age barriers.
I was surprised though, when K said that nearly 30 years ago, when she was attending her NCT group, all the women there were over 30. This surprised me because I remember my mum saying that having my older brother, at 23, her doctor had described her as an 'elderly primagravida' and she had been one of the older women on the maternity ward. I am guessing this says something perhaps about class, in that perhaps those who frequented the NCT were those women who had built up a career before having children, just as K had.
Maybe this is assumptive. It seems a shame to assume that NCT is middle class and use it as a criticism. Although I have to admit we haven't actually joined yet because we are too cheap to pay the substantial membership fee!
I was amazed at how beautiful and glamourous some of the women were. Most days I don't get it together to even brush my hair and I haven't worn make up since before J was born. But there were some women there who looked like they belonged on a magazine cover. I see these yummy mummies around everywhere, and I wish I knew their secret.
K, my not quite mother-in-law, asked me over lunch at (the very friendly, highly recommended) David's Deli (West Hampstead) how old the women at the group had been. I replied that I had definitely been the youngest, the rest I guessed were all at least in their thirties. I am nearly always the youngest mother wherever I go with J. Not surprisingly, as the average age to start having babies is I believe now 29. As I said to K, in the context of that group, it wasn't really an issue, like I said above, having a baby gives you so much in common it overcomes any age barriers.
I was surprised though, when K said that nearly 30 years ago, when she was attending her NCT group, all the women there were over 30. This surprised me because I remember my mum saying that having my older brother, at 23, her doctor had described her as an 'elderly primagravida' and she had been one of the older women on the maternity ward. I am guessing this says something perhaps about class, in that perhaps those who frequented the NCT were those women who had built up a career before having children, just as K had.
Maybe this is assumptive. It seems a shame to assume that NCT is middle class and use it as a criticism. Although I have to admit we haven't actually joined yet because we are too cheap to pay the substantial membership fee!
Thursday, 3 April 2008
Fun on the Bus
Today I visited my friend who has babies, S, who was pregnant at the same time as I was. Her youngest, E is two months older than my J. We met at University. We used to be in the same Anthropology class. I was always impressed with how organised and intelligent is. She did her second year exams shortly after giving birth to her first, M, and didn't do badly either. Unfortunately she is not exactly local. The journey involved two buses and took 1hr 45.
I was a bit surprised when I got on the bus at Golders Green, on finding another pushchair was parked in the buggy area, to be told by the mother "I can't move it." Anyway I managed somehow to awkwardly wedge J's pushchair in, and made myself feel better by thinking nasty thoughts about this nother with her 'born to drink' t-shirt and incredibly ugly little baby. On the whole I enjoyed the bus journey. As J slept, I took the rare opportunity to read my book, Kafka on the Shore, by Hanuki Murukami.
Also, when the 'born to drink' mother exited with her massive travel system, I sat down and shortly afterwards a woman with long curly hair sat next to me. After peering over at J and looking straight at me she said "Is that your baby?" and then when I replied yes, "How old are you?" When I answered she smiled, and said that she had been about the same age when she had had her son. She said it was great having a baby young, having so much energy (?), and the fact that now she was not yet forty and her 'child' was almost grown up. It was nice to hear something positive about being a young mother, in place of the usual mix of disapproval/ pity.
These little interactions remind me why I used to enjoy bus travel so much.
I was a bit surprised when I got on the bus at Golders Green, on finding another pushchair was parked in the buggy area, to be told by the mother "I can't move it." Anyway I managed somehow to awkwardly wedge J's pushchair in, and made myself feel better by thinking nasty thoughts about this nother with her 'born to drink' t-shirt and incredibly ugly little baby. On the whole I enjoyed the bus journey. As J slept, I took the rare opportunity to read my book, Kafka on the Shore, by Hanuki Murukami.
Also, when the 'born to drink' mother exited with her massive travel system, I sat down and shortly afterwards a woman with long curly hair sat next to me. After peering over at J and looking straight at me she said "Is that your baby?" and then when I replied yes, "How old are you?" When I answered she smiled, and said that she had been about the same age when she had had her son. She said it was great having a baby young, having so much energy (?), and the fact that now she was not yet forty and her 'child' was almost grown up. It was nice to hear something positive about being a young mother, in place of the usual mix of disapproval/ pity.
These little interactions remind me why I used to enjoy bus travel so much.
Tuesday, 1 April 2008
Chocolate Shops; The Chocolate Society and L'Artisan du Chocolat
N recently, concerned about how many chocolate bars he was consuming everyday, vowed that rather than raiding the vending machines and corner shops for Picnic and Mars Bars, he would avoid these quick fixes (quick Twixs?), save up his money, respect his palate, and treat himself occassionally to good quality chocolate from Londons finest chocolate shops.
We set out to our first destination on the chocolate pilgrimmage, The Chocolate Society shop in Elizabeth Street, near Victoria Coach Station. As well as selling chocolate in various beautiful forms, they serve tea in appropriately sized pots (showing a knowledge of tea beyond the back of a Twinings box) so that you can sit down on one of the few tables and take the time to savour what they are (according to N) famous for their chocolate brownie.
It is great because the shop is small and intimate enough to enjoy not only the company of whom ever you are with, but also the conversations of the well dressed patrons sitting nearby. Yesterday we sat near two Irish women, (one wearing probably the most beautiful pair of boots I have ever seen) whom I gathered were working in media. They were talking to an American tourist on the next table, and putting up politely with her claiming to be somehow related to them. We also eavesdropped on the guy who was serving us (who was a double of Prince Harry, in looks and accent) chatting to the shop's owner, a sophisticated French woman. We shared a look when he imparted that he could lend her copies of Harry Potter, The Philosopher's Stone in English, French or Latin.
Anyway, this dropping of eaves did not distract from their deservedly famous chocolate brownie. We were surprised on ordering to be asked whether we wanted our brownies heated. I immediately accepted, jumping at the idea of molten chocolate. N, being a purist, hesistated, and so we were delivered one warmed and one not warmed brownie, which we split in two and shared. The warm brownie touched that kind of base androgenous zone that finds gooey chocolate of any quality comforting and exhilarating at the same time. But I did agree with N, that what you expect from a good brownie is that cool fudginess, that chewiness inside, a unique texture that shouldn't need heat.
Standing up to leave and zip J up in her snow suit, we got talking to the French proprietor, whose knowledge and passion for chocolate beamed from her surprisingly svelte form. She recommended some other destinations for us to explore on our chocolate pilgrimmage, and also told us of a Swiss study she had recently read that found that eating good quality, especially dark chocolate in pregnancy made for happy babies. I did wonder if the 100g Divine Milk chocolate bars which I had scoffed when I got over the morning sickness stage counted as good quality. I certainly enjoyed it at the time and I am sure it made my serotonin levels soar, which is probably what was behind the findings of that study. It may not quite have been in the same league as the chocolate this lady, who now has a two year old daughter, was craving in her pregnancy. The fact that I am still more into milk and white chocolate, and that I only buy dark chocolate for N's birthday or for cake baking suggests that this chocolate pilgrimmage will be a learning curve for me. I just hope I don't end up too curvy...
Our next destination was L'Artisan du Chocolat in Lower Sloane Street. This shop prides itself in being the British first chocolatier to produce their own chocolate from ground beans, here in the UK. When we arrived at the shop we were first of all seduced by the elegance of the dark wood and the chocolates displayed in their boxes, some intricately painted with floral designs, giving the effect of divine little patchwork quilts. The shop assistant, who had a shy but hospitable manner, suited the stylish ambiance with her retro black pinafore and slightly backcombed coiffure. She allowed us to sample the 'Liquid Salted Caramel, which apparently (again, N had been doing his research) is one of the products they are famous for, as well as one of their chocolate coated nougats, and even one of their 'Madagascar' ganaches. She was so generous we almost felt bad that we only bought about as much we tried for free, but being located in Chelsea, I imagine that their other customers probably more than make up for the odd free loader.
What we bought was three of their 'couture' chocolates each, the first of which we had a couple of streets away, admiring the beautiful red brick houses that surrounded us and the view of the Cadogan Hall. N's first chocolate was a 'Lapsang', mine a 'Salt Caramel'. The Salt Caramel was perfect, better actually than the liquid thing we'd had in the shop, which I had actually found a bit strange. The Lapsang, which N gave me a nibble of, was incredible, feeling like the smoke filled my mouth. I have found before with chocolates that when they claim to have a flavour, what you taste is just that, a 'flavour.' As I found the next day when I had a nibble of N's 'Tobacco' chocolate, which gave the back of my throat that scratchy, burnt feeling I remembered from when I attempted to smoke as a teenager, it seems as if the chocolatiers at L'Artisan du Chocolat have suceeded in capturing elusive sensations in a butterfly net and smuggling them into chocolate cases. There is almost something Roald Dahl about it. I should say though, that describing the Tobacco chocolate in this way doesn't make it sound so appealing; believe me, the 'burnt' taste melts away and the overall sensation is intense and complex and delicious.
So our first day of the chocolate pilgrimmage, made me a very happy mummy, and N was delighted that he had gone without junk food and saved himself for the real thing. We both highly recommend those shops to anyone, though maybe particularly to pregnant women who want happy babies.
We set out to our first destination on the chocolate pilgrimmage, The Chocolate Society shop in Elizabeth Street, near Victoria Coach Station. As well as selling chocolate in various beautiful forms, they serve tea in appropriately sized pots (showing a knowledge of tea beyond the back of a Twinings box) so that you can sit down on one of the few tables and take the time to savour what they are (according to N) famous for their chocolate brownie.
It is great because the shop is small and intimate enough to enjoy not only the company of whom ever you are with, but also the conversations of the well dressed patrons sitting nearby. Yesterday we sat near two Irish women, (one wearing probably the most beautiful pair of boots I have ever seen) whom I gathered were working in media. They were talking to an American tourist on the next table, and putting up politely with her claiming to be somehow related to them. We also eavesdropped on the guy who was serving us (who was a double of Prince Harry, in looks and accent) chatting to the shop's owner, a sophisticated French woman. We shared a look when he imparted that he could lend her copies of Harry Potter, The Philosopher's Stone in English, French or Latin.
Anyway, this dropping of eaves did not distract from their deservedly famous chocolate brownie. We were surprised on ordering to be asked whether we wanted our brownies heated. I immediately accepted, jumping at the idea of molten chocolate. N, being a purist, hesistated, and so we were delivered one warmed and one not warmed brownie, which we split in two and shared. The warm brownie touched that kind of base androgenous zone that finds gooey chocolate of any quality comforting and exhilarating at the same time. But I did agree with N, that what you expect from a good brownie is that cool fudginess, that chewiness inside, a unique texture that shouldn't need heat.
Standing up to leave and zip J up in her snow suit, we got talking to the French proprietor, whose knowledge and passion for chocolate beamed from her surprisingly svelte form. She recommended some other destinations for us to explore on our chocolate pilgrimmage, and also told us of a Swiss study she had recently read that found that eating good quality, especially dark chocolate in pregnancy made for happy babies. I did wonder if the 100g Divine Milk chocolate bars which I had scoffed when I got over the morning sickness stage counted as good quality. I certainly enjoyed it at the time and I am sure it made my serotonin levels soar, which is probably what was behind the findings of that study. It may not quite have been in the same league as the chocolate this lady, who now has a two year old daughter, was craving in her pregnancy. The fact that I am still more into milk and white chocolate, and that I only buy dark chocolate for N's birthday or for cake baking suggests that this chocolate pilgrimmage will be a learning curve for me. I just hope I don't end up too curvy...
Our next destination was L'Artisan du Chocolat in Lower Sloane Street. This shop prides itself in being the British first chocolatier to produce their own chocolate from ground beans, here in the UK. When we arrived at the shop we were first of all seduced by the elegance of the dark wood and the chocolates displayed in their boxes, some intricately painted with floral designs, giving the effect of divine little patchwork quilts. The shop assistant, who had a shy but hospitable manner, suited the stylish ambiance with her retro black pinafore and slightly backcombed coiffure. She allowed us to sample the 'Liquid Salted Caramel, which apparently (again, N had been doing his research) is one of the products they are famous for, as well as one of their chocolate coated nougats, and even one of their 'Madagascar' ganaches. She was so generous we almost felt bad that we only bought about as much we tried for free, but being located in Chelsea, I imagine that their other customers probably more than make up for the odd free loader.
What we bought was three of their 'couture' chocolates each, the first of which we had a couple of streets away, admiring the beautiful red brick houses that surrounded us and the view of the Cadogan Hall. N's first chocolate was a 'Lapsang', mine a 'Salt Caramel'. The Salt Caramel was perfect, better actually than the liquid thing we'd had in the shop, which I had actually found a bit strange. The Lapsang, which N gave me a nibble of, was incredible, feeling like the smoke filled my mouth. I have found before with chocolates that when they claim to have a flavour, what you taste is just that, a 'flavour.' As I found the next day when I had a nibble of N's 'Tobacco' chocolate, which gave the back of my throat that scratchy, burnt feeling I remembered from when I attempted to smoke as a teenager, it seems as if the chocolatiers at L'Artisan du Chocolat have suceeded in capturing elusive sensations in a butterfly net and smuggling them into chocolate cases. There is almost something Roald Dahl about it. I should say though, that describing the Tobacco chocolate in this way doesn't make it sound so appealing; believe me, the 'burnt' taste melts away and the overall sensation is intense and complex and delicious.
So our first day of the chocolate pilgrimmage, made me a very happy mummy, and N was delighted that he had gone without junk food and saved himself for the real thing. We both highly recommend those shops to anyone, though maybe particularly to pregnant women who want happy babies.
Monday, 31 March 2008
Get a Social Life...
Following my earlier musing, I found this article in the Telegraph which imparts the not particularly mind blowing news that having babies impacts negatively upon women's social lives.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/main.jhtml?xml=/news/2007/10/18/nbabies118.xml
Its an interesting subject. I do feel, as I mentioned in my earlier post, that I am in the privileged position of having friends who find babies fascinating, simply because the world of poo talk and repetetive nursery rhymes is so far away from their own realities. But the other day, walking alone in Primrose Hill, I did feel a pang when I saw two women, pushing along their respective travel systems and chatting. Most of the few friends I have with children live far away enough only to be able to offer friendly advice via facebook. There are a handful of women I would describe as acquaintances, whom I met at Baby Massage at the Sure Start centre. Just as everyone was getting familiar and comfortable with each other, the course ended. I have their email addresses but I wouldn't yet quite feel comfortable organising a coffee date. I have been once to the local NCT group, and had some nice conversations with women who were planning their move either to the suburbs or back to Austrailia.
The article mentions social networking sites. Recently when I was on babycentre my curiosity was aroused by the inviting link entitled 'Make Friends.' After clicking on it I did browse a few discussion boards and even contributed on matters such as chronic wind and baby swimming. But at the bottom of so many posts, you encounter large amounts of space taken up 'tickers', and other glittery litter. It seems cute enough at first, but when 15 posters each have 3 children and are pregnant again and really think you care that 'little Mia is 4 months, 3 days and 10 seconds old' or that 'baby Johnson will be born (maybe) in 6 weeks, 2 days and 5 hours' it gets wearing and you start to understand why people with children might lose all their friends.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/main.jhtml?xml=/news/2007/10/18/nbabies118.xml
Its an interesting subject. I do feel, as I mentioned in my earlier post, that I am in the privileged position of having friends who find babies fascinating, simply because the world of poo talk and repetetive nursery rhymes is so far away from their own realities. But the other day, walking alone in Primrose Hill, I did feel a pang when I saw two women, pushing along their respective travel systems and chatting. Most of the few friends I have with children live far away enough only to be able to offer friendly advice via facebook. There are a handful of women I would describe as acquaintances, whom I met at Baby Massage at the Sure Start centre. Just as everyone was getting familiar and comfortable with each other, the course ended. I have their email addresses but I wouldn't yet quite feel comfortable organising a coffee date. I have been once to the local NCT group, and had some nice conversations with women who were planning their move either to the suburbs or back to Austrailia.
The article mentions social networking sites. Recently when I was on babycentre my curiosity was aroused by the inviting link entitled 'Make Friends.' After clicking on it I did browse a few discussion boards and even contributed on matters such as chronic wind and baby swimming. But at the bottom of so many posts, you encounter large amounts of space taken up 'tickers', and other glittery litter. It seems cute enough at first, but when 15 posters each have 3 children and are pregnant again and really think you care that 'little Mia is 4 months, 3 days and 10 seconds old' or that 'baby Johnson will be born (maybe) in 6 weeks, 2 days and 5 hours' it gets wearing and you start to understand why people with children might lose all their friends.
Eastending; Columbia Road Flower Market, City Farm etc.
As you can see from the poem I posted yesterday, my trip out to East London to catch up with some friends had an annoying yet predictable start, another altercation with a bus driver. I remember fondly the pre-baby/ buggy days when I adored travelling on buses, sitting on the top deck, by the front window, with a good book or a free newspaper.
But having to fold up the buggy and struggle to balance it on the baggage rack didn't blemish my enjoyment of the day, simply providing lines to the first poem I have written and finished for a little while. The journey was long enough to make J fall asleep and to enjoy buttoning into my phone some indignant rhyming lines, and when I arrived at Liverpool Street I found my friend L, looking typically perky in her tiny purple t-shirt dress, tights, plimsolls and massive red scarf. L is great because I can tell her that sometimes it feels like shit being a mother and she remains non-judgemental, at the same time understanding that this doesn't contradict my general feeling that having J is fantastic and probably the best unexpected thing that has ever happened to me.
She is also great because she is so far removed from the life of motherhood, and so can connect me to another life, the life of a conscientious post grad, living in a shared house in Whitechapel, working hard on her LPC, while managing to frequent house parties, shop for vintage clothes, suffer from hang-overs, wear fantastic earrings, draw pictures, meet people for lunch... As we stroll down Bishopsgate, she switches between extolling the joys of wearing leggings; to bitching about an untidy flatmates; to talking about her mum having post natal depression after four kids but managing to qualify as a solicitor; to the sub-prime mortgage crisis; to the theatre project her boyfriend is working on; to the new job she has as a tutor with teenagers; to what she heard on Desert Island Disks, this actress who thought she had a gorgeous baby, and hung around Boots waiting for compliments, only to receive nothing as her baby was small and shrivelled and in fact very ugly.
So after a short walk and good talk, we arrive at Columbia road, walking past that coveted terrace of balconied houses, and let ourselves drift into the scented chaos; the mass of bodies shuffling from one stall to another; weaving out of the way of the clutched bunches of lilies, daffodils, tulips, sunflowers, gerbias, azaleas, and other blooms I can't name and normally can't afford; being met in the face with pot plants heavy with tomatoes, chillies, orchids, jasmine flowers or oranges that everyone secretly knows won't grow in this country. We have arrived at the time when the already affordable flowers are being sold off even more cheaply, the cockney and mockney market traders urging us to buy off their cacti, their three-for-a fiver bunches, their bargain window box plants. I had been wondering if attempting to push a buggy through the pedestrian gridlock was naive, but in fact having a buggy made no difference, it was just as crazy busy and difficult to navigate through as it normally was, and J slept right through, undisturbed. I managed to spend only £6, on three azalea stems and 3 bunches of daffodils for N's mother.
Re-emerging at the end of the street, we had a quick look at one of the shops that line the market. There are so many shops there, enough to take up a Sunday afternoon in themselves, but we limited ourselves to my favourite, a shop that sells strings of beads, buttons, and earrings that are displayed hanging from a tree in the centre of the shop. When N and I had last had a trip to Columbia Road, in October 2007, N bought me a beautiful string of fat felt beads in all the colours of the rainbow. We didn't buy anything yesterday but had fun being tempted by some silver leaf-skeleton earrings and a £100 necklace with beautiful very chunky, cone shaped, clear and frosted glass beads.
We then met up with another couple of friends, M and her ex(ish) girlfriend B, outside a cafe on Hackney Road called The Premises. A friendly proprietor arranged tables outside for us and we sat opposite a guy reading the paper, two gorgeous daschund puppies peeking out of his leather jacket. We had very reasonably priced tuna melts and coffees. although I had a milkshake as I trying to heed the advice (and horror stories) of the guy who did the baby first training, who warned us of the dangers of drinking hot drinks while holding our babies. We talked about all sorts of things, all of them interspersed with a commentary about what J was doing, opening her eyes, looking sleepy, feeding (yes, I breastfed al-fresco)... wriggling, smiling, burping, being tickled, looking cross, and then, when unfortunately M was holding her, bursting into a shrill cry that made it sound like M had been torturing her when no one was looking...
Aside from the wailing, it was great, sitting in the sunshine, talking about our shared friends, their awful boyfriends, our various jobs and aspirations. I am in the lucky positions# of having friends who view having a baby as kind of a job. Of course that should be the way of it, as raising a baby and looking after her all day is just as challenging and exhausting as any position in law, the health service or the City, but many people seem to miss this, and ask understandably mislead questions such as 'So when will you be starting work again?' as baby rearing isn't 'work.' It seems strange but I think that this appreciation relates not only to fact that I am good at choosing friends, but that I am in the positive position of being, to most of them, the first to have a baby. So what I have found myself doing is still seen as something different, exciting, something alien even. So far from finding me talking about J's sleep/feeding/ pooing patterns boring, as people without children are supposed to, a lot of my friends are fascinated because it is something they know very little about.
Next we went to City Farm, to use their baby changing facilities, which were pretty good, as I had expected from such a child friendly place. It was a nice time to go as it was about half an hour before closing time, enough time to take a good look at the pigs (my favourite) and also watch as some of the other animals (the sheep, a goat, the donkey, ducks, an uncharacteristically friendly goose) were rounded up to return to their pens, and so trotted and waddled comically down the cobbled cat walk as we watched.
We then headed back to Liverpool Street, from where we went our separate ways. I had a bus journey back to North West London (I was going over to N's parents) which was refreshingly free from confrontations with aggressive bus drivers.
But having to fold up the buggy and struggle to balance it on the baggage rack didn't blemish my enjoyment of the day, simply providing lines to the first poem I have written and finished for a little while. The journey was long enough to make J fall asleep and to enjoy buttoning into my phone some indignant rhyming lines, and when I arrived at Liverpool Street I found my friend L, looking typically perky in her tiny purple t-shirt dress, tights, plimsolls and massive red scarf. L is great because I can tell her that sometimes it feels like shit being a mother and she remains non-judgemental, at the same time understanding that this doesn't contradict my general feeling that having J is fantastic and probably the best unexpected thing that has ever happened to me.
She is also great because she is so far removed from the life of motherhood, and so can connect me to another life, the life of a conscientious post grad, living in a shared house in Whitechapel, working hard on her LPC, while managing to frequent house parties, shop for vintage clothes, suffer from hang-overs, wear fantastic earrings, draw pictures, meet people for lunch... As we stroll down Bishopsgate, she switches between extolling the joys of wearing leggings; to bitching about an untidy flatmates; to talking about her mum having post natal depression after four kids but managing to qualify as a solicitor; to the sub-prime mortgage crisis; to the theatre project her boyfriend is working on; to the new job she has as a tutor with teenagers; to what she heard on Desert Island Disks, this actress who thought she had a gorgeous baby, and hung around Boots waiting for compliments, only to receive nothing as her baby was small and shrivelled and in fact very ugly.
So after a short walk and good talk, we arrive at Columbia road, walking past that coveted terrace of balconied houses, and let ourselves drift into the scented chaos; the mass of bodies shuffling from one stall to another; weaving out of the way of the clutched bunches of lilies, daffodils, tulips, sunflowers, gerbias, azaleas, and other blooms I can't name and normally can't afford; being met in the face with pot plants heavy with tomatoes, chillies, orchids, jasmine flowers or oranges that everyone secretly knows won't grow in this country. We have arrived at the time when the already affordable flowers are being sold off even more cheaply, the cockney and mockney market traders urging us to buy off their cacti, their three-for-a fiver bunches, their bargain window box plants. I had been wondering if attempting to push a buggy through the pedestrian gridlock was naive, but in fact having a buggy made no difference, it was just as crazy busy and difficult to navigate through as it normally was, and J slept right through, undisturbed. I managed to spend only £6, on three azalea stems and 3 bunches of daffodils for N's mother.
Re-emerging at the end of the street, we had a quick look at one of the shops that line the market. There are so many shops there, enough to take up a Sunday afternoon in themselves, but we limited ourselves to my favourite, a shop that sells strings of beads, buttons, and earrings that are displayed hanging from a tree in the centre of the shop. When N and I had last had a trip to Columbia Road, in October 2007, N bought me a beautiful string of fat felt beads in all the colours of the rainbow. We didn't buy anything yesterday but had fun being tempted by some silver leaf-skeleton earrings and a £100 necklace with beautiful very chunky, cone shaped, clear and frosted glass beads.
We then met up with another couple of friends, M and her ex(ish) girlfriend B, outside a cafe on Hackney Road called The Premises. A friendly proprietor arranged tables outside for us and we sat opposite a guy reading the paper, two gorgeous daschund puppies peeking out of his leather jacket. We had very reasonably priced tuna melts and coffees. although I had a milkshake as I trying to heed the advice (and horror stories) of the guy who did the baby first training, who warned us of the dangers of drinking hot drinks while holding our babies. We talked about all sorts of things, all of them interspersed with a commentary about what J was doing, opening her eyes, looking sleepy, feeding (yes, I breastfed al-fresco)... wriggling, smiling, burping, being tickled, looking cross, and then, when unfortunately M was holding her, bursting into a shrill cry that made it sound like M had been torturing her when no one was looking...
Aside from the wailing, it was great, sitting in the sunshine, talking about our shared friends, their awful boyfriends, our various jobs and aspirations. I am in the lucky positions# of having friends who view having a baby as kind of a job. Of course that should be the way of it, as raising a baby and looking after her all day is just as challenging and exhausting as any position in law, the health service or the City, but many people seem to miss this, and ask understandably mislead questions such as 'So when will you be starting work again?' as baby rearing isn't 'work.' It seems strange but I think that this appreciation relates not only to fact that I am good at choosing friends, but that I am in the positive position of being, to most of them, the first to have a baby. So what I have found myself doing is still seen as something different, exciting, something alien even. So far from finding me talking about J's sleep/feeding/ pooing patterns boring, as people without children are supposed to, a lot of my friends are fascinated because it is something they know very little about.
Next we went to City Farm, to use their baby changing facilities, which were pretty good, as I had expected from such a child friendly place. It was a nice time to go as it was about half an hour before closing time, enough time to take a good look at the pigs (my favourite) and also watch as some of the other animals (the sheep, a goat, the donkey, ducks, an uncharacteristically friendly goose) were rounded up to return to their pens, and so trotted and waddled comically down the cobbled cat walk as we watched.
We then headed back to Liverpool Street, from where we went our separate ways. I had a bus journey back to North West London (I was going over to N's parents) which was refreshingly free from confrontations with aggressive bus drivers.
Sunday, 30 March 2008
Brim Full of Anger on the 205
Seeing me they hold up their palms
to my buggy struggling,
tell me I musn't board their bus
I'll just have to wait for another...
little do they know that on this cold day
they have chosen to fuss with the wrong mother;
for even at only five four feet
and three hours sleep,
I'm not about to alight
without putting up something of a flight.
So despite there being already on board two bugaboos,
these head-a-shaking money takers are set to lose
Because though I may not possess a cradle full
of common sense or wisdom
I think its just about within me
to beable to fold up a Mo**ercare Travel System
to my buggy struggling,
tell me I musn't board their bus
I'll just have to wait for another...
little do they know that on this cold day
they have chosen to fuss with the wrong mother;
for even at only five four feet
and three hours sleep,
I'm not about to alight
without putting up something of a flight.
So despite there being already on board two bugaboos,
these head-a-shaking money takers are set to lose
Because though I may not possess a cradle full
of common sense or wisdom
I think its just about within me
to beable to fold up a Mo**ercare Travel System
Saturday, 29 March 2008
The St*rbucks Toilet Debacle
Today, after sheltering in the rain and feeding J in a lovely cafe in Lambs Conduit Street, I went to St*rbucks to use the baby changer and have a wee in their disabled toilet. As they have only one toilet of course I queued for a while, treating the customers to a little need-a-pee dance. I smiled a knowing parent-to-parent smile at the guy who came out carrying his tear-faced toddler, who had been heard screaming from inside the loos as she endured having her nappy changed.
It was then my turn and I wheeled in the pushchair happily. J was still asleep so I took my pee, writing a text-poem to my boyfriend about leaving the toilet search to the last minute and having do the need-a-pee boogie. Midflow J woke up and commenced the screaming. I hurried to re-dress myself, cursing at my choice to put on a belt this morning, and got the changing stuff out of the bag. J as well as screaming opted to perform her trick of timing her own wee to that split second when I had whipped off one nappy and was reaching for the next. So I had to dig around for spare clothes, undress her, wipe everywhere, put on clean nappy, redress her, etc, all the while to a chorus of screams from my daughter who was as keen to get out of there as I was. Just as I was strapping her into her buggy, I heard a rap on the door. I ignored it at first, just as I had ignored it when the door handled shifted upwards, being tried from the outside.
The knock came again, louder, this time with a hello? I opened the door, thinking that my flustered face and the pushchair visable from the doorway would embarrass this voice into silence. It didn't, and I was met by the face of a woman in her sixties, a smart woman with a good haircut and rimless glasses, who informed me that I had been in there for a long time. I said, yes, I was sorry (I was sorry, though not apologising) but I was changing my daughter and I had had to change all her clothes. This I thought would also embarrass her into silence but instead it was met with another helpful reminder that I had been in there for a long time. I shut the door, adjusted the rain cover, put on my coat and pashmina and headed out, feeling embarrassed. I left the cubicle, anticipating shrinking out of the door being stared at in silent pity/contempt by a few pee-needers. In fact what I received was a 'Sorry', but not a real sorry, but a 'sorry-but' afixed with another needle at having taken too long in the toilet.
Zadie Smith in 'White Teeth' employed the device of supplying a choice of endings to her novel. Like all embarrassing social situations, as I wheeled J out of the Brunswick centre towards the bus home, I mulled over clever retorts which I could have shot back at this smug toilet taunter, the alternative endings to switch this uncomfortable scene into a display of clever one-upwardness. I could have reminded the woman that it wasn't my fault that Starbucks had only one toilet. I could have told her that it wasn't my fault that J had a special talent for weeing on her clothes. I could have lied and said it wasn't my fault I had IBS and had to spend painfully long periods in the toilet. In a reworking of the actual events I could have pulled the woman into the toilet mid nappy change, to confront her with a bare bottommed baby and suggest that she sort out J more expediently. There were lots of clever things I probably could have said, so clever I couldn't have even conjured them up on the bus on the way home.
So this is the story that I decided to open my blog with. N, my boyfriend, commented on that fact that this story wasn't quite interesting or funny enough to deserve such a grand, wordy retelling. But it is these small encounters, the network of micro disasters where I just don't quite get it right, that characterise the life of my new alter-ego, the impromptu mummy. When people ask me how I am or what I have been up to recently, of course I don't reply with 'a woman shouted at me in Starbucks for talking too long in the toilet' or 'I caused an avalanche of handbags in the charity shop' or 'I have left my keys in the front door twice this week.' But these events do stay in my mind, determining my mood and distinguishing a good day from a bad day. Today was almost a bad day, because of the toilet woman, but then it became a good day overall because J smiled a lot this evening and N cooked a nice risotto and we watched the IT crowd on line.
Its a wonder some post natal women are so keen to get back to work.
It was then my turn and I wheeled in the pushchair happily. J was still asleep so I took my pee, writing a text-poem to my boyfriend about leaving the toilet search to the last minute and having do the need-a-pee boogie. Midflow J woke up and commenced the screaming. I hurried to re-dress myself, cursing at my choice to put on a belt this morning, and got the changing stuff out of the bag. J as well as screaming opted to perform her trick of timing her own wee to that split second when I had whipped off one nappy and was reaching for the next. So I had to dig around for spare clothes, undress her, wipe everywhere, put on clean nappy, redress her, etc, all the while to a chorus of screams from my daughter who was as keen to get out of there as I was. Just as I was strapping her into her buggy, I heard a rap on the door. I ignored it at first, just as I had ignored it when the door handled shifted upwards, being tried from the outside.
The knock came again, louder, this time with a hello? I opened the door, thinking that my flustered face and the pushchair visable from the doorway would embarrass this voice into silence. It didn't, and I was met by the face of a woman in her sixties, a smart woman with a good haircut and rimless glasses, who informed me that I had been in there for a long time. I said, yes, I was sorry (I was sorry, though not apologising) but I was changing my daughter and I had had to change all her clothes. This I thought would also embarrass her into silence but instead it was met with another helpful reminder that I had been in there for a long time. I shut the door, adjusted the rain cover, put on my coat and pashmina and headed out, feeling embarrassed. I left the cubicle, anticipating shrinking out of the door being stared at in silent pity/contempt by a few pee-needers. In fact what I received was a 'Sorry', but not a real sorry, but a 'sorry-but' afixed with another needle at having taken too long in the toilet.
Zadie Smith in 'White Teeth' employed the device of supplying a choice of endings to her novel. Like all embarrassing social situations, as I wheeled J out of the Brunswick centre towards the bus home, I mulled over clever retorts which I could have shot back at this smug toilet taunter, the alternative endings to switch this uncomfortable scene into a display of clever one-upwardness. I could have reminded the woman that it wasn't my fault that Starbucks had only one toilet. I could have told her that it wasn't my fault that J had a special talent for weeing on her clothes. I could have lied and said it wasn't my fault I had IBS and had to spend painfully long periods in the toilet. In a reworking of the actual events I could have pulled the woman into the toilet mid nappy change, to confront her with a bare bottommed baby and suggest that she sort out J more expediently. There were lots of clever things I probably could have said, so clever I couldn't have even conjured them up on the bus on the way home.
So this is the story that I decided to open my blog with. N, my boyfriend, commented on that fact that this story wasn't quite interesting or funny enough to deserve such a grand, wordy retelling. But it is these small encounters, the network of micro disasters where I just don't quite get it right, that characterise the life of my new alter-ego, the impromptu mummy. When people ask me how I am or what I have been up to recently, of course I don't reply with 'a woman shouted at me in Starbucks for talking too long in the toilet' or 'I caused an avalanche of handbags in the charity shop' or 'I have left my keys in the front door twice this week.' But these events do stay in my mind, determining my mood and distinguishing a good day from a bad day. Today was almost a bad day, because of the toilet woman, but then it became a good day overall because J smiled a lot this evening and N cooked a nice risotto and we watched the IT crowd on line.
Its a wonder some post natal women are so keen to get back to work.
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