The wreath!

It's our first Christmas in this neck of the woods and the standard of the local decoration is extremely high - these houses could feature on Christmas cards! Despite the fact that our front door is more than a tad shabby, I was determined to have a wreath that would stand its own ground amongst our new neighbours.

I had always planned to go home-made and bought gold spray with anticipation. However I discovered amongst the box of decorations last years shop bought effort - a rather beautiful white number from, surprise surprise, The White Company. I was pleased to see it looked as good as new. I proudly put it on our front door and gave myself a gratifying nod.

However after just a day, it started dripping yellow sap..eeew. It looked like wee wee. It has had to go. So yesturday I braved the chill and ventured into the garden, saceteers in hand and snipped myself a selection of foliage. I sprayed some flower heads and twigs gold.

I stretched a wire hanger and started to wrap sprigs of holly, laurel and a lovely white and green leaf (I don't know his name), around the hanger, twining and weaving the stems around each other. Every now and then I secured with some garden wire. I then threaded through the odd bunch of berries and gold-sprayed flower heads. A big red bow made from wired ribbon completed my effort. I twisted the hanger hook and covered it with red ribbon to hang on my door number!

I am so proud of my efforts. It's certainly not the most elaborate or fancy on the street but it has given me a wonderful feeling of satisfaction - it was easy to make, looks rather festive and cost me a mere £1 (for the spray). Who would have thought keeping up with the Jones could be so cheap and cheerful!

The Tree!

 

Allelhua! The tree is up. For the first time in ten years I couldn't be more happy. Every year I argue that a real tree is a headache in our tiny flat. Every year I am talked into it. Every year I am secretly chuffed with the fresh smell of pine filling the room. Every year after Christmas I rage trying to get the bastard down three flights of stairs.

Last year Little Miss P was due at Christmas and I stamped my foot down and insisted on the smallest tree available. Not wanting to upset my hormones further, Mr Scruff obliged and brought home a little 30cm number. Good man.

This year we are not in the flat, nor am I about to give birth. He has been given the green light. Show me your best effort. Fetch me the ultimate tree. So here it is.

Inspired by Kirstie Allsopp Homemade Christmas, I have thrown everything but the kitchen sink at it. I have gone for gold and silver tinsel. I have tied red and silver baubles onto the branches using red bows. There are gold and red bells, silver and gold glittery stars, the odd butterfly, the obligatory family homemade decoration and of course enough lights to double our electricity bill. Little Miss P is mesmerised. I have caught her 'talking' to the low hanging baubles and has enjoyed several circuits around the base causing the bells on the tree to jingle. Jingle Bells indeed!

New finds!

I feel I have neglected my house these last few weeks. Its been all me me me. So this week I have had a house shopping spree.

My big purchase was this oak distressed dining table. Mr Scruff and I spotted this back in the summer at a reclaim yard. It was love at first sight. Since then we have argued over whether its size was appropriate for our space. I won. However I am not all smug. Knowing how long it has been at the yard, I went armed with my best haggling skills. I didn't get a penny off. NOT ONE PENCE. I had all the lines, all the banter and they fell on deaf years. They saw me coming a mile off. No matter I love the table and it fits absolutely perfectly in our room.



I have been rummaging through my local charity shops and found these little gems. In my fantasy life, I will serve sandwiches and homemade cakes on my kitsch plate and milk with the tea in my milk jug.

As for the copper jug, I am waiting for Spring to stuff it with geraniums. The hand painted glass bottle (which Mr Scruff thinks looks like a specimen bottle) has already lifted the room on these dull December days.

These shoes weren't made for walking

A few years ago I had a fashion epiphany.

It's the year 2003. I am working as a beauty editor on a glossy women's magazine. I have been invited to the Baftas. Some hot shot hairdresser has coiffed several A listers and his PR's want to shout about it by inviting a few journalists along. This is it. My Cinderella moment. The golden ticket.

I brush past Pierce Brosnan, I can see Jake Gyllanhall air-kissing Thandie Newton, Renee Zellwegger is a thin as a rake and I am sitting spitting distance from George Clooney (I did not test this theory, however in such head-spinning circumstances I did have an incredible urge to crowd surf across the room and plant a smacker on his stubbly cheek). I am having the most glamorous, star-studded night of my life. Except I am not. My face is reddened with embarrassment and my black-soled feet recoil in shame under my seat.

Rewind one hour. I am wearing a beautiful black and white lace vintage frock with a pair of metallic bronze 4 inch Jimmy Choo shoes. They are the sort of footwear women would sell their souls for. On that evening I did. I found these golden nuggets in the Jimmy Choo sale. They were half price and half a size too small. They made my feet look like Audrey Hepburns - small and perfectly formed. I felt fabulous. I had to have them. The red carpet at the Baftas would be their virgin voyage.

The traffic around Leicester Square is chaos and my car load of beauty eds are running late. A decision is made. We will ditch the black Merc along with the idea of arriving in style and we will make a dash to the event on foot. I feel like Carrie Bradshaw, clipping through the London streets in my Choos, skipping over gutters, clutching my faux fur stole.

The closer we get to the venue, the slower my step becomes. The springy SJP skip becomes a heavy stomp. The heavy stomp turns into a hobble. My feet are on fire. I check that blood is not pouring out of them as they feel like they have been sliced open with a knife. The circulation in my feet, then my ankles, and finally my legs slows and then grinds to a halt. I can no longer feel my toes. My feet are no longer part of me. They have hot-footed it elsewhere. I am walking but on what, I know not. Another decision is made. Fueled by pain and panic I yank off the shoes.

My body floats, elevated to the clouds above, spinning in pure ecstasy. My feet are free. The chains had been removed, the bars shot down.

That night, that glamorous night, I dipped my toe into the world of celebrity; and that toe was naked. I walked the red carpet bare foot. And I didn't care.

From that moment onwards I decided I was, and I still am a flat shoe girl.

The trouble with the tube

I am a born and raised Londoner. My mums from here, my mums mum, her mums mum etc etc. (My dad's Hungarian but seeing as he spent all his working life in the big smoke as a market stall trader, I think he qualifies). We have the sound of the bow bells ringing in our ears and the smell of the Thames wafting under our noses.

I spent my childhood going to the West End with my mum, auntie and nan - all the girls. We'd hit Dickens and Jones gold spot day and the first day of Harrods sale, me following the women around under a pile of bargain buys. I spent every Christmas marveling at the lights on Oxford Street and every New Years Eve fending off strangers in Trafalgar Square. I threw confetti when Princess Di got married and laid flowers when she died. I've cheered at the marathon runners and jeered at the politicians.

For as long as I can remember I have traveled by tube. Even on July 12th, the day after the horrendous terrorist attack, I was waiting on the platform of the Northern Line, along with every other Londoner. "We will not be beaten. Life must go on." But this past year, I can count on one hand how many times I have been underground. Since I have become a mum, it has lost its appeal and I have lost my faith in the system.

When I was pregnant, I was huge. Now I know every pregnant lady says this, but really, honestly, I had a freakishly large bump and I have the stretch marks to prove it. From behind, I didn't look pregnant but when I waddled round I rendered people speechless, mouths agasp at the size of my belly. I generated sympathetic rubs from mums as they feared for me in labour. I was questioned on more than one occasion if I was actually carrying 'just one in there'. I walked like John Wayne and had my hands permenantly clasped at my pelvis to help hold it up. Yet despite there being absolutely no doubt in any mind that I was indeed 'with child', I was offered a seat on the tube THREE TIMES. When reading this number please bear in mind I traveled twice a day, five days a week and got on at a station where the tube was already full. (For the record on all three occasions, it was thirty something men that offered their seats to me. So much for girl power). I was too shy to ask for a seat, although I did once, after I nearly fainted, and I was so embarrassed I had a hot flush. I found the journey to work so difficult I brought my leaving date forward.

Now Little Miss P is here I desperately want her to enjoy the pleasures London has to offer. During my maternity leave I had planned to take Little Miss P on little London bound adventures. We'd go to the Tate Modern, have a picnic in Hyde Park, watch the skaters on the Southbank and shop in Covent Garden. Tish, I have done none of the above. The first time I tried to take P on the tube, I fell at the first hurdle. My nearest station has thirty steps up to the platform and because I was traveling 'off peak', there was no one to help me with the buggy. The second time, on a practically empty carriage, I asked a man (very politely and apologetically), if he would mind moving along just one seat so I could park my pram in the allocated slot. He told me in no uncertain terms, "No, I like this seat." He did go on to state that he was, "A fussy old bugger." Quite. The third time, my mum came with me. I did not need to rely on the kindness of strangers. London could walk past me without feeling guilty.

I appreciate the London Underground is a very old system, but all I require is a little assistance, a helping hand. Come on Londoners where's the sense of comradeship. Take you head out of the Metro, slow down your pace and make this mum proud of her city again.

What do you think?
Was I just unlucky - on the wrong tube and the wrong time? Do you travel by tube with confidence? The 'baby on board' badge campaign didn't really work and the priority seat stickers are just too subtle. What else can we do? I read recently that a BBC viewer emailed their website to say he thought pregnant women were no different and had no more rights to those with heavy shopping bags - mmm harsh, but is this the general attitude?

are they my knickers on your head?

Freshly laundered, I hasten to add!

A letter to me, aged 16.

This post is in response to a writing workshop suggestion by Josie at Sleep is For the Weak

Dear Toz

Just hold it right there. Take a minute and think. Count to ten, go for a walk, take some breaths. Do you really want another flip out? I know there is so much going on in your head. You just want to belong, you want to be liked, but really this isn't the way to react. It stresses you out, upsets you, sends you into a crazed spin. Mum and dad don't know what to do. They see their little girl so distressed and they just want to hold you, help you, but you won't let them in. Please, Toz, open up, let people in.

Don't worry about fitting in. There are friends that love you and will stay with you for years. Focus on them. Stop worrying about the others. You don't need to be accepted by everyone. It's okay to be different, it's okay to be an individual. Don't worry if they snigger at your clothes - you've got a great fashion eye, a brilliant look. You'll make a career out of it you know; work on a fashion magazine - the world's biggest!

Leave that bloody public girls school. You hate it there and to be honest it doesn't really like you. Go to the local sixth form college. You'll be happy there. It will be full of like-minded people. You'll make lots of local friends, hang out with people on your wave length. I know you'll get to meet them all when you do your art foundation course and it'll be the best year of your life, but go there now, you've got a place, they want you, don't be scared of change.

Be nice to your dad. He's worked hard all his life to give you everything. He came from nothing, a refugee. In a few years time he'll be crippled with arthritis and you'll feel awful for him. I know he's a bit eccentric but that's what makes him so special. Really, talk to him, he's great. He's got brilliant stories to tell if you just give him a chance.

And as for your mum. I know, I know, she can be a real pain in the bum. She interferes and can be in your face, but her heart is huge. She loves you so much and in a couple of years time when you are ill, she will be there for you every step of the way through all your treatment and tears.

You're a nice girl Toz, a laugh, a bit quirky I know, but embrace that. Don't be hard on yourself. Skip, twirl, skateboard if that's what makes you smile, wear a tutu if you want to, hit the dance floor and dance to the tunes (those skinny hips won't be there forever!), henna your hair and play with makeup, go to festivals, gigs, clubs. Be happy.

Fly, my fairy friend, fly high.

She likes her food

Let me tell you something about Little Miss P. Her appetite is insatiable. She scoffs with gusto.

This is her food story:

I had heard about baby led weaning and it seemed to make sense to me and click with our style of parenting. So, when the time came, I steamed some carrot sticks and put them on her high-chair tray. I had read in the beginning babies may touch the food, maybe smell it, maybe put it to their mouths. Well this little kiddo just scooped then scoffed. Just like that. Problem is, once she'd digested the carrots, she started to claw at her skin and before I knew it her chest and cheeks where bright red and covered in hives. I smothered her in calamine lotion and hot footed it to the docs.

An allergy to carrots. Seriously. Are you sure? Perhaps it was too much too soon? Put off and racked with incredible guilt, I decided to give her baby rice. She took it like a good little girl from my spoon. I then moved onto pureed pear, which she ate, but with a look that said, 'I don't want mush Mum, I want FOOD and I want to feed myself'. Encouraged by a health visitor who assured me an allergy is an allergy whether it is pureed or whole, I left the pear in slices. Mmmmmm, thanks mum.

Growing in confidence, I moved onto mango slices. The slippery little suckers slid around the tray as Little Miss P tried to grab them. Not having much luck, she did what any hungry bear would do and, steadying the slices with her hands, she lent right down to the tray and sucked the fruit dry. When it came to courgettes she skillfully scrapped and swallowed the flesh with her gum, flinging the discarded skin on the floor.

After successfully (albeit very cautiously) introducing various fruits and vegetables, I gave Little Miss P some fromage frais. She touched the spoon with her tongue and the disapproval was written all over her face. Within seconds her chest, neck and cheeks turned a beetroot red and started to bubble. Raised white rashes spread over her skin as she clawed at it, causing it to bleed. I frantically rang my doctor who told me to give her a dose of Piriton Junior antihystermine. We were referred to St Thomas childrens allergy ward.

At our appointment Little Miss P had to endure a skin prick test, where she was exposed to about twenty common allergens. Imagine being hit with everything your body rejects. Poor little P was in a pickle. Her skin ballooned, her eyes swelled. She didn't know which way to turn. The tests revealed she as allergies to all dairy, nuts, eggs, banana, carrot, sesame seeds, wheat, soya, chickpeas.

How do I cope? Well actually. Everything I give her is homemade. That's not me being virtuous. There is only one ready-made jar that Little Miss P can actually eat - Plum Baby spinach, parsnip and salmon. We do turn to it occasionally but its hardly the most appetising flavour.

Her menu has to be considered carefully and forward planning is essential (no quick shop banana stop for us). But cooking for P is one of my greatest pleasures. Her appreciation and enthusiasm for food is infectious. Watching a eleven month old attack a french trimmed lamb cutlet, florets of broccoli, mashed potato, followed by a whole plum is a sight to behold.

Since the tests she has had more reactions (mushroom, red pepper, a rubber bib and teething toy - latex, we suspect), but I am always prepared. We are going back to the hospital today and yes, they may discover more things she cannot have, but I am confident that won't stop Little Miss P from thoroughly enjoying her grub.