Takes one to know one...

Catching sight of my reflection earlier - hair pulled back into knot, black tux jacket - I suddenly wondered if I was channelling Stella McCartney or, possibly worse, Kate Moss (never good to channel eye bags and too many fags, iconic face or no) and then I remembered that I am actually channelling Kate Winslet, so it's okay. (She too is a semi-secret smoker, I believe, as are Cheryl Cole, Kelly Brook, Paris Hilton, Emma Bunton and many others I don't know about, but she seems to be getting away with it so far.)

Except I don't have an Oscar to accessorise with, so I'll have to make do with my baby, who is golden only in terms of his hairline and aura (only?), and not think about the scarcity of comparisons between my life and hers....at least I've less divorce and children by just one the father, which makes me pretty much the aristocracy (doesn't it?)

Still, it made me think. Stella is around my generation, albeit a few years older than I (only three), and there she is heading up her latest collection, this time for the lucky kiddies whose parents shop at Gap Kids (and who are not averse to parting with £35 for a 1-season t-shirt), the latest in a long line of profitable collaborations and successful womenswear collections for the smug Beatle's daughter. And yes, I am aware that she was pretty lucky in terms of whose offspring she is, as its undoubtedly helped her to get where she is today, no matter what her people would tell you.

And her mate Kate is more of an entrepreneur than mere model; her friendship with tycoon Philip Smith and their Top Shop love-in is clearly based on more than his cash and appreciation of her as resident clothes-horse plaything - they're twin souls in terms of their cold-hearted business reach, and probably stay up til 4am discussing their respective plans for world domination, as if either were not already rather familiar with that concept in their fields. But they are difficult women to channel despite all that I know that is negative regarding them and their privileged circle - Winslet, whilst she'll have you believe that she, too, is one of the girls - just a working mum who has no time to play the drama diva at home - is as much a part of this circle as the others, and throwing on a black jacket and a hairband is where the channelling ends for me - mine has baby sick on the shoulder, and is sported to take the baby to the park. But somehow in the doing I absorb a bit of the sheen in my own little neighbourhood way.....at least I like to think so...

Ah the election. Daily spam count (which is 80% Tory, a bit like our road) is numbering x4 missives a day!

Cleanin out ma closet

I spent the weekend reorganising my wardrobe, bedroom, and life in general, barely emerging from trackie pants until Sunday night's shower when my hair rediscovered the fact that it is, indeed, blonde, and not a dusty dark brown. I also found some old pics, which is always licence to waste a happy half hour reminiscing...in this case, the pictures of Brazil in 2004, including my 30th bday stay in a rather fabulous old colonial pousada in the city of Olinda (I used to want to call a daughter that, and D-Bubz could have ended up as Recife (pronounce the R like an H) if he were similarly unlucky. I have big hair, and a bigger hot tub. Anyways, it feels great to know that all my winter clothes are banished, and even my currently-too-small-summer-clothes have a place (bottom left side of bottom drawer). I've got rid of two whole binbags to charity, and am feeling very clothes-detoxed.

Also spent some of the weekend in the garden with the bubz, who had a lovely time playing with our neighbour's little girl, getting into practise for the arrival, a week late due to volcanic ash clouds, of his big sis this Wednesday. I can't wait for her to see how much he's changed, so that's going to be a lot of fun, and am expecting lots of moments like this one with Mehlina:

...he loves little girls and being mothered by them, and is incredibly docile as they drag him onto their laps etc.

Anyway, I never mentioned that D-Bubz is now a bona fide model, with a Littlewoods shoot under his belt. I registered him with an agency some time ago, but have been unable to go to a casting until they texted with one a few weeks back that wasn't too far from me, so off we went, Grandma (who was staying) in tow. It took place in a studio in SW London and was relatively painless: he just had to try on a couple of outfits and grin at the photographer. Later that day, I caught Grandma flicking disparagingly through a babywear catalogue and saying somewhat darkly: "There's that Archie from the audition, pretending to be a girl under that pink blanket - says it all really" to D-Bubz, who didn't look too worried.

We got a call on the Sunday night that they would like him to come to Hove (Hove!!) the next day to take part in the shoot. Of course we couldn't say no, but it was a major mission driving down there on a Monday am, but eventually we got to the stunning location house right by the sea. It prompted a major fit of lifestyle jealousy on behalf of all the parents who were there (all pretty nice I must say, though Archie wasn't there - guess we pipped him to the post). There was a Monty, a Kitty, a Kiki and a Reuben. And my Dylan, the only one who couldn't sit up un-propped. Later that day, after a quick sojourn at the beach and on our ridiculously congested journey home, I got a call saying they wanted to use him again the next day back at the audition studios, so off we went again. Unfortunately, despite him doing his solo shot like an absolute pro, none of the crying which the other bubs were indulging in, the photographer couldn't get rid of a shadow on the background of his shots (he was lying down while the other precocious snotbags were sitting), thus all the potential outfits for him to wear after that were taken away for the arrival of the next boy baby, and my dreams of seeing him all over the Littlewoods catalogue all dashed, bar the one group shot from the Hove shoot. I'd also left my wallet in the car when I was dropped off, so had to beg for assistance and was granted a cab home (it was amazing actually and far beat getting public transport so thanks to the production team), which just added to my sense of being a stressed mum about town who forgot to wipe the puke of her shoulder.....anyway, not heard from the agency since, so just waiting for the cheque.

In other news, D-Bubz is now taking the odd bottle of formula, and seems to suddenly love it - hallelujah! With the slight drawback that as I'm using Nannycare goat milk formula (available in health food shops), when he voms it smells of goats cheese. But hey, at least I'm not having to get them out 4x times a day, its down to x3....far more discreet I must say....

Mother In The Hood xxx

Torn between Supernanny USA or George Lamb's breakfast slot on 'surely they can't bin it' Radio 6 this am, I wisely plumped for the latter and got the usual excellently eclectic mix of old and new inc some seriously booty-shakin' disco. I always want to note down half the tracks although that's rather more like studying than entertainment. D-Bubz has feasted on water with watermelon juice, porridge, yoghurt and banana so I am feeling like a good parent, but this is often a temporary state. I can make myself cry just thinking about my failings thus far, and am not sure whether listing them here will be cathartic but for the record they include, 1) using baby wipes within days of his birth (you should only use water and cotton wool but the sink in his room wasn't connected to the mains and so I found out too late after our plumber's departure that I really needed hot water in there - that's actually a major failing on its own). 2) Giving him Cow & Gate non organic baby porridge at 4 months, instead of expressing milk and giving him Organix or something - when I switched, his poo got noticeably lighter. 3) Going silent and abstracted whilst engaged in changing or dressing him, often ignoring him for minutes on end. 4) These suddenly sound very trivial and I can't for the life of me remember the others right now, which is probably a good thing.

"The hallucinations were growing. Now, every time she turned from unloading the dishwasher in either the morning or dusk light, he was there, for a second. She had given up trying to ascribe this to a trick of the light, or her over-fertile imagination, it was too frequent and the clarity of the visions too strong. She was definitely being haunted, and the ghost was definitely him. She sensed no malice, but ever time her stomach churned with adrenalin, he seemed close enough to touch, to talk to, to push. But there was no way she was moving, or talking, or shoving."

Flying without wings

Aside from the obvious issue of crushing the travel dreams of millions, not to mention making it tricky for acai berry devotees to get their fix down at that there Selfridges, it felt pretty amazing to see nothing but blue, blue skies for a whole six days (as well as just a tad eerie, but as a child of the action blockbuster, I quite like the feeling of the calm before the armageddon). As the world's planes were grounded, out came the sun, and The Orb's 'Little Fluffy Clouds' was oft to be heard in our garden (about as close to the husky-voiced angel from that track I'm ever going to get, unless the (clearly loving it) Icelandic prime minister is right and that was simply a rehearsal for the big performance to come imminently, in which case we'd all better get a little more seafarin' in our ways).

The D-Bubz, of course, had no idea why we were all getting so worked up about the lack of vapour trails, and continued to be gamer than Stu Francis post-cabbage hurl. Apart from when emitting puppy style whimpers, although what better excuse for acting like a baby than being one? So every time he looks at me imploringly while doing his best impression of the Andrex labrador pup, I remember that one day he'll be the one trying to get me to let go of his hand and refusing to submit to any PDAs. These are golden times, and whatever lies ahead - be it the end of air travel, the rising of the tides or the loss of the global bee population - my boy will face it bravely, and I will be by his side.

The Divine Miz

I watched last night's 'The Delicious Miss Dahl", or whadeva it's called, with a mixture of screaming lifestyle envy and disbelieving hilarity (esp when they filmed her winsomely wandering with a pout on reciting poetry), but by the end I had grudging admiration for her and her array of "transporting" (she said it many times just so we'd get it) travel-inspired dishes from variously India, Mexico and New England (her granny lives in Martha's Vineyard doncha know). Not sure what dish I could conjure up in memory of my dear departed gran and her one-room bungalow in Southcote, Reading, but it certainly wouldn't be clam chowder - more like toffee-flavoured blancmange made with gold top milk, and you'd take out your teeth to eat it, but that's by the by.

What the BBC have cottoned onto with their blatant and effective creation of the nation's New Nigella TM, is that not only can Sophie talk chicken brothy froth with a nice line in intelligent delivery, but she has the anecdotes to back it up; whereas Nigella would never rhapsodise quite so eloquently re the joys of being crap at making rice, she's too busy being perfect while we're too busy wondering if she really does have blowtorch attachments on her breasts (great for the tops of creme brulee). Sophie, however, can empathise, even if it is from the lofty position of moneyed successful model turned slightly odd writer, turned, with a definite whiff of home-cooked inevitability, into the new titillating female chef on the (marble, Magnet) block. How many male chefs are there who combine the qualities of marinading and pulchritude to such an extent? The answer is zero, and I bet none of them have grannies in Martha's Vineyard either.

Am off to see if I can find her recipes online - her dahl (geddit?), sweet potato and lemon pilau looked, as was suggested, like the perfect Sunday night dinner, and if I can cook it, maybe I'll turn into a rich and successful renaissance woman too?

Ella's Orgasmic Crack Den

I've come a long way since the days when I imagined motherhood to be a combination of sleepless psychosis, uncontrollable weeping and functional footwear. In fact, I have got to the point where I can definitely agree that having a baby can be very empowering, and its a beautiful thing to feel my confidence increase by the day. The boy is flourishing, British Summertime has officially kicked off and everything in the garden (especially the camelia bush, which has just bloomed rather gloriously) is lovely.

But I have a confession to make. I have purchased ready-made baby food. To be precise: brightly-coloured squeezy tubes of fruit and vegetable purees going under the rustic sounding banner of 'Ella's Organic Kitchen'. Ella, bless her, is the sweet Charlie and Lola-alike on the website, and some might say excellent marketing tool for her caring daddy who is now (apart from, presumably, rather minted) committed to bringing Britain's babies the right kind of nutrition without any of the yucky add-ons which previously characterised the options for Parents Who Don't Make Their Own.

I would like to emphasise that I am not one of those, oh no. But I bought a few one day to try as they looked tres handy for 'on the move' type scenarios, and indeed they were, plus the D-Bubz LOVED them, although I was slightly disturbed that the Carrot, Parsnip & Apple one smelled of Bloody Marys. However, I have since realised that to buy these for my little darling is akin to a day out at the races with Beelzebub without a padlock for your soul, because these cutesome snacks are actually very misleading, and contain much more fruit than veg in the youngest age bracket - ie, Broccoli, Pear & Pea was 78% pear, 14% pea, and a measly 8% of the brocc stuff. So they should really call it 'Pear, Pear, more Pear and a Smidge of Greenery'. This is really not acceptable and explains only too well why the kiddies take to them with such alacrity (I know a woman whose one year old refuses to eat anything else - in his world, it's fruity puree forever - he even slurps them from the carton like a tiny junkie).

Anyway, I have decided that buying the fruit-only ones is no problemo, so the D-Bubz continues to feast on Banana & Apples (but not Strawberry & Apples, which I won't buy on principle as its only 8% strawberry). But seriously: how minted is Ella's daddy? Answers on a flattened puree pouch...

Procrastinate much?

Long time no blog, for various reasons involving tiredness and/or babies. I would elaborate but in these flakey times (socially, not skin, though I suppose either is valid), not much explanation is required of me re the gap between what I plan to achieve and what I actually do. This is mainly because I am at liberty to say something like "Sorry I couldn't do it/get there/send it, my breasts were overflowing into milk pails and had the feel of concrete bunkers" or "The baby had screamed for so many hours the previous night that I slept nary a wink, and was forced to neck several Prozac and a whisky/formula cocktail", and then whoever was doing the asking would wish they hadn't. So all my deadlines are moot, because the one thing I have to without question achieve that day - feed, wash, change, entertain and deal with all other issues pertaining to my boy - takes precedence over everything else.

For example, I recently tried to send a package to a friend. When I finally got around to sealing it and queueing at the post office counter to send it, it had assumed such monstrous proportions in my mental to-do list that I completely forgot I wasn't really ready to part with the contents (some of D-Bubz's old clothes). Thus the subsequent days consisted of me trying to bite back sentimental tears every time I thought of his little cardigan and vests, which wasn't really the effect I was going for. Then there's my plans to a) sell stuff on ebay (it helps if you actually post the items), b) become my partner's manager and organise various PR strategies to shoot him into the meeja stratosphrere (it helps if you can persuade him this is a good idea) and c) which is the sub-project of another project I am mentally project-managing and has raged out of theoretical control (it helps if you have a more concise project).

Other, lesser priorities which are constantly being re-shifted down to somewhere near the bottom of the whole hellish pile include finding somewhere else to live (it must be near a coastline, have several acres yet be close to good hairdressers and Japanese restaurants - year round sunshine would also help); getting rid of some of my books (this has been on the list for some years now, so post-baby the odds of this actually happening are around 1 gagillion:1); and of course writing my book. HA. I have, to this end, penned several synopses and chapters of various fictional scenarios, but the problem appears to be keeping up my momentum. So obsessed am I getting with the whole fiction conundrum (lacking: a room of one's own), that my dream last night featured me running around getting into scrapes whilst trying to write them all down in a notebook. Ever since my MA in Creative Writing at Goldsmiths College (which I finished in 2002), I have been lurching from one creative non-event to the next, until the chances of me actually finishing said book seem about as likely as me becoming a keen daily body brusher.

However. I have spent the last few days, since visiting my mum with the D-Bubz, thinking about my dad. Part of my MA course involved me writing about him: his premature death from MS in 1980, his career in computer technology, working for Rank Xerox who later became IBM, and being present at events such as the viewing of the first robot. His time in Germany as a Jewish man who refused to let post-war racial nervousness dent his equilibrium (he famously turned up for his first day running the systems office in Dusseldorf wearing a brown shirt, and cheerily remarking "Not many Jews in today, are there?" as he bounced through the door. His strange encounter with Yoko Ono (which involved a table cut in half, and the fact that he got bad vibes in the manner of seeing his ex-wife). His friendship with Bill Gates, and other influential figures in the world of late 60s/early 70s technology. And more, much more.

My pompous memoir turned into magical realism (his ghost came back as a young man, unfortunately replicated in recent chick lit novel 'Twenties Girl' by Sophie Kinsella, which is distressingly good, although very different from my own idea apart from the central 'young ghost' theme), and now, many years of procrastination and denial later, seems to be turning itself back into a memoir. Whether this is as precursor to a more exciting fictional/script outing, I cannot say. But one thing is for sure: while I may have just celebrated my first Mother's Day, it is daddy cool who is on my mind. The McGarrys have a motto: spe labore fide, which means 'a strong man is a good man'. Lets hope that one day I can finally do that long-departed strong, good man some literary justice - or at the very least, recount the hilarious tale of the Kit-e-Kat curry...