Mummy on the Edge Families NW Magazine Nov/ Dec 2007

Mummy on the Edge

Angelina Melwani sits, mouth agape, in a television induced stupor.

It’s impossible to avoid the onslaught of Christmas advertising everywhere, from shops to television. I try to remind myself that it’s the time I spend with Mini-Me that she remembers, not the money (thank goodness because, let’s face it, there’s not always much of that around). It’s the welly-time dodging cow pats in Bentley Priory in Stanmore on our way to feed Rudolph and the other deer. Or pretend spaceship time under the duvet dodging the “astronoids” on our way to her various imaginary worlds where non-fruit objects grow on trees. Or simply doing the Pyjama Rhumba before breakfast in our own version of Strictly Come Dancing.

Apart from Saturday night competition telly (the ideal accompaniment to after dinner cuddles on the sofa – not counting when I start blubbing when a woe-ridden single mother gets through to the next round of X Factor looked on in adoration by her heart-meltingly proud little daughter – this will surely change their lives), Mini-me doesn’t watch too much TV. Ours is wonkily nailed to the wall at neck-ache-inducing height which means that unless I deign it otherwise, the standby button remains off. I ration out kids TV - with our Freeview box a choice of either Cbeebies, (mostly too babyish) or CBBC and CITV (mostly too grown up). Draconian? Yes, but it means I have the ultimate remote control (geddit?) Also, I have recently discovered that in the day time on CBBC they show Schools Programmes which I now record and pass off as “kids tv”. After all, for a five and a half year old, learning how important coconuts are to the lives of children in Kerala is infinitely more useful than watching the Ninky Nonk’s nocturnal habits in the Night Garden.

The good thing about the BBC is that there are no advertisements corrupting our children and supplanting their innocence, creativity and enthusiasm for fresh air with unworldly desires for fantastic plastic tat. Mini-Me has been told that generally it’s not wise to ask for toys advertised on television because they are almost never as much fun as they look on TV and will surely only ever disappoint. She has since digested, assimilated and churned back this sensible advice, but unfortunately not in time for me to cancel my order for TV’s best selling “Rocket Blender” (as seen on a reliable infomercial) which now occupies an inordinate amount of space at the back of my least-frequented kitchen cupboard.

In terms of pure evil I don’t think it is too harsh to say that it comes in the form of shoes. First it was LED lights on shoes; but okay, they were a bit of harmless fun for trainers. Then came wheels in shoes with all their resultant fractures. Now, as you read this, tens of thousands of children are collectively yanking off their Clarks school shoes in the freezing wet playground to peel back their insoles and fight over their identical “secret” toys (shockingly sexist – dolls for girls and cars for boys) and, no doubt, raising feelings of inadequacy and anxiety in those whose parents and carers did not succumb. There already exist secret compartments in children’s clothes; they are called pockets and, having spent 10 minutes emptying the crevices of the washing machine drum of re-hydrated raisins I am prepared to argue that even these are extraneous to needs! Toys in shoes is marketing at its most manipulative. I concede that a colourful piece of junk makes hydrogenated fat-filled fast food infinitely more appealing at the golden arches. But since when did children need an incentive not to leave the house barefoot? Who was the inspiration behind this product’s development? The shoe-bomber? And whatever is next? Probably secret TVs in shoes so they don’t have to play together at break time at all.

If you need help with cutting spending or just sorting your finances out a bit, it’s really worth checking out the moneysavingexpert.com website run by Martin Lewis and signing up for the free money-saving newsletters. It’s not for profit, it’s not annoying and it’s where I found out about a super free laptop offer which I’ve now applied for and which will enable me to work from bed – whilst zooming through space on my way to Cream Slice World!

Angelina Melwani runs Sing and Sign baby signing courses in Harrow, Bushey, Stanmore and Rickmansworth. More info at www.singandsign.com.

Mummy on the Edge - Families NW Magazine Sept Oct 2007

Mummy on the Edge

Angelina Melwani goes back to school

When I was little, the words “Back to school” held an exciting cache of anticipation. They heralded the close of the yawning chasm between summer and autumn term and an end to the relentless boredom of staying at home and later on, working in my parents’ shop. They also were a signal that it was time to “Buy Stuff”. Mmm, the feel of pristine paper and the smell of fresh crayons.

Now, however, even before the holidays start, we are attacked with visions of smiley, cheeky, immaculate children in school uniform; annoying inserts on a covert mission to jump out of the local paper, when least expected, reminding us (ok, just me) that we are useless and disorganised and need to start buying NOW. Me? I ignore them, of course; after all there’s still six week’s growing time to consider. I followed that tack that last year and vaguely remember coming back from the Watford Harlequin with only two pairs of plimsolls and a migraine just a week before mini-me was due to start school - having found no other correct item of uniform to speak of.

But there’s no point panicking. Gaaaaaah! Stop. No. Calm down. At the last minute, you stick an order with M&S and then run to BHS and furiously rip off the rack anything marked reduced in the right size and colour (even if it’s for the opposite sex – who’ll notice if little Billy is wearing a skirt instead of trousers?) And, somehow, if you believe hard enough, it all works out in the end. On her first day at school, Mini-Me looked like one of those cheeky, happy advert children, resplendent in shiny patent shoes, tie and book bag. All that was missing was a bowler hat and umbrella and she could have gone off to work in the City.

***

It’s not just uniform you have to consider. Clubs, activities, classes. Every thing needs to be booked in advance and coordinated with military precision. Logistically it very much helps if you have a friend whose child does the same activity. I transport five year old Mini-Me and her Best Friend to weekly drama lessons in term time and appreciate this for the cultural opportunity that it is. For during the forty minutes it takes to get there and back, they unwittingly transform into their alter-egos, pensioners Ethel and Enid, bickering all the way to Bingo and back. It really is a most amusing form of performance art and something they don’t enjoy me pointing out, which makes it even more fun when I do.

For Mini-Me, having attended for over a year, ballet is out. Her ballet teacher says she “talks too much about subjects unrelated to ballet, and doesn’t listen to instructions”. Of course, I hear instead, “the class is too constrictive of her creativity and imagination and she is better suited to a less regimental activity”. At time of writing, Mini-Me is on a two year waiting list for gymnastics and I’m still waiting to hear whether she has a place at swimming which, by all accounts, I should have booked before she was conceived.

Don’t forget to check out the Clubs and Classes Feature on page ___.

Angelina Mapara runs Sing and Sign baby signing courses in Harrow, Bushey, Stanmore and Rickmansworth. More info at www.singandsign.com

Mummy on the Edge - Families NW Magazine Jul/Aug 2007

Mummy on the Edge (of the Universe)

Angelina Melwani boldly goes to the Circus and the Planetarium

It is the start of a wet half term. Mini-Me and her menagerie of imaginary siblings crave excitement and are enquiring about plans, mainly due to my own deliberately vague assertions that, “We are going to have such fun!”

Mini-Me is obsessed with Earth, “astronoids” and aliens. “How do aliens get born?” My insufficient answers elicit similar questioning of every adult she meets, from her grandmother to the checkout lady in Sainsbury’s. I got her a fantastic pop-up book from my friend Charmaine who sells Mini-IQ called My Wonderful Earth from which she has learnt loads. However, it’s not enough. Being a guilt ridden single mother of the noughties, I am gripped with the desperate desire to quench every thirst for knowledge I detect, any way I physically can.

With this in mind, I take her in the pouring rain on the epic journey from Bushey via National Rail, Tube and Docklands Light Railway to the Royal Observatory, suitably based at “The Other End of the Earth” (AKA Greenwich). Their website (www.nmm.ac.uk) details a new show at the Peter Harrison Planetarium where they “take you on a journey through time and space… providing a magnificent introduction to the wonders of the universe” with a question time at the end. Mini-Me is hopping with excitement.

In no time at all we are climbing aboard the milk-float-type vehicle that runs us to the top of the hill to the Planetarium. Mini-Me grows pensive as she considers again my non-committal answer to her repeated question, “Mummy, are there aliens?”

“Well, you can have a chat with an Astronomer and get all your answers today.”

At the end of the show which Mini-Me has enjoyed, utterly absorbed, lying horizontal on top of me in order for her eyes to reach the images (we didn’t book so are sitting on the very edge of the universe), I yawn and glance at her, wondering if she heard me snoring. Mini-Me takes her place at the front of the theatre to monopolize Dr Claire Thomas Phd., a friendly, real live Astronomer, there for the very purpose of answering those burning questions. Allowing limited input from Dr Thomas, Mini-Me expounds on Life, the Universe and Everything, covering How Aliens Get Born; the order of the planets from the sun; meditation; our full postal address; her array of imaginary siblings and various unrepeatable details about my personal life. I gasp and cover her mouth and in a muffled voice she says, “But it’s true!” Mortified? Absolutely. But at least she hasn’t asked me about aliens since then.

***

The only circus I had ever been to before now was Cirque du Soleil, and I didn’t get it. It was surreal, bordering on creepy watching a giant man with no head walk around holding an umbrella. How the hell would I have explained that to Mini-Me? So when Zippos Circus came to town in Watford I discovered what I had been missing all these years.

If you think spending an afternoon catching flying spaghetti in your up-do is not the ideal afternoon out, you are wrong. This was a show packed with interactive fun; Henri the handsome Clown as a rude waiter, chucking water and bits and bobs into the audience during a well-choreographed restaurant vignette; heartbreakingly beautiful dancing horses; the stunningly rubberlicious Ena hanging artfully from the silk rope (and serving tea in the interval – circus life, eh!); Zaya performing breathtaking twirls from the trapeze; muscled gymnastic brothers balancing in gravitationally impossible formation; daring tightrope walking family, the Ayalas in spangly white suits; a husband and wife knife-throwing act (-I’m not saying anything!-); their daughter the football and tennis racquet-juggling dynamo and much, much more, from all over the world. This is family entertainment in both senses, performed to and by families. And, in the surprisingly intimate setting of the big top, up-close and personal, it is utterly enthralling and not in the least bit naff. In fact, the most disappointing thing to behold was that many seats were empty - a sheer waste, for such good value and satisfaction - but this did nothing to dull the sparkle in the blue, blue eyes of Norman Barrett, the suave and immaculately turned out “world’s greatest ringmaster” who also entertained us with his talented band of ice-cream coloured budgies.

“Remember,” he said, “if you’ve enjoyed yourself, tell your friends!” So I’ve turned into a circus evangelist and am telling everyone I know to go. (www.zipposcircus.co.uk) I’ll definitely go again and next time I’m going to take my parents, too!

Mummy on the edge Families NW Magazine May/ June 2007

MUMMY ON THE EDGE MAY JUNE 2007

Angelina Melwani on ducky ponds and the ancient art of compromise…

There is a sacred space in my kitchen. A corner of worktop, just above a cupboard door which is threatening suicide from its bent hinge, is the site of a self-built shrine to the ducky pond. A towering architectural wonder made of stale bread and abandoned hot-cross buns, it is a guilty reminder that a) I bought too much bread and b) we need to go feed ‘dem ducks. It’s something that Mini-Me usually does with my dad who meticulously tears purpose bought bread into duck-bite-size confetti. There is duck fun to be had everywhere! When the cheese aisle has lost its lustre and Mini-Me has tired of my speech on the benefits of fair trade to Jamaican banana farmers, it is helpful to know we can step out of Tesco Extra in Watford and marvel at the wonders of nature (not to mention assorted old shoes and drinks bottles) in the canal-type bit of water outside. See, bet you’ve walked past it a thousand times and never noticed, eh?

Another secret place that I tell my Sing and Sign mummies about is Warren Lake in Bushey. You can get to it via the Mary Forsdyke Gardens located opposite St Peters Church in Bushey Heath and it’s so indescribably and mysteriously pretty. When I first saw it I couldn’t believe this oasis of tranquillity existed just adjacent to the busy High Road with its bustling shops and cafes. The Aquadrome in Rickmansworth is fab for duck fancying (not to mention watching people fall off their windsurfs) and really beautiful for walks. Last time I visited, I was also salivating over other mums’ yummy dishes purchased from the organic café (The aromas of which also served to disguise the pervading smell of duck poo in the height of summer!) How I wish I’d left our soggy sarnies at home. Don’t forget to use familiesonline.co.uk to find comprehensive details of other parks in North West London with ducky ponds too.

***

I have been educating Mini-Me in the art of compromise. Yesterday I experienced a particularly challenging day facing corpulent despot in court and all I wanted to do in the late afternoon was smother my head in cake on the sofa in front of three recorded Oprahs (ITV2 around 10.30ish – I worship at the altar of Oprah; guaranteed upliftment, priceless, yet cost-free). Mini-Me, however, had other ideas. “Mummy, I love you. I really want to go to my park, Mummy”. (Her park, the one she thinks she owns!) “Darling I’m sooo tired. Let’s have a cuddle on the sofa with a book” (bearing in mind we had been to the Pirate Ship in Kensington Gardens the day before – it’s not like she’s been nowhere). Then she went off to go to the loo and I heard her merrily singing a made-up composition based on the rhythm of here-we-go-round-the-mulberry bush. “I want to go the paa-aark, the paa-aark, the paa-aark; I want to go to the paa-aark but my Mummy is too tired”. Ouch, that hurt! Instead of caving completely and displaying utter weakness, I stirred an extra spoon of sugar into my cup of tea and began negotiations. I told her I would be prepared to take her for a tour-de-green-patch-outside-our-house on her bike instead and I explained that this was a “compromise”. (Who said I would never use my media-buying skills again?) She was also able to shout to the pre-teens who play outside which made her feel part of the gang. She happy, me happy; Win win.

***

On our third lap of the green patch outside our house, I stopped to give a lecture to the neighbourhood kids on not taunting possible mental patients who may not be taking their medication when I heard them repeatedly shouting "You can't break our legs!!!" at a bald old man who they said had threatened to do so.  

"I suggest if someone is threatening you, don't provoke them. Tell an adult... But not me. One of your dads." I instantly regretted saying that, because maybe they don't all have dads at home (mine doesn’t). I went on in demented paranoic fashion as one of them jumped up and down behind me making the others laugh, clearly having identified the true neighbourhood loon. "There are lots of unstable people out there! Don't you ever watch the News?" 

"No" was the reply. Note to self: from now on must record Newsround for Mini-Me.

MUMMY ON THE EDGE MARCH APRIL 2007

Angelina Melwani on cheap, yummy food and spy training.

So it’s the Chinese Year of the Pig and I’m sure we all know at least one person who should be flattered. It’s that time of year when Mini-Me is dragged to Oriental City in Colindale to watch dancing dragons spitting cabbages. I’m hoping this time she won’t keep her hands over her ears for the entire performance. I was utterly devastated when I found out that this fantastic shopping mall may be demolished in favour of redevelopment to include a new B&Q; do we really need another? Mine was one of 5,000 letters of protest handed to Mayor Ken last month; I mean, where else can I get a fantastic shoulder massage plus a full meal for under a tenner? Mini-Me and I can frequently be found salivating over the colourful menu boards of the food court where you’ll find an array of dim sum generously portioned for around £2.50 or a full Thai meal for about a fiver. Not to mention huge, steaming bowls of noodle soup, Sushi, Vietnamese, Chinese and other cuisines, all fast, fresh and delicious. If you’ve never been there, you really should. There is always some festival on at the weekend and plenty of shops to mooch around including a great supermarket selling all kinds of wonderful oriental supplies; from dried fish to tamarind juice in a can. I’m not going to mention the Segadrome. Definitely worth a rainy afternoon’s visit or a guilt-free lunch with some mum-friends before it’s time to pick the kids up.

***

Mini-Me has learnt to read. Not everything (she’s just turned 5, for goodness sake!) but more than I expected. It’s the most delightful, satisfying thing and now there is no stopping her. Cereal boxes, wine bottles, road signs, private e-mail and texts, my tax return; it seems that books about Digger the Dog will no longer quench her thirst for literature and now everything in our house and out is fair game. I’m not complaining, I knew it was coming, and encouraged it as we are all supposed to do right from those days when she would bring home a list of letters of the week to practice from nursery. It’s just that soon, spelling letters out in conversation with other grown ups so that little miss floppy-ears doesn’t understand isn’t going to work. I’m going to have to resort to my appalling Franglais, and then no one will understand me at all!

***

Do check out this website: activityvillage.co.uk. It is a hugely useful parent’s resource packed with printables and links to keep the kids busy at home. Amongst the recipes and origami patterns, I found a really useful poster for Mini-Me to distinguish the sounds of b and d which can be confusing to budding industrial espionage experts.

[This further section was editied due to it's apparant unsuitability for the magazine:

Angelina Melwani on personal devastation (on a small scale).

I removed my glasses and dared to stare into the mirror, contemplating what minimum effort I could expend to make myself look vaguely presentable, when I saw Ugly Betty squinting back at me defiantly. I recoiled in horror and booked myself a long overdue hair appointment. I don’t know about you, but I have the kind of personality that surrenders to authority far too easily. Be it doctors, lawyers, or bus conductors, I just assume that experts know their job better than I do and in their mere presence, a wave of misplaced trust turns me into a jelly-brained idiot.

So, waving a picture of GMTV’s superbly coiffed Fiona Phillips torn out from Hello! Magazine, I surrendered to Malco-Scissorhands completely and utterly, as he snipped, feathered and haphazardly ran his tool down shafts of great bunches of my hair, pausing only to snigger derisively at my request for flicks (“You mean, Farah Fawcett, ha ha. No no no.”). I left the salon sporting a sleek, shiny, helmet-like shoulder length layered bob which I just knew I could never re-create at home. Three days later having washed and dried it myself, I look like an extra from Girl Interrupted and am walking round with a hairband surgically attached to my head. Having heard me say it once too often, five year old Mini-Me is now proudly telling everyone who’ll listen, “My mummy went to the hairdresser and now she looks dreadful”.]

Mummy on the Edge - Families Magazine March/ April 2007

MUMMY ON THE EDGE MARCH APRIL 2007

Angelina Melwani on cheap, yummy food and spy training.

So it’s the Chinese Year of the Pig and I’m sure we all know at least one person who should be flattered. It’s that time of year when Mini-Me is dragged to Oriental City in Colindale to watch dancing dragons spitting cabbages. I’m hoping this time she won’t keep her hands over her ears for the entire performance. I was utterly devastated when I found out that this fantastic shopping mall may be demolished in favour of redevelopment to include a new B&Q; do we really need another? Mine was one of 5,000 letters of protest handed to Mayor Ken last month; I mean, where else can I get a fantastic shoulder massage plus a full meal for under a tenner? Mini-Me and I can frequently be found salivating over the colourful menu boards of the food court where you’ll find an array of dim sum generously portioned for around £2.50 or a full Thai meal for about a fiver. Not to mention huge, steaming bowls of noodle soup, Sushi, Vietnamese, Chinese and other cuisines, all fast, fresh and delicious. If you’ve never been there, you really should. There is always some festival on at the weekend and plenty of shops to mooch around including a great supermarket selling all kinds of wonderful oriental supplies; from dried fish to tamarind juice in a can. I’m not going to mention the Segadrome. Definitely worth a rainy afternoon’s visit or a guilt-free lunch with some mum-friends before it’s time to pick the kids up.

***

Mini-Me has learnt to read. Not everything (she’s just turned 5, for goodness sake!) but more than I expected. It’s the most delightful, satisfying thing and now there is no stopping her. Cereal boxes, wine bottles, road signs, private e-mail and texts, my tax return; it seems that books about Digger the Dog will no longer quench her thirst for literature and now everything in our house and out is fair game. I’m not complaining, I knew it was coming, and encouraged it as we are all supposed to do right from those days when she would bring home a list of letters of the week to practice from nursery. It’s just that soon, spelling letters out in conversation with other grown ups so that little miss floppy-ears doesn’t understand isn’t going to work. I’m going to have to resort to my appalling Franglais, and then no one will understand me at all!

***

Do check out this website: activityvillage.co.uk. It is a hugely useful parent’s resource packed with printables and links to keep the kids busy at home. Amongst the recipes and origami patterns, I found a really useful poster for Mini-Me to distinguish the sounds of b and d which can be confusing to budding industrial espionage experts.

This was removed for publication as not deemed appropriate for the magazine. I'm putting it in here because I like it:

Angelina Melwani on personal devastation (on a small scale).

I removed my glasses and dared to stare into the mirror, contemplating what minimum effort I could expend to make myself look vaguely presentable, when I saw Ugly Betty squinting back at me defiantly. I recoiled in horror and booked myself a long overdue hair appointment. I don’t know about you, but I have the kind of personality that surrenders to authority far too easily. Be it doctors, lawyers, or bus conductors, I just assume that experts know their job better than I do and in their mere presence, a wave of misplaced trust turns me into a jelly-brained idiot.

So, waving a picture of GMTV’s superbly coiffed Fiona Phillips torn out from Hello! Magazine, I surrendered to Malco-Scissorhands completely and utterly, as he snipped, feathered and haphazardly ran his tool down shafts of great bunches of my hair, pausing only to snigger derisively at my request for flicks (“You mean, Farah Fawcett, ha ha. No no no.”). I left the salon sporting a sleek, shiny, helmet-like shoulder length layered bob which I just knew I could never re-create at home. Three days later having washed and dried it myself, I look like an extra from Girl Interrupted and am walking round with a hairband surgically attached to my head. Having heard me say it once too often, five year old Mini-Me is now proudly telling everyone who’ll listen, “My mummy went to the hairdresser and now she looks dreadful”.

Mummy on the Edge Families Magazine Jan/ Feb 2007

MUMMY ON THE EDGE NOVEMBER DECEMBER

Angelina Melwani on embarrassing gadgets, clearing crap and panache-ful event planning.

“Happy”, “new”, “year”. God, don’t those words fill you with dread and fear? Can’t you just taste the disappointment of thousands of unfulfilled dreams and hopes, pushed back by months to this very point in time? As if assigning them to January is any assurance that they will come to fruition? I blame the Sunday supplements with their diets and de-toxes and botoxes. We make these New Year’s Resolutions (so important that they deserve capital initials,) cogitate and confabulate on them and then, like the uneaten gozho berries that we rushed out to buy coz Sunday Times Style Magazine said they were gonna change our lives, they wither, fester and die before our very eyes.

I’m the guiltiest of all. This is the year that I will be offered a 6 figure publishing deal on the strength of my as yet unfinished novel, develop an intelligent understanding of all world conflicts, reduce my carbon footprint by half, secure a regular column in a national paper, run the marathon (ok, do a long sponsored walk) achieve nirvana by way of daily meditation and locate my inner Nigella (I know she’s in here somewhere – what is she but a mutant anagram of Angelina?) But resolutions are like plants; you need to tend them, nurture and feed them in order for them to prosper.

***

In terms of turning my home into that which would suit a domestic goddess and her mini-me, a little Spring cleaning would not go amiss i.e. getting rid of crap… ergh. Coz it’s no mean feat when you have great heaving piles of it. Mini-me has just about reached the elevated understanding that she cannot keep every tissue-paper-and glue asphyxiated being, mummified in sellotape, that she brings home from Reception, even if each has been attached to a lolly stick and named with love. So it is me with my ingrained habits and unfortunate predilection for unsuitability that is the problem. Seeing crap for what it is, is the first step…

In one of her regular debriefings, my oracle (aka Best Friend Fashion Buyer) advised me to stop seeking short term solutions. Actually, what she said was, “Stop buying crap. For God’s sake, woman, when are you going to learn, no electrical item is going to change your life!” Okay, I admit I have made some unfortunate purchasing decisions under the misapprehension that they may make my life better. For example the electrical ab toner which, at the time of purchase around 8 years ago was going to make my tummy indistinguishable from that of the then 16 year old Britney Spears; the home electrolysis machine, (the less said about that the better); most recently, purchased from Argos (!), a home laser hair removal machine (I returned that, terrified after pondering on the dizzyingly infinite scope for irreparable self-harm - that, and it was making a very dodgy humming noise). Not to mention my life-changing-phone-gadget-thingy which was going to streamline my workload by allowing me to reply to Sing and Sign e-mails and check availability while on the move - this turned out to be incompatible with AOL and hence pointless, not to mention unnecessarily bulky. (Hmm, pattern here… incompatible, pointless and bulky, much like corpulent, despotic ex.)

There is one recent acquirement, however, that I will not be consigning to the dump. It fits in the palm of my hand, runs on batteries and after five minutes of use provides instant gratification . It hasn’t quite changed my life, but my sweater bobble remover has saved my wardrobe. I no longer look like I’ve been sleeping under a bridge when I pull on my favourite knitwear... Actually I probably still do but it’s not the knitwear that lets me down, just my messy hair and dark circles.

***

And so, on to the next Big Deal. For me it is Mini-Me’s 5^th birthday party to which she had already invited about 35 people by the end of September of last year. Planning this party is a breakdown-inducing task of epic proportion. Organising a military coup in Thailand would be easier. However I am clinging to the vain hope that my inner Nigella is about to make an appearance and help me plan with panache. I’m going to attempt a traditional jelly & ice cream party like we used to have when we were kids; pass the parcel, musical chairs and Lazy Town CD disco. Mini-Me will enjoy this much more (I, much less) and it will provide her with fond memories that she will cherish in years to come. Ok, basically, it’s much cheaper than a play centre. Dunno yet, but depending on my state of fragility nearer the time I might draft in a magician at the last minute. Assuming, of course, corpulent despot hasn’t bled me dry by then. We shall see.

And now, I will leave you with the words of those wise sages of yore (a.k.a. Abba), “Gimme, gimme, gimme a man for the midnight”. No, that’s not right, is it? That would be fab, but what I meant was, “Happy new year, happy new year!”.