St George & The Dragon

Sometimes my mind likes to go off on adventures of its own.  Here's what happened when it did so today...


A valiant knight trots by on his steed
As sunlight dapples a lake in Silene,
Where the people fear a dragon
That's hungry and mean.
For years it has been their custom
To present this beast with fine lambs,
But now there's a shortage of poor woolly friends,
And the dragon eschews their burgers and hams.

"There's an obvious solution"
The town's menfolk declare,
"We'll give him a maiden!"
The ladies look scared.
"Are you crazy?!" they cry
Manicured hands held aloft -
"We'll slay him ourselves,
If you're all too soft."

"Don't get all Beyonce on us"
The men retort in a huff.
"Ok", the Princess steps forward,
"I think that's enough!
I'll talk to the dragon,
I love a good cause"
As she goes over to chat,
He grabs her in his jaws.

The princess screams out
As the people watch the saga
"Get off me, you half wit,
This dress is Balenciaga!"
She spies St George and cries:
"Help me, good sir, I can't do this solo"
St George shrugs his shoulders:
"Sure, after all - YOLO"

And verrily he slays the dragon,
(Who I imagine felt rather bitter)
"Let us feast and be merry!
But first, let's get this on Twitter"
Thus the legend became recorded
With many a Facebook 'like' and 'share'
And St George felt jolly relieved
To have saved the maiden so fierce and so fair.

Alpha seems to be the hardest word

Is it possible to wonder if you're an Alpha Male or Female, or is the mere act of wondering distinctly un-Alpha?  Today, much (more) is being written about a very famous Alpha Female, and it prompted me to ponder where I stand in the greek alphabet order of things.

I've never thought of myself as being particularly Alpha.  I've always associated it with a hardness and ruthlessness that I can't identify in myself.  However, it may be my understanding that's the problem.  Outside the animal kingdom, there seems to be no universal definition for Alpha-ness - everyone brings their own prejudices, insecurities and values to bear, particularly when defining what makes an Alpha Female.  The characteristics that most often come up - forthrightness, ambition, arrogance - tend to have an especially negative connotation when applied to women.

I've been fortunate enough to work in an agency with two incredibly strong women at the top, and whilst they were clearly ambitious, competitive and sharp, I'm not sure they would buy the 'Alpha' label.  But perhaps that's the secret weapon of the Alpha Female - possessing the empathy and communication skills to wrap ambition and sharpness in gorgeous cashmere.  Perhaps the first rule of Alpha Female Club is to never talk about Alpha Female Club?

For me, Alpha status has always seemed like a pretty unlikeable position to hold, and I am nothing if not keen to get on with people.  If I ever purport to be keen on confrontation, you may remind me of an incident in Paul's Patisserie, Canary Wharf, a few weeks after our eldest child was born.  It was my first trip out without my new baby, and all I wanted in the world was a good chocolate eclair (fear not, the inlaws were with him, I wasn't that ruthless in my pursuit of patisserie goods).  Mr W had gone off to browse, and I was left to purchase the goodies.  Just as the eclair was handed over, still in its packaging, I read the description and discovered that it contained chocolate cream, not fresh cream.  I asked the gentleman very nicely if I could return it and he refused, rather bluntly.  Try not to judge me when I tell you that I then sat in their cafe, blinking back tears, until Mr W returned, at which point I recounted the whole sorry tale.  Is there anything more sad than a slightly soggy, overtired, overwhelmed woman in need of a proper chocolate eclair?

Mr W was galvanised into action.  He began pacing up and down beside the counter, furiously channelling his inner Rumpole.  All I remember is his opening statement "I ask you...definitionally, what IS a chocolate eclair?  Is it not the classic and specific combination of choux pastry and fresh cream?"  And so he went on, as my bleary little eyes brimmed with tears, my hunting-gathering hero took that Saturday patisserie assistant DOWN.

Not my finest girl power hour, but I like to think that having given birth, I'd already demonstrated my credentials.

I remember a few days after having our youngest son, thinking back over the labour and the point at which I became really genuinely frightened about how I was going to do it.  I had rarely, if ever, felt real fear before, but in that moment I was really very scared. Afterwards, I felt this huge sense of pride and courage - I'd been afraid but had delivered him safely anyway, and what was left to fear now?  I'd made a freakin' person!  Two, no less.  It was a really liberating moment, a rare flash of "Check me out!". 

Which is why I've always feared the idea of Alpha Parents, especially Mummies.  I imagine that if you were always a fairly formidable woman, the added boost of having given birth must give you veritable super powers.  I've yet to step into the world of the PTA, but I'm already imagining a cross between The Apprentice and the Great British Bake Off.  A bit of me can't wait to see how I measure up, and the rest of me would rather keep my head down and run with the gammas.

I guess that's the thing about being Alpha.  On some level, you presumably have to care about being the leader of the pack, and assert your dominance accordingly.  To be honest, I'd rather just eat really good, "proper", chocolate eclairs with people I love.

The Etiquette of Playdates

The etiquette of playdates fascinates me.  Much like dating, or indeed that very first client meeting, you quickly seek to establish common ground, share view points and assess chemistry or 'brand fit'.  Over the course of a few hours you establish whether the new Mummy is your sort of Mummy.  Of course, with dating and client chemistry meetings, you don't tend to have toddlers present.  Thus, in those cases your careful preparation and cheery warm welcome is unlikely to be thwarted as soon as the door opens by a small person declaring "Oh no, Mummy, I didn't want you to invite THIS James, I meant the OTHER one..."

Anyway, the inaugural playdate is booked.  Assuming that you're hosting, there's prep to be done.  Firstly, whether or not you think it's ridiculous to clean the house before double the usual number of marauding small people run through it, you will inevitably try and tidy to some sort of universally acceptable standard.  Apparently being too clean can inhibit creativity and play, but no-one wants to be the Slummy Mummy, so somewhere between OCD and E-Coli, you should be good to go.  Next up, snacks.  If etiquette is about making others feel comfortable, then it makes sense to take your snack cues from whoever is coming to visit.  Some Mums are fruit only, others will happily break out the Bakewells.  If you don't know where they stand on the snackage spectrum, then you aim for somewhere in between and hope the kids don't rat you out for never usually having organic flapjacks.  Oh, and the juice vs water debate, that's another thorny one.  Basically, so long as you don't offer Coke (yes yes, of any kind), all should be fine.

Your playdate companions arrive.  Your kids were well dressed when you last saw them but are now either naked or wearing superhero costumes.  You go with it.  Snack time hopefully passes without incident.  You now face the final hurdles: Discipline and CBeebies.  Telling off your kids in front of someone you don't know very well is always a bit uncomfortable.  I always wonder if the other parent thinks I'm being too hard or not nearly hard enough, but - much like horses - the boys can smell fear, so I tend to put indecision to one side and go with what feels right.  When they are old enough to be threatened with being embarrassed in front of their friends, I suspect that's an area that will resolve itself.  The question of whether you can tell off the playdatee is a whole other issue.  I think on a first playdate it's probably out of the question unless the child and parent are so awful you plan never to see them again.  After that, there are probably gentle ways and means, but it's a minefield. The last decision is whether or not to put on the TV.  For some people, it is absolutely unthinkable to put on the television during a playdate.  For others, the commanding tones of Captain Barnacles are infinitely preferable to a soundtrack of squabbling kids, and the TV is put on without hesitation.  As with snacks, when it comes to TV, I tend to take my cues from my guest.

Again, much like dating, by the end of your time together you'll have a fairly good idea of whether it's ever going to happen again.  The Mummy circuit is remarkably intertwined, so to some extent you can never quite shake someone off, but equally there seems to be an understanding that some people just click better than others and no offence should be taken if you happen to see some Mums more than others.  Which is just as well as there's a real mixed bag out there...

Anyway, today the children and I had a second playdate with some people we've known for a while.  We had in our midst 2 Spidermen, 1 Spiderwoman and a Superman.  No-one bit anyone or wet themselves, and everyone enjoyed the hot cross buns.  That, my friends, is a playdate match made in heaven.

The Roughcut

There was a time when a roughcut meant the first edit of a new ad.  I used to love getting the phone call that heralded its arrival, and would positively skip up the stairs to the creatives' office, to view it in all its glory.  Except, it was never that glorious.  As I came to learn, there are thousands of caveats one must give when presenting a rough cut, as it is literally just an edit of the footage that the director and creatives are happy with, without any post production magic or (boo hiss) client feedback.  Speaking of client feedback, the following never fails to take me back to those days with a smile:  The Rough Cut Lady Song

Today, I completed my first roughcut of the year.  It's the first time I've mowed the lawn in 2013.  I like to refer to it as a roughcut because it's generally just about cutting back everything that's grown over the autumn and winter, and getting it to a manageable state.  No fancy stripes or finer details for this cut, just the basics.

I also like to refer to it as a roughcut because it tickles me to use my old industry language in my new Mummy world.  It's like seeing an old friend in an unexpected place.  Recently, over dinner with dear friends from advertising, I referred to my brand onion. For those of you questioning the sudden use of vegetation, a brand onion is a marketing tool used to establish what's at the heart of a brand and then each layer that goes around it builds a picture of that brand and how it connects with its consumers.  Anyway, as we laughed, I heard a particular sort of chuckle in my friend's reaction.  There was surprise at hearing the term after so long (and from someone so far out of that world now), and delight in the shared understanding, the use of a term common to those of us in that industry (and common to poor old Mr W who had to learn all about it when I was in it).  It made me think about how tribal we all are, and how brilliantly language can bind us together or draw us apart.  We all seek out common ground with each other, and the kinds of words and references we use are such a substantial part of that. 

About a year ago I made a new Mummy friend and mentioned to Mr W after one of our first playdates that I particularly loved hanging out with her because "She'll refer to something as being 'very Temperley' and she knows I know what that is!"  A few weeks ago, on a rare Mummy night out, I had to hit the dancefloor when Sweet Female Attitude's one hit wonder "Flowers" came on.  To my delight, one of my Mummy friends was right there with me, singing all the words too (ok, fine, so it's not exactly lyrically taxing, but still).  In the search for common ground, beyond just knowing the same version of "Hop little bunnies, hop hop hop" (and seriously, who knew there could be so many?), occasionally we bump into old terminology from new people, and we get a glimpse of our old selves, in our new roles.

So today I'm celebrating those nods and smiles of recognition, the chuckles of delight at shared terminology, and of course, the smell of freshly (rough)cut grass.

Mummy Makeovers

Oh dear.  It has been months, hasn't it?  I am a teensy bit prone to flights of fancy, and the critic in me is already smugly crowing "See, I knew you didn't have the staying power for this blogging business".  Still, if I've learned anything from my faddishness, it's that some things are best left abandoned and some things deserve to be picked up, dusted off, and enjoyed once more.  So here we are.

I had big news last month - I hit my target weight after around 2 years of slimming.  2st 8lb off, hoorah!  I still feel like there's more I could lose, so the journey goes on, but hitting target meant the Great Wardrobe Purge could finally take place.

I have never been particularly into fashion.  Aside from the early days in my career, clothes have tended to be about camouflaging wobbly bits or having a quick and cheap mood boost.  Initially as I gained weight, and then as I adjusted to life at home with children, there seemed little point in buying expensive clothes, or indeed in thinking about clothing much beyond whether it did the necessary.  However, as the fog of the baby years started to lift, I looked at myself with fresh (ish) eyes.  I was adrift in a sea of waterfall cardigans and baggy jeans.  No wonder no-one could tell I was losing weight.  No wonder I felt so...beige... And so, for my birthday and Christmas presents, I asked my family if I could possibly have clothing vouchers.  When I hit target, I hit the shops.

My first stop was a personal shopping appointment, where my new shape was identified and revealed.  I am now <play triumphant fanfare here> a Column <fanfare to trail off in slightly deflated manner>.

May I humbly suggest that whoever is in charge of naming women's body shapes (who is it these days? Did Trinny & Susannah get the old heave-ho?) finds some slightly more feminine / flattering / aspirational terms.  I mean, honestly, a Column? Could they find anything, well, girthier?

Anyway, once I'd learned how to dress my Column physique, I powered down Oxford St, spending my vouchers with gleeful abandon.  Well, sort of.  It turns out that quality capsule wardrobe pieces cost a lot and require careful choosing  So I now own approx 8 items of clothing.  But, capsule was what I wanted, and capsule is what I have. It certainly saves time in the morning.

The whole experience has made me start to enjoy fashion just a little bit more.  I still don't have the time / inclination / budget to follow every trend, but I'm more aware of what works for me and feel far less...invisble, really.  It has also opened up some really interesting chats with friends about our relationships with clothes these days.  Friends who had amazing workwear wardrobes admit they have lost their way post-motherhood.  Friends who used to be very feminine have found that the need for practicality has forced out the girliness they used to enjoy.  Friends who are used to receiving compliments now find that centre stage has long gone to their kids.  We all see it, from the clothes we wear to the hair and make up styles we sport.  It's no wonder women talk about struggling with their identity once they become a mother - very often the frazzled creature staring back at us in the mirror is a world away from how we think of ourselves, and how we are used to others thinking of us.

I sometimes wonder whether there is a business idea in Mummy Makeovers.  Then I consider how incredibly perfect I would have to be, before I dared suggest to anyone else that a blow dry and dash of peplum would work wonders. Hmmm.  Time to mind my own column-shaped business.

Putting the e into abc

This autumnal drizzle is playing havoc with my attempts to be something even vaguely resembling a Yummy Mummy.  As soon as I leave the house, I can feel the frizz slowly rising, made only worse by the inevitable horror of walking straight into a dewy spiderweb, and the ensuing flapping about and squealing.  Climbing into the car, flustered, frizzing and fielding questions about Spiderman / God / words that rhyme, I sometimes think of my mid-20 something self with a little sigh.

Don't get me wrong, the frizz was always an issue.  But there was a time when starting the day involved matching bags to shoes, having an iPod ready to go, and learning all I needed to know about the world that day from Metro.  I used to work in the colourful world that is Adland.  A place where grown ups might meet in rooms for Blue Sky Thinking (complete with painted blue skies on the ceiling); where grown ups might have their morning toast and tea made for them because they are Creative, and therefore presumably incapable of operating such complicated culinary equipment; where people might indeed spend £500K of their clients' money and then declare "Hmmm, yes, that was a learning experience, and we've all learned that our idea didn't work.  Another biscuit, Barbara?"

It was a place I loved.  Sure, it had its downsides, but there was so much colour, so much drama, so much energy.  When I joined my first agency, I was fresh from University, and new to life in London.  That first year was essentially one enormous frat party.  Somehow ads got made in and around a fairly demanding schedule of fresh bacon rolls at your desk for breakfast, lunch at the local Italian (always rounded off with fiery limoncello), followed by drinks and dancing somewhere till the early hours.  It was one of those golden moments in time where everyone is briefly at the same life stage.  The yes-it's-Tuesday-but-that-table-needs-to-be-danced-on-dammit stage.  When the moment passed, it was as if someone had turned off the music.  Gradually, each of us seemed to get the memo that it was time to move on and push onto the next rung on the career ladder, and that core group of people dispersed within the space of a summer, myself included.  We had to move on, or risk becoming the end-of-series Fonz. And no-one wants to be that guy. 

For me, 'getting the memo', led me down a path where I learned more about the kind of person I was and the kind of agencies I could therefore thrive in,  and ultimately to a point at which I decided that I would like to be an at-home Mum.  The cheesy club dance music might have been switched off, but there is music in my life, for sure.

I clocked up so many experiences in advertising, met so many wonderful and awful people, that it seemed to be only natural that my blog should include that life, which is where the title came from.  You may be glad (or possibly disappointed) to know that the 'e' refers not to class A substances, but to the book of the same title, by Matt Beaumont.  Set in an ad agency rumoured to be my first place of employment, and written entirely as emails between all the characters, it is a great picture of the chaos and arrogance and sheer fun of life in advertising.  I agree "From e to abc: My journey from junkie to mummy" sounds awesome, but I'm afraid it is not to be.  I do promise to give you my best Blue Sky Thinking, though.  And if I leave the kids alone with some crayons, I might even have my own Blue Sky Room to do it in...

Wedding World

This weekend I had a brave new experience.  The National Wedding Show, no less.  I must confess I was slightly disappointed at how orderly and civilised the whole affair was - I was secretly hoping to need elbow pads and a whistle (think Monica wedding dress shopping in Friends).  When I was planning my own wedding, I didn't go to any of these shows, and as I stood at the door at Earls Court, amazed at the sheer scale of it all, I was rather glad to be there simply as Maid of Honour, rather than The Bride, as my sister was.

Of course, we all know that weddings are big business.  From Penis Pinatas to emergency Teeth Whitening, the show had everything a Bride could want (and plenty more besides).  I'd forgotten how much stuff you're supposed to need, and I'd definitely forgotten the timings involved.  Tell a wedding professional that you're getting married in less than 42 years' time and you get the sucking in of air through teeth that any plumber would be proud of.  In the end, I found myself wading in like an old veteran on the wedding circuit, tutting "Come come, Giles, you know full well that 10 months is PLENTY of time in which to print some invitations."

I had the odd pang of "Oh I wish I'd known about this when we were getting married" (most notably when four young men dressed as waiters burst into a surprise a cappella rendition of 'Livin' on a prayer'), and of course plenty of envy watching The Bride trying on lots of gorgeous dresses, but really, on the whole, I was glad that the Wedding stage was behind me and that I was now into the Marriage stage.  Because for all the dreaming, doodling and dieting (who am I kidding, there was very little dieting, I felt it would be an insult to Castiliagno's corsetry not to give her something to work with), I found myself far too nervous to be the radiant bride.  I wept so much coming down the aisle that Mr W thought I'd been struck by some hideous flu bug since the rehearsal the day before.  Sniffling, wobbly, and with a gentle frizz rising in my up-do, I wasn't really an A grade Bride.  But I'd like to think I'm at least a B+ Wife.

That's not just false modesty (although if Mr W has any sense he's either scrolling down to the Comments section to bump up my grade, or ideally reaching for the Interflora number...).  Really it's more a reflection of the sort of journey that I think marriage is.  I think it is possible to be an A grade bride because it's only for one day.  Being a wife (and a husband, of course) is, I think, more of a course-work based approach.

Anyway, as experiences go, the Wedding Show was a fairly magnificent whirl of royal icing, french lace and hairspray.  I tried on tiaras, sampled cakes (purely in the name of duty) and entered more prize draws than you can shake a Swarovski encrusted stick at.  And at the end of it all I came away with three very clear feelings:

1) I am so pleased that my sister is so happy.
2) I am so pleased that I got to marry my best friend.
3) I have GOT to dig out my wedding dress and veil and twirl around in them once the kids are in bed.