I’m writing this on a Friday night whilst attending and hosting my very own cheese and wine party. There are, thankfully, no guests. My husband is out on a work conference (getting shit faced and talking MAN – Mainly About Naff-all) and the babies are in bed, so I am the dictatorial diner and chef at Chez Grosvenor Close. I am currently feasting on the miniature delights that are Dairylea dunkers, accompanied by a very large glass of Muscadet. Pure indulgence.
I have two children. Olivia is two turning loony and George is one. Together they are the twonami: absolute chaos and on a mission to destroy. Well, that’s not strictly true. Olivia is fairly stationary and likes a tea-party with Mink, Donk and Racoon, who don’t exist, whereas George has massive, crazy bundles all on his very own. So both are independent children, I suppose…
In more normal life I am a solicitor employed by the civil service. Which is odd. One day I’m pretending to be a sensible, proper adult and the next day I have to wear a suit. I definitely have identity issues.
I am the second-youngest of four children; three girls, one boy. I’m the only one with children and the only one who’s straight. As their lives are far more exciting than toilet training and the merits of the Ikea Antilop, they feature a fair bit.
And us siblings have had the most amazing, traumatic, devastating, intense, brilliant childhood, so I write about that sometimes.
I started writing this blog anonymously but I got bored of writing to no-one, so that’s why names have been changed.
I soon realised that I’m no Belle de Jour.