It's pregnancy Jim, but not as we know it

On a recent return trip from Berlin I noticed an exhausted and exasperated-looking woman try and maintain some sort of hold on her three small children who were running riot, while also trying to keep an eye out for their bags and extricate said bags off of the luggage belt. She looked like she was either going to have a nervous breakdown or throttle someone, or both. I thanked my lucky stars that I only have one child, who despite a rather calm and patient disposition (well for an almost-two year old that is), can also do her fare share of running riot in inopportune places and at inopportune times.

And then I remembered, 'Oh shit, I'm pregnant.' Our 'tuck one under your arm and you're off' (as my grandmother was fond of saying) life is about to irrevocably change, well, at least from May of next year, if all goes well. And then I'll be that woman looking like a mad person trying to contain her offspring.

I'm not a big family sort of person. I think after this next one that's it for me. I've never had fantasies of a Walton-type brood. Whether it's the product of being one of four, or simply knowing my limits in the patience stakes I don't know. Even having another child was, and I must confess this, primarily a consideration for the sake of Julia having a sibling. Having spoken to some friends who were only children I was continually met with the adage, 'not just an only child but a lonely child.'

I am very excited and looking forward to having another baby. Despite my intellectual feelings my instinctive maternal ones had me broody on quite a few occasions since Julia turned about a year old. But, and I think this is certainly a risk, the older your only child gets, the more of a groove you get into. You get to know each other as people, you get into a routine, you've got your life more or less back (and your boobs), and as a family you've kind of got things figured. So the prospect of throwing ourselves, and Julia now, back into the chaos that was those early weeks and months of bringing home a newborn does terrify me. I'd be lying if I said it didn't.

Also, will the children get on? I get irritated when people wax lyrical with fantasies of their unborn children 'playing together' to a Julie Andrews soundtrack. As one of four I can strongly attest to the reality that from day one children have personalities and these can and often do clash, and kids don't always play together. You can land up with children so different to one another that your peaceful home becomes a war zone. It's an extreme scenario to be sure, but it's also a possibility. In my case differences in ages often meant that my siblings had little interest in playing with me (the youngest), once we weren't very little any longer, and I relied heavily on friends for company.

Still, I'd like to be one of those irritating parents-to-be and have that fantasy that my children will be best friends, look out for each other always, be close as adults (as my siblings and I are), and bitch about their father and me behind our backs. Why not?

A friend of mine recently emailed me saying, 'I know you used to have a blog,' which scared me. It shows how long it's been since I've updated this. My excuse, a valid one I feel, is that I've had horrendous morning sickness.

I had it with Julia and alas I had it again this time round. It started at around week 6 with certain smells becoming intolerable, followed a few days later by these smells making me feel sick. Followed by these smells (and many others fast being added to the list) actually making me throw up. To a few days after that, throwing up for no good reason at all.

Smells could be things like Flash cleaning spray, or one of those thingies you stick in the loo so it cleans it when you flush, or a particular food cooking, or my ultimate nemesis, opening the door to the dishwasher that contains an unwashed load from the night before. Why they call it morning sickness is a mystery, because as any woman that has had had to endure this will tell you, it's 24-7 - morning, noon and night. Nausea and or throwing up. I could go into detail here but I'll spare you.

With Julia I actually lost weight in my first trimester (three months). In this pregnancy if I ate, preferably sugary fattening pastries and breaded-type stuff, every two to three hours, I managed to stave off the severe nausea and just have the mild nausea. The result is that I've put on a stone in three months. Yep, if ever you wanted to know what 3-4 Paul almond croissants a day will do to your waistline, well, now you know.

Then there's the fatigue - not just fatigue, but narcolepsy. Usually an uber attentive (read: paranoid) mother, I found myself nodding off in a chair in an upright position while reading to Julia who was on my lap. So much for never letting your toddler out of your sight. Does being in the same room with your eyes closed count I wonder?

I shouldn't complain because every time I feel ill (which still happens now from time to time) or throw up (ditto) it's a sign of a continued pregnancy, which I am enormously grateful for.

Having passed the three month mark, we've told Julia we are expecting and she is fast becoming fond of telling just about anyone (today the passports clerk at Heathrow) that "Mummy has a baby 'on her tummy'.'" There are also many comments about my fast expanding stomach and breasts, most recently, "Mummy has cake in her boobies." I imagine having seen me wolf down that plethora of pastries from Paul, she's figured it had to have gone somewhere. I guess I should be grateful she hasn't noticed the size of my backside yet.

Forty and da mummy

The title of this post has nothing to do with the inevitable approaching crisis ahead of turning 40 that awaits me, fortunately I have a few years to go yet. Rather it's what Julia called our most recent holiday destination, Forte dei Marmi, in Italy.

I had heard it was an über posh part of the Italian Riviera, and so I took great pains in packing what I imagined an Italian model turned millionaire's wife might wear so that I might blend in. Only think shorter, fatter, and a mixture of Next and M&S as opposed to Dolce & Gabbana or Roberto Cavalli.

There is something about places like Monaco and the like that have a way of awakening certain insecurities in me. Not a lot I can do about the reality that genetically speaking I was never going to be tall and built like a racehorse. Then there's the fact that although I try and make an effort with my appearance, I just cannot keep up with the perfectly groomed thing 24-7. I think you need a lot of time, money, and staff on hand so you can keep those French manicured acrylic nails from chipping, and don't ever have to let those tight white jeans from Joseph get tomato-sauced little hands all over them. It's taken a lot of therapy to get to this point, but I think, finally, I've just about made peace with it.

I was pleasantly surprised to discover that although Forte dei Marmi is indeed full of shops like Dolce & Gabbana, Prada (that bastion of civilisation) and the like, it's also got a good mixture of informal restaurants, as well as people and families who don't all look as though they've stepped out of Italian Vogue. Although, admittedly, there are certainly still plenty of them that look as though they do. What I will say is that Italian women, certainly from around there, age very well. There's none of this letting themselves go to seed because they are of a certain age. Women from 60 and over were still beautifully dressed, attractive, and well put together and it was a good reminder that just because you get older, it doesn't mean that you have to fade into the background.

The Italians adore children, and Forte dei Marmi had a very family oriented feel, although don't let those 'screaming brat' phobes among you avoid going there on vacation because it's a lovely place. But yes, the eateries, regardless of how smart they were, welcomed children. So you're unlikely to get disapproving looks from the staff or patrons if you arrive at 9pm for dinner with your toddler. Something which the Italians appeared to enjoy doing, and something which Julia found very strange. A Gina Ford baby, she's never really been taken out at night, and is usually fast asleep in her little bed at 7pm every evening. On a few occasions this holiday, she'd look around in amazement, point and exclaim, "Night time! Stars! Moon!"

Everyone rides bicycles, young and old. I have never seen anything like it in Europe, outside of Amsterdam, but then I've probably not seen as much of Europe as I'd like to think. But yes, lots of people on bicycles, even in cocktail dresses, en route to dinners, clubs etc. Mostly cycling while talking on mobile phones and occasionally some cigarette smoking thrown in too, for good measure.

There is this fantastic central bit in the town which has a little funfare which operates every evening. You can drive these little cars around with your children, or even drive your own miniature horse-drawn carriage. There are also tea-cup rides, pony rides, dodgems, a mini games arcade etc. I think for kids under 13 and those adults who care to admit it, it's heaven.

Some of the negatives about Forte dei Marmi is that taxis are extortionately expensive. To contextualise we got back to Victoria station and caught a taxi which dropped Roberto off at work in W1 and then took me back here to NW3, and it cost around 26 pounds and I thought what a bargain. A trip of that distance and time would cost us around 70 pounds in FdM, standard. The other thing, which wasn't a negative for us, but may be for some people, is that there didn't appear to be any on the beach hotels. The beach is separated from the houses and hotels by a two-way main street, and split into beach clubs, which hotels have affiliations with. So in our case each morning after breakfast we'd grab some towels, put Julia in her buggy, and then walk the five minutes or so to our beach club.

There are also a gazillion people wandering around selling fake designer handbags, and watches, sunglasses, dresses and hats. A bit of a pain in the backside to be disturbed every 10 minutes or so, and so excessive that even Julia began to say, 'No grazie' when she saw them approach. Alternatively there were plenty of Thai women walking around offering massages and both Roberto and I got a very good reflexology one.

The beach clubs are very well organised, but I imagine in season get fully booked, so it may be worth reserving your spot when you make a hotel booking as I don't think that a reservation at the hotel immediately ensures you a reservation at a beach club. Our spot afforded us a canopied bit so that Julia could play in the sand and we could read without incurring third degree burns from the hot sun, plus a couple of loungers and chairs. A restaurant close by for lunch and a place to buy water and drinks. Perfect really.

A couple of memorable moments from our holiday included:
A much older permanently scowling bear-like Russian man behind us at the beach club taking full-frontal topless photos of his much-younger attractive girlfriend as she got a back massage from a itinerant Thai masseuse. Roberto, who was having lunch with me at the time, was in full tilt to get a good view. For academic purposes naturally.

A restaurant owner in Pisa happily telling us that the unborn bump on his very pregnant chain-smoking wife was also to be called Guilia.

The frighteningly loud and excessively ostentatious hour-long fireworks display that initially led us to think that Basque separatists had relocated and decided to include the Italian Riviera on their shit list.

Julia spontaneously bursting into a very loud and somewhat off key rendition of 'Twinkle Twinkle little star' in the Duomo in Pisa. Also, exclaiming, 'Amazing church!' and 'Amazing windows' pointing to the many beautiful stained glass windows in the cathedral.

I liked this part of the world enormously. It's close to Pisa, and that leaning tower really is worth seeing, trust me. Plus the Duomo, which, I imagine, much like many cathedrals and churches in Europe was built at enormous expense while the masses faced abject poverty and starvation, is, well, remarkably beautiful. And then there's Luca, and of course Florence - all train-rides away. We're already planning on going back again next year. Lets hope the strength of the pound versus the Euro improves, what with all those pony rides and gelati's to pay for.

Endings

So I fired my cleaner today. Actually, fired is the wrong word. OK, so maybe I did fire her and I'm just trying to make myself feel better about things.

The thing is (and you know there's a massive guilt avoidance rationalisation when someone starts a sentence with the words, 'the thing is') she didn't speak very much English. Not very much at all. Which doesn't make me prejudice, because I don't travel to countries and then throw a hissy fit because the god damn locals aren't sophisticated enough to understand me. Nor do I make the very dangerous and ignorant assumption that not speaking English is equal to a lack of intelligence. Rather it was a case of us just not understanding each other, which on a day to day working basis leaves room for all sorts of misunderstandings, irritations, and conflict.

There are those of you who would question just how complicated communication needs to be when someone is doing something as simple as cleaning your house. But then you're probably not very anal and particular about how you like your house cleaned, which, unfortunately, I am. The product of growing up with a mother who was clean obsessed and living in a house where inviting friends round was discouraged because of the inevitable mess that would lead to. Don't get me started on the incredibly uncomfortable wooden ball and claw lounge furniture - the arms of which we were strictly forbidden to sit on. Although that was more my dad than my mum. Why anyone would choose furniture like that with small children is beyond me, but I guess that's also a generational thing.

I'm a lot more relaxed about our home and probably a lot more tolerant of mess. But there's a big distinction between messiness and a place being dirty. I cannot abide dirt. I have the same reaction to it as some people have upon seeing rats, spiders, or Torries.

Anyway, countless attempted conversations with my cleaner went over her head. Like trying to explain that if you cannot make it in to work or if you are running late for whatever reason, it is courteous to do the texting or calling, rather than have your employee text or call you to find out where you are an hour after you are meant to arrive. Or attempting to communicate that leaving 40 minutes early, while still taking the full hourly wage is impolite. Or that dumping sopping wet towels in with the rest of the laundry in a woven basket is ill advised.

When I managed to find a Babelfish equivalent and asked my cleaner, in Lithuanian, to please stop doing this, what with the laundry basket visibly beginning to rot and all, she smiled a great big smile and said, 'Ahhh, thank you, thank you,' delighted that'd I'd taken the trouble to translate for her. And equally, and strangely, appeared happy and relieved as though I'd explained and she'd finally understood something complex like the theory of relativity. Or perhaps she was just overjoyed to have an end to my painful weekly charade spiel of pulling a bad face and pointing to the unfortunate-looking laundry basket.

Today I couldn't even honour the end of our working relationship as I'd like because once again she stared at me with a kindly blank expression while I prattled on about being grateful for all her work, hoping she would find something soon (I gave her a months' wages in lieu), and being sad to see her go.

We are settling in to the new house and also dealing with a few teething issues. A house as technically advanced as this one (it pretty much runs on a central computer system - lights, heating, shutters etc), is bound to get a bit temperamental from time to time. Think about how often you have to call IT at work, and that gives you some idea. Last night we also had a lot of leaking from the glass roof and skylights, although admittedly, that was some pretty intense rain. Plus there's a mouse, although he has been a bit scarce lately. I'm hoping and praying to god he didn't eat any of the poison that the handyman laid out in a trap and just disappears of his own volition, because having met him he is a very sweet and handsome little fellow with big ears and a small brown face. Probably a field mouse. The idea of him lying under a floorboard somewhere hemorrhaging to death fills me with horror and guilt.

An onwards into August. I find it hard to believe that we are coming to the end of summer. The shoe shops, the windows of which I walk past slowly and salivatingly peruse like a dirty old man, are beginning to stock winter boots already. One of these days it's going to be time to retire my Crocks for the year. A sad day indeed.

On a final note, I went along to see Coco before Chanel last night and it was lovely. Visually beautiful and Audrey Tautou was wonderful as Coco. Benoit Poelvoorde as Etienne Balsan was superb too, and I reckon there's an Oscar tip in it for both of them. It has subtitles, for those of you who find such a thing an irritation, but don't let that stop you. 5 stars from me and also another reminder that I need to chuck those Crocks. I mean, what would Coco say?

George Michael, moving, and due dates

So we're all moved in to the new place. The move, as in packing up the house and moving it between A and B, went as smoothly as these things go. I can say from first hand experience that even if you use a high-end moving company you still encounter things like wet bath toys and cloths in boxes, despite expressly saying to the packers 'If stuff is wet don't pack it.' Or discovering your soap dish, with the wet sliver of soap still in it, all wrapped up in a piece of paper. The paper, soap, and dish now merged into one dried inseparable mess. Or heavy items placed on top of rolls of wrapping paper effectively squashing the whole roll in half so it's now unusable. Or finding your missing shoes all shoved one on top of the other inside another box with completely unrelated stuff.

But I'm just nit picking and all in all it was an OK experience (as opposed to a nightmarish one that these things usually are), and the movers were careful with our furniture and everything made it in once piece. They also had an excellent moving manager, a man in his late fifties, 'a born and bred Clerkenwell cockney', who I enjoyed talking to over the three days they packed up our house. He had opinions on everything, and appeared to have given a variety of random topics a great deal of thought.

On George Michael, he poignantly noted, "I mean, that one could ave had any woman e wanted. I remember pictures of im with the ladies anging off his arms. Could ave ad e's pick. But no, e's got to go and be stupid and choose that gay business. And for what? Too much choice and time on e's ands that's what it is. They get bored you see."

Asked if he used the Internet much he replied, "Internet? Oose got time for that? We're common you see, we don't use none of that Internet. I work all day, get ome. It's a nice piece of pork and some tatoes, a bit of TV, an bed."

An exchange between him and one of his staff went as follows:
Mover: 'Ow ow, my hand,' (while trying to get a sofa down a flight of stairs and evidently getting said hand squished between the sofa and the wall)
John: "Never you mind your and, just make sure you don't damage that sofa."

The new house is, and I have to give credit to Roberto for this, quite lovely. I had a lot of reservations about how it was going to work for us, with a toddler and all, but so far it's revealed itself to be a remarkably well thought-out family home, but in a very modern setting. I've asked Julia on a few occasions if she likes it and she keeps saying, 'No.' I then follow that by asking her if she likes chocolate, and she immediately says, 'No,' and then gets an expression on her face which reads, 'I've just been had.'

Our two top choices for nursery have no spaces for next year. One of them only takes 16 children, the other's enquiry form asks for your due date, which should have alerted me to the fact that I was wasting my time applying at this late stage. I mean, a year in advance, what was I thinking right? A third place appears to have spaces, thank god, but we have to pay an application fee and then based on an assessment of Julia next year in a playgroup setting, they say yay or nay. So it's not guaranteed. I've also put her name down on the waiting lists of the other two schools, just in case.

This is one of the many things that people don't tell you before you decide to start a family - these hidden forms of worry and stress that arise, like finding the right school. A safe, nurturing, and stimulating environment that is going to have the same approach and ideas about learning that you have. Plus minus any masochistic teachers with a predilection for hitting small children with wooden rulers (don't get me started on my junior school). And without any heavy religious leaning (or any religion at all, sez Roberto).

You just want to get it right and do the best thing for your child, and having said that, I realise how much like my mother I sound. Which makes me appreciate just how much my parents must have loved and cared about me. Which feels like a nice and happy thought to sign out on.

These are what we call quality problems

So we are just about to move, as in quite literally just about to move. Today the chaps came and packed up most of the house, tomorrow they'll finish, and Friday we move into our new home. It's an all man crew, and I think the 20-something-year-old chap who is sporting some impressive sleeves (that's tattoo speak for both arms covered from wrist to shoulder in ink) will be packing up my underwear drawer tomorrow. I have mixed feeling about this (him being a man that is, not the tats) but then rationalise rather him than me.

Naturally ahead of the guys arriving today, we had to have the requisite porn sweep. This is my term for pretty much anything you want to put into a box yourself rather than have the aforementioned 20-year-old stranger come across, I mean, discover. You know the sort of thing - creams and lotions for embarrassing body ailments, dodgy stuff your girlfriends gave you at your hen night (as yet unwrapped fyi), your copy of Debretts, etc.

Anyway, so most of the house is packed up. The guys left Julia's bedroom as is until tomorrow, "So the little un don't get upset." And they have a point. She's already quite disconcerted to see her home for a year pretty much in boxes. Walls bare apart from a few menacing-looking exposed nails here and there, furniture gone, and everything topsy turvy. She's been walking around from room to room saying, "Is empty."

This is only the second time we've had people pack up our place for us, and while it's a god-send and I highly recommend it, it's also a tricky business. If you do it yourself you are in a position to dig something out if you still need it. Whereas with someone else doing it stuff is packed and sealed and loaded on a van as much as two days before you actually leave your old house. As a result, for e.g., I have peppercorns all over the kitchen floor and no dustpan to deal with them. Oh yes, and I kind of sort of forgot to keep bibs back. And dish clothes, and dishwasher tablets. You're getting the idea right? Fortunately I managed to rescue the bottle opener just in time. What with those cold beers for tonight in the fridge and all.

I've gone through varying emotions about our move. I think anyone that knows me knows how much I love our current house. Built in the 30's it's my idea of the perfect family home; Light, airy, classic architecture but with a modern interior, roomy but still cosy feeling, and a great garden. Unfortunately the landlord doesn't want to sell nor did he want to reduce rent to an amount that was in line with the changed market. Almost everyone we know that rents has managed to get a reduction this year, except us. Indeed not only are we paying too much, but we were contractually obliged to meet a rent increase this coming year. So yes, it was time to move.

The new place is very different to where we live now. Very very modern, which means Roberto loves it. I'm looking forward to the benefits of the integrated family design its based on, which is really just fancy speak for a place that is big enough so a family don't drive each other nuts, but also structured in a way so that you feel connected with one another. Also it's in the heart of the village which means I can pop out to Tesco's in my pj's if need be. Naturally this will never ever happen, but I like the sound of it. It makes me feel like I'm living on the edge.

In and amongst all of this I am phoning around getting Julia's name down for nursery schools next year. One of the places has on its online enquiry form: 'Date of birth/due date:' Yes, that is for parents who want to register their unborn child. I kid you not. And what's worse is as ludicrous as I find this, I still catch myself getting swept up in it all, phoning around like a maniac and saying things like, "No no, but you don't understand. It's vitally important to us that there is some continuity between nursery and reception year. So she has to be on the list!" And breathe out.

I didn't even go to nursery school. I don't think my parents could afford it, and in those days it wasn't really considered a necessity. I think my mum prided herself on the fact that she didn't have to send me to nursery because she was a stay at home mum, like it was something parents only did because they had to work. She recently told me that as a baby she'd entertain me/keep me busy while she did chores, by parking my buggy in front of the operating washing machine. Yes, I imagine an analyst, were I to have one, would have a field day with that. Not to mention the more sarcastic among my friends.

Anyway I did find that the first year of reception or Grade 1 as we called it, was a bit more of a challenge for me than other kids, and this probably had a lot to do with not having gone to nursery. Some of these kids already knew their ABC's, and basic counting, and that it wasn't OK to bend someones finger back until it nearly broke. So clearly there was a lot more to this nursery business than just expensive child care.

Tonight we are having takeout sushi (me love sushi is pretty damn good btw) on our remaining sofa, making sure we have a change of undies and enough clothes and toys for Julia for the next 48 hours (which means a lot), and then it's all stations go. More once we've landed... .

The Hamptons

Before having a child a big part of a holiday for me was having a lie-in. In fact, I'd avoid hotels that did the whole 'breakfast included' thing because I never made use of it. Neither Roberto or I are particularly ambitious sightseers either, so yes, sleeping late, having some sort of brunch somewhere in town or at the hotel, and then a bit of laziness in the afternoon before cards over drinks, followed by dinner and then bed was pretty much standard fare. Occasionally we'd set ourselves an activity so we wouldn't feel too guilty about traveling half way across the world only to eat, sleep and play cards.

With a baby or small child a holiday is a whole different ballgame, in fact I'm not even sure one can classify it as a holiday. Or perhaps it is a bit of one in that you have your partner with you so you can actually go and use the loo alone for once, without a small person trying to squeeze their hand between your generous bottom and the toilet bowl. Or have a shower without said small person yelling at the top of their lungs because you have the audacity to need two minutes to wash yourself while they are left with a pile of toys and books that you wish you'd had as a child.

And then there's the whole self catering thing which, before having a child, I reacted to much the same way a vampire's supposed to upon being splashed with holy water. Memories of my mother complaining about how it wasn't any kind of holiday if she still had to cook, clean and do laundry have stuck with me. Or perhaps it was her smoldering resentment that's lingered in my memory. Either way, I'm inclined to agree with her. Holidays are all about having someone else make your bed, and eating in restaurants, and using lots of towels that magically reappear clean , fluffy, and folded in the morning. Oh, plus all those delicious dinky complimentary bathroom toiletries.

But hotels aren't particularly practical with children. You see you need the self catering thing in order to have access to a washing machine and dryer so you can do a dozen loads of washing a day. And then there's the kitchen so you can wash stuff, sterilize stuff, make food on command, store bottles in fridges etc. Plus place for them to run riot and break stuff, rub biscuits into carpets, spill milk on etc. You're really getting the holiday vibe from all of this right?

So for our most recent holiday in the Hamptons, we rented a house that came with a maid service. We thought it would be a good compromise. But upon arrival at the house we were met with a large pile of dirty laundry (sheets, towels etc) lying in a pile by the washing machine. The upstairs beds lacking bed linen. The dishwasher full and unpacked, leading me, at first, to curse the landlord for what appeared to be a lack of dishes and cutlery in the house. Half used loo rolls in the bathrooms, and a filthy carpet in the lounge which looked as though it hadn't seen a vacuum since it's conception in Bulgaria.

When we confronted the landlord about this mess. I mean, who wants to arrive in the middle of the night at the beginning of their holiday to that right? He said, 'Yes well, um, my cleaner doesn't really like doing laundry.' Hmmm, sounds like his cleaner doesn't like doing anything much at all, except of course to take home the large sum of money he pays her. Personally I thought the guy was getting ripped off, but that's his business, and more so, bad for his business. First impressions are lasting ones, and to have your guests arrive to a dirty house is not good.

Anyway, so having seen how crap his cleaner was I didn't want her services. I think mainly because I couldn't trust myself not to tell her that I thought her work, or lack thereof, was crap. So our catered self catering thing kind of went out the window, and we did it ourselves. But Roberto is a good helper and between us we handled things. Plus the house, when clean, was actually perfectly nice, and there were some very friendly ducks in the creek at the end of the garden who rather liked the bread Julia and I fed them.

The Hamptons are a beautiful part of the world, even when it's raining, which it did, a lot. My favourite places included East Hampton (beautiful and lots of posh shops for window shopping), Sag Harbour (great little bay for the kids to play and oh so pretty), and Bridgehampton because it had the best ever vintage clothing shop. Replete with authentic items such as Victorian jackets, glass beaded evening flapper dresses (salivate), old Chanel handbags, 1920's evening purses, and on and on and on. It was like the British Museum - requiring many return visits to truly appreciate its cavernous treasures. Expensive but a must see for people who like authentic vintage and not some old shyte from Mango that some shops I've been in in London try and pass off as vintage.

The food in the Hamptons was a mixed bag and expensive, especially in East Hampton. A very good place to eat was the East Hampton Point restaurant at the East Hampton Point Marina. Highly highly recommend it. It has a stunning view of the marina, and the food was great. Do me a favour and have the lobster linguine - hmmm.

We got the impression that wealthy New Yorkers and New Jerseyites that have their second homes there begin arriving in drips and drabs ahead of the 4th of July holidays. The table next to us at dinner one evening (four silver haired stalwarts with thick New Jersey accents), started their conversation recounting their latest blood pressure readings before talking about their grandchildren. It's the kind of thing you tend to overhear when you have dinner at 5pm. To us they said, 'Oh, you must come in Joo-lie', this weather has been most unusual.' Which was a polite way of saying that it had pissed down with rain most days.

The day before leaving we drove over an hour to a petting zoo in Manorville, for Julia's benefit of course. Another thing you do on holiday with small kids is drive over an hour to places that you only spend half an hour in tops, because your child inevitably decides that actually they don't really want to be there.

It was a toss up between this petting zoo come animal rescue place and a wildlife themed park. I went for the first because I liked the idea of a place that uses its proceeds to actually help animals in need, as opposed to just acquiring them to make money. However, the animal rescue bit should have warned me that it was going to be depressing. The website boasted that they had rescued some snow monkeys and built them an enclosure thanks to money generated from donations and the income from the petting zoo. In reality that enclosure was something one might have seen in a zoo circa 1973 - all concrete floors and bars. And the animals, quite frankly, looked depressed. It made my heart sore, but it was probably a vast improvement on wherever those poor creatures had been rescued from, plus now they were getting fed and looked after.

I also had to remind myself that without adequate space, money and resources these sorts of places are never going to be Whipsnade. I'd like to contact them and a local animal food supplier in the area and see if I can get some sort of regular donation going.

On a different sort of outing, we visited Jackson Pollock and Lee Krasner's house, which was literally a 5 minute drive from where we were staying in East Hampton. That was quite an experience, especially as I had seen the film (very good!) with Ed Harris as Pollock not too long ago. Pollock's studio, a converted barn in the property, still has the paint splattered floor and walls. The plot of land the house and studio is on is vast and ends at the water's edge - very beautiful and inspiring. Perhaps less inspiring is the fact that Pollock died in a car accident, thanks to his penchant for boozing before getting behind the wheel, on the very street the house is on.

I imagine there is a ton of stuff that we could have done and didn't do in this part of the world, so don't rate this as an exhaustive travel guide of any sort. But yes, very very pretty and hopefully, good weather and effective maid service permitting, we'll definitely go back.

Best Vintage clothing shop - ever. Bridgehampton (main street)

Julia and Robert meet the donkeys at the petting zoo

Jackson Pollock's studio. East Hampton

Blah blah blah

So, Susan Boyle had a bit of a melt down after she lost in the final of Britain's Got Talent. I think it's safe to say that with the pressure that poor woman was under she would have had that breakdown even if she had won. Not helped by tabloid journalists lurking in the hotel she was staying at during the show and winding her up. I hope once she has rested and realised that a record deal is far more lucrative than performing a one-off for the Queen, she will feel a bit better about things.

For those of you elsewhere, we are having absolutely gorgeous weather here in London. Yesterday it reached 27 degrees Celsius. In fact at times it was too hot and one longed for a cool breeze. Definitely pedicure season.

This kind of weather also brings out all the celebrity diet crap in the magazines. If I have to see another celeb-endorsed DVD in my copies of Now and Closer I'm going to scream. Why these people don't just come out and say that they exist on diet coke and fags, and in some cases other more nefarious substances, is beyond me. Makes for much more interesting reading.

There's also always the requisite two-paged spread of a celeb showing what meals she has opted for instead of what she used to eat. So there's a picture of a burger (like she ever ate burgers!) and then an arrow pointing to an anemic-looking grilled chicken breast with some sprigs of lettuce next to it.

In a few months time they will be interviewed in the same magazine saying that actually they had been starving themselves and were miserable.

I'm just moaning because my own diet is a disaster. Actually I never diet per se, because the moment I put myself on one I want all the kinds of shit that I never eat. Like peanut butter on toast, KFC, or Snickers bars and stuff like that. Also, I don't diet because I have yet to find one that I can stick to in the real world that you can adapt to in restaurants and stuff. What I do try and do, once in a blue moon, is cut out the sugar in my diet, likewise the heavy carbs, and not eat late at night. This actually works a treat and I do genuinely lose weight. I tell myself I am not dieting, just eating properly. Yeah right.

Unfortunately I am also very bad at making food for myself, and the result is that I snack instead of eating meals . And a handful of this and a handful of that is full of hidden calories blah blah blah. Anyway, I'm feeling very fat right now so I'm not too happy about it, especially as we are on our holidays soon and I don't want to scare off the fish.

I read a very interesting article about charity shops on the weekend. A well known clothing guru woman (I'm afraid I forget her name) did a makeover on one of the charity shops. I think it was an Oxfam. What she discovered is that most of the work the shop volunteers do is sorting through the crap that people leave outside their doors. And when I say crap, I mean, literally rubbish. People use charity shops as a dumping ground and amazingly something like 90 percent of that stuff is unsellable and has to be dumped.

The charity shops then have to pay for this junk to be removed and taken to a recyling place.

One bag contained a pair of trousers with the dirty knickers still in them (nice), and another black sack contained a whole lot of unusable junk plus two dead mice. Yes, people clearly hold the needy in very high regard.

So it's worth knowing (because in all fairness some people do not know this) that they are not taking your old sweater with the holes in and placing it around the shoulders of a freezing cold but oh-so-very-grateful tramp. These places are shops, and the whole point is that they try and get a few quid from your old gear from someone just like you, and then the money generated is used for charity work. So before you stick it in the Oxfam pile, ask yourself, is it in saleable nick? And knickers, dirty or otherwise, are never OK. Best chuck those into the fabric recycling pile at your local dump. I think the same goes for bras and boxers.

Addendum: I went online to the Association of Charity Shops to find out about what they take and don't take. This is what it said:

1. Charity shops work because they can sell items with a second life. Please check your donations are both clean and functional e.g. tears or broken zips on clothes – missing chapters in books!
   


2. You are helping a good cause AND the environment – re-use is even better than recycling.
   


3. The best way to donate is to take items directly to your local charity shop. If this isn’t possible, you could fill a charity shop collection sack, or take items to clothing banks.
   


4. If you have more specialist items, for example, electrical goods or furniture, it is best to check that the charity shop can accept these items for re-sale before donating.
   


5. If you are not sure whether your clothes can be re-sold – donate them anyway – whatever clothes a charity shop can’t sell they can send off for further re-use or recycling! (A friend of mine (see comment below) pointed out that some old stuff can be used for the purposes of mattress filling etc. I think it's worth putting that kind of thing in a seperate bag and mentioning it when handing it in).