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).
   

Everyone's talking about Jordan and Peter Andre

OK, well, everyone in the reality that I inhabit that is, which is what counts right? In this weeks' issue of OK Magazine, Jordan aka 'the heartbroken star' confides in the magazine about her 'shock' marriage split. Yes, she's so heartbroken and shocked she's managed to pose for an exclusive photoshoot to accompany the feature wearing 10 tons of makeup to look like she isn't wearing any. She's bare faced, sincere, and coming clean - get it?

It's good to know that despite being so distraught and cut up over the end of her marriage, she's still able to strike poses that show off a good deal of thigh and cleavage. I mean, why break with tradition? The pictures are accompanied by little blurbs to tell you what they are: Facing Page: Devastated Katie - Dress £189 Harvey Nics, Shoes £300 Gina, 5 thousand magazine deals (accompanied by flesh-bearing photo spreads) re public divorce: Millions. OK, so maybe it didn't really have that stuff about the dress and shoes.

It's sad for their children, not least of all because they will undoubtedly get dragged into future photo shoots accompanying their lingerie-clad mother spilling the beans on every last filthy detail of the state and demise of her marriage. But I don't really believe either of them are bad parents - I mean you actually have to spend time with your kids to be in a position to act as a bad parent right?

But (claws firmly retracted now) I do sincerely like Peter Andre. Call me sad, but in the various 'reality tv' pieces they have done he comes across as a genuine sort of person who isn't afraid to be emotional, and it's very clear he adores his children. As for Katie, well, who knows? The woman is about as charismatic as a piece of plaster board and appears emotionally arrested, so it's hard to tell.

There's massive speculation in Heat Magazine about whether or not the split is a publicity stunt, and OK magazine has dedicated almost an entire issue to the history of their relationship which resembles a photographic eulogy. Whatever's really happening, magazine sales are up and everyone's clearly making a buck.

And on the subject of making money, the 'Team Andre' T-shirt featured is something I macced up. Feel free to steal the idea, I'll certainly buy one. I also created it to accompany this post because I'm sick and tired of getting emails from photo agencies demanding huge sums. Haven't you people heard of fair use? Gawd.

Anne Frank's house

On Sunday morning, despite approximately four hours of interrupted sleep thanks to my hotel neighbors coming in in drips and drabs from their various nocturnal activities, I woke up and decided to visit the house that Anne Frank lived in before her untimely death. In retrospect probably not an ideal excursion what with being severely sleep deprived and hungry, but given that I only had a couple of hours to spare before our flight, I felt it was a more worthy use of my time than sleeping or eating breakfast. I bet Maslow would have something to say about that.

After waiting in the queue for 30 mins (getting there early has been an advantage) I entered with a tight feeling in my chest, knowing I was setting myself up for a difficult and painful experience.

For some people I think going to the house is a thing you do when you visit Amsterdam so you can say you've 'done' it. For others it is an integral part of their culture and past, (indeed isn't it an integral part of all of our pasts?) a concrete place to visit, meditate, and remember grandparents, relatives, and friends for whom no such place exists. For others still, and perhaps a category I fit into, it is about visiting an important historical landmark and paying your respects. To remember, and by doing so, become aware, and perhaps try and gain some understanding of the spirit of humanity, both good and evil.

It is no surprise that the experience left me feeling profoundly upset. Shaken in an archetypal sort of way that is hard to explain here. It wasn't just seeing a place that these people had lived and hidden in, both in fear and hope, for such a long time. The height charts still on the wall showing the children's growth. Anne's pictures (the subject matter not that different to things that interested me at that age) cut from magazines and pasted onto her bedroom wall, to try and approximate an outside world and freedom she had no access to. The windows perpetually covered so those people never felt the sun on their face for two long years.

More so, it was a painful template, giving a concrete reality to the millions of faceless families that were systematically torn apart and murdered. Just imagine for a moment, your children and or loved ones being ripped from your arms and taken to their certain slaughter. That feeling that you instinctively experience when you imagine that - that is the feeling that accompanies you when you walk through that house and which lingers long after you have left it.

What is desperately upsetting and deeply worrying, is that this is not just the story of this one family, or of the Jews, so we can reflect, 'Yes that was a terrible terrible thing that happened to them,' and then move on with our lives. Racism, discrimination, and ethnic cleansing are alive and well and happening today. People are being slaughtered en masse as I write this, just look at Darfur. And there's the disappearing of people in Sri Lanka, again, happening right now. And and and. This is not just history then, this is humanity at its worst playing this nightmarish drama over and over again, and one wonders if it will ever end.

As a teenager I asked my grandmother, who had lived through the war in South Africa. "But didn't people know about the Jews being murdered? Why didn't anyone stop it?" "We heard stories," she said, "but what could we do?" Indeed, what are we doing from stopping it happening today? How are the people in Darfur and Sri Lanka, and countless other places were such atrocities are taking place, any different to Anne Frank and her family? What are we doing to help these people?

It was also a very sharp reminder to me of the extraordinarily fine line between casual racist, discriminatory, and bigoted remarks and opinions, and the blanket depersonalisation and objectification of people which led to the Nazi's and their sympathisers doing what they did. How, I ask myself, could you kill all those people? How could you kill children and babies? These terrible cold blooded evils, perpetuated by men and women with their own families and children sitting at home awaiting their return each day.

It is important that we face these dark thoughts, and ask these questions, so that we can remember, become aware, and in doing so keep ourselves in check and teach our children. It is also true that at some point I had to stop myself from fixating on it, and indeed since my return, keep myself from returning to those thoughts, because it is too much. You need to step out of that place from time to time, because the alternative is drowning in it. As Primo Levi said, "One single Anne Frank moves us more than the countless others who suffered just as she did but whose faces have remained in the shadows. Perhaps it is better that way; if we were capable of taking in all the suffering of all those people, we would not be able to live."

More positively, the experience was also strangely and surprisingly life affirming, not unlike surviving an accident. I came out of it acutely sensitised to my life and what fills it. It made me feel profoundly grateful for my family, for my daughter (who was showered with kisses and held a bit too tightly on my return), for Robert, for the fact that I live in a democratic society that allows me to voice these thoughts and opinions. That I can live my life without fear. That I can step outside and feel the sun on my face. That I can, god willing, see my child grow and have children of her own. That I am free. That I am free.

Jews for Jesus and intense environmental guilt

There was a neatly dressed middle aged man handing out 'Jews for Jesus' pamphlets in Hampstead today. As he tried to hand me one, I wondered if he had detected my one quarter Jewish ancestry in my features, or if the Jews for Jesus don't discriminate and are trying to educate and invite all and sundry. After crossing the street and taking another look it appeared that he was in fact disseminating to pretty much anyone.

I should have taken a pamphlet, as I'm curious. I mean, there are some questions regarding the central premise there. But I was in a hurry to get home and didn't want to risk a time consuming religious discussion. The last time it happened I managed to get a Scientologist so irate with me, that even as I walked away he was shouting angrily in my wake. Who knew that Scientologists could have such tempers on them? What with their low stress levels thanks to all those Theta tests.

Today I got suckered into buying an expensive cosmetic product that I really do not need. And I'm so angry at myself. I hate those cosmetics sales people. You go there to buy one thing and before you know it they've convinced you you really really need six. That your skin, your life, and the state of the world depends on it. What makes me even more angry is that I know this, and I went there prepared to fend off any extraneous product pitches, and what happens? I come home with something to 'intensely protect my skin from the environment.' What I really need is a product that intensely protects me from evil pushy cosmetics saleswomen and my own pathetic weak-willed narcissistic self.

I try and assuage myself with the (very) remote possibility that my odd extraneous purchase is helping our failing economy - circulating cash back into the market and all. Nothing like a rationalisation to deal with the guilt, if only it worked.

And on the subject of guilt, I'm off to Amsterdam with some girlfriends tomorrow for the weekend. It has to be said that I'm not looking forward to leaving Julia for a whole weekend. She'll be with Roberto, so in hands I consider as safe as my own, but it feels like such a long time to be away from her. This evening, while I was bathing her, she said, out of the blue, something I say to her when she gets back from the park with Anna, "Mamma, Imissya". Yeah, you can imagine how that makes me feel about leaving her tomorrow. Perhaps it's not so much about her separation anxiety as it is my own.

Not sure if I can be bothered to lug a laptop with me to the land of tulips and free syringes, so I'll probably make copious mental notes, forget everything on my return thanks to a couple of late nights, and write a highly embellished account of the weekend come Monday. Ta ta.

Guilt is other people

So I'm sitting in Cafe Nero last week (yes Starbucks, that's right, I'm a flippant hussy), and I overhear an exchange between a woman and her approximately two to three-year-old daughter.

The woman (for the purposes of clarity, let's call her 'Mrs Overbearing') had been having a coffee with a friend of hers. This friend was also there with her daughter who looked to be the same age as the other child. Mrs Overbearing had been constantly bickering with her little girl who was trying to clamber out of a highchair that was evidently too small for her. Eventually the friend announced that she had to leave and run some errands. After she and her little girl left, Mrs Overbearing turned to her daughter and said, "You see Emma, Becky and Ruby left because you wouldn't sit still in your highchair."

Yup, way to go lady. Lay on the passive aggressive crap and guilt tripping early. Not to mention the outright lying. I see great things for you and your daughter's relationship in the future, as well as her emotional development, left to simmer in your company, over the next 18 years.

I am off on a girls weekend trip to Amsterdam in a couple of weeks. Yup, Amsterdam, famous for its great museums, nostalgic architecture, beautiful canals, and legalised dope cafes., Actually, I don't smoke dope. What with the fact that I'm already 100% naturally paranoid and anxious, who needs any help in those departments? But yes, I'm all for choice, and having it, and Amsterdam strikes me as a democratic laid back sort of place. Even the heroin addicts are laid back there, usually in the parks I'm told.

The last time we were in Amsterdam, as in Roberto and I, we decided to do the requisite walk through the red light district, which meant he kept his head down, eyes fixed to the floor, and I walked along staring with my mouth open, trying, surreptitiously, to take photos. The muscular transvestite prostitutes looked like they could smash through those glass cubicles and break my camera and me in two, so I was a bit more careful down those particular strips.

This will be the longest I have ever been away from Julia, which will be a strange experience. But yes, probably necessary from time to time to remind yourself that you are in fact an entity unto yourself, and to have some time to just be outside of your roles as a mother and a partner.

Not sure if anyone has been watching the US Drama series, 'Damages?' I am totally hooked on that and eagerly awaiting series II. Very very good TV. I was also enjoying the American Celebrity Apprentice, for the escapist quality of course, until Donald Trump fired Khloe Kardashian, not because she was shyte on a task, but because he found out she had a DUI. I kid you not. He even said so.

It was quite shocking to watch actually, and while I have a feeling a lot of that show is staged, this felt genuinely real and was very offensive and upsetting.

And what's worse is when you see someone like Ivanka Trump, who is evidently a very intelligent successful young woman in her own right, sitting there and nodding in agreement to what her obtuse dinosaur of a father has just done when I felt sure she was thinking, like the rest of us, wtf?

While I am probably the most anti driving under the influence South African you will ever meet, I felt firing her was totally discriminatory. She'd been punished by the law for what she did, was very open and honest about the fact that she had done it, and was even raising money for people with drug and alcohol abuse problems. But all of that is completely irrelevant. The premise of the show is that people get fired for screwing up a task, and while she was by no means a stellar contestant, the annoying country singer Clint Black was overtly responsible for the failure of the task and everyone knew it.

I don't know why I bother. Bring back Project Runway with the lovely Heidi Klum any day. Oh, and some Top Chef would be nice too.

Things overheard in shops

I hate packaging. The kind of stuff they wrap scissors in. The irony being that while trying to rip the indestructible cardboard and plastic encasing the scissors, you need the very pair you bought in order to get to them. Likewise, I hate how tight they make the tops on things, especially the cardboard juices that have little plastic tops that screw off. Always, while trying to open them and ripping the skin between my thumb and forefinger, I wonder how the elderly and especially those with arthritis in their fingers manage if I cannot. And indeed just the other day while in St John's Wood Tesco's, I saw a tiny old lady asking the cashier if she could open her pint of milk for her so she could have a cup of tea when she got home.

I was in Boots the other day, and a young girl, possibly 15, maybe even 13, walked in dressed very much how I imagine she thought a much older women dressed. It looked incongruous, much like me wearing my mother's massive 70's styled engagement ring when going to the British Embassy all those years ago and saying that while I wanted a 2 year working holiday visa, I was in no way planning on staying here and looking for work. I was engaged, in love, and very much planning on returning to South Africa to marry pronto, flashing the dated bling in the woman's unimpressed 'honestly do I look like an eejit?' face.

Anyway, so this young girl walked up to the counter clearly mustering all the confidence she had, and with as nonchalant tone of voice as she could manage said, "Hello, I need emergency contraception please." The man behind the counter looked at her and said she needed to talk to the pharmacist, to which she reddened and said she'd wait to do so. The delay, and then having to say the same thing to yet another person, seemed to shake her confidence.

I felt sorry for her to be in that position, and at the same time I thought it wise of her to be taking care of matters. I also had a compulsion to pull her aside and say in the nicest possible way: "Next time make sure the little shit wears a condom." You can see I am a mother to a daughter now, shamelessly biased.

I'm not sure how we are going to handle the whole sex talk thing with Julia. I've heard from friends and family that kids actually start asking questions about the subject a lot younger than one might imagine. And I myself remember being explained the facts of life rather crudely by a girl called Paige, when I was about six or seven years old. I didn't really process what it meant at the time, but it sounded disgusting and certainly not something I ever intended on participating in. Especially after looking around at the motley crew of smelly, nose-picking scabby kneed boys in my class, thank you very much.

I suspect I'll say something like: When you get to a certain age you may find your body telling you it wants to do things with boys. Ignore it and eat chocolate or go shopping. Boys themselves will tell you that you might enjoy doing these things with them, and in that case you come home and tell your father, and he will get out the shotgun and take care of them. Hopefully that will take care of matters for a while at least.

Separately, but on the subject of guns, I am overjoyed at hearing the verdict in the Phil Spector trial: Guilty. Justice has been served, a misogynistic nutter will be removed from the streets, and that poor woman can hopefully rest in peace.