Higher learning

When I was four or five, I would concoct homework for myself – much to the amusement of my parents – because I wanted to be ‘grown up’ like my older sisters. I wanted to learn and wanted to impress. Yes, I was rather annoying.

Down the track when I was being given genuine homework I remember asking my mother for help, saying something like, “All my friends’ parents give them the answers”… My mum, ever a source of encouragement, responded with the old, “If all your friends jump off a bridge” analogy and then stressed the importance of my finding out the answers myself, if I was to ever really learn anything. And I have to say her method worked. Of course sometimes homework was a struggle, but upon its completion I always felt a sense of achievement (or at least relief!).

These days, however, it appears kids are being held less and less accountable for their school work. Now I know that the families I care for are perhaps more affluent than some, but I think that the expected employment of a tutor for kids as young as six is just plain silly. Yep, the schools that my cherubs attend expect their pupils to be meeting regularly with private tutors. There’s even a spot in their homework diary for their tutor’s signature, alongside that of the parents’.

And this is not because the homework being served is super hard or anything; it’s just regular comprehension, maths and science… the sort of work I was given when I went through grade school – only now they expect the kids to use the Internet as their reference point as opposed to dusty old libraries! If you ask me, kids these days have it easier.

So why the tutors? Is it because the parents at these schools are so busy that they don’t have time to oversee their kid’s nightly dues? Or is it simply a status thing?

One thing I am certain of is that it’s having a detrimental effect on the confidence of my little charges. With someone always watching over their work, and generally spoon-feeding answers, my kidlets are missing out on the basics; like learning their own techniques of study.

I spent over an hour last night with Master 8 working on his geography homework – all two questions. The first question: Explain how animals and plants survive in the desert?, was to be answered after reading a simple paragraph on the way desert plants store water and how desert animals therefore get the water they need through the food they eat. Master 8 had no idea how to identify these two points after reading aloud the paragraph – he just shut down, went silent and covered his face with his hands.

When I commented that question two – Measure the outside temperature from a place in the shade and a place in direct sun – would have to be left for another time and asked him how I knew this to be the case, he looked at me blankly. Appalled I read him the question again, slowly… still nothing. I then broke it down for him and said, “What is the question asking us to do?” – Measure the temperature, he said. “In the sun”, I added getting somewhat tetchy. “So how can we measure the sun now? It’s night time!” Ohhhhhhh… He finally got it.

Now I know Master 8 might not be on his way to being the next Einstein but I also know that having a tutor isn’t helping. Master 12 couldn’t even spell ‘sixty’ for me the other day, adamant that it went S-I-X-T-E-Y. I think years of tutoring have actually dumbed these kids down. Trial and error is a good thing and should be how kids learn from day one.

But for now I am but one voice. I just hope these schools wake up and smell the coffee before it’s too late.

Finding my feet again

I have experienced more highs and lows in the last month than in any other period of my life. I was made redundant, holidayed in Spain; became a nanny, long-weekended in Paris. And this past week I lived-in with my charges: juggling swimming lessons, mastering the household’s über-chic oven and dishwasher, and even coping with the six-year-old’s bout of diarrhoea (that exploded all over her bed sheets at midnight on Sunday).

Life isn’t meant to be easy.* Who said that again? But the ups and downs I’ve experienced lately truly give me the jitters. Then I recite my favourite mantra: What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

To be honest I think I’ve managed quite well. I’ve sorted out further employment, re-jigged my timetable and still wake up at 5am three mornings a week to go to my Pilates class so as not to break routine. The only sign that I’ve suffered somewhat of a mini-breakdown is the turbo powered activity on my eBay account. In the last 30 days I have spent over £950.00. I hear my mother’s cries of horror through the airwaves!

It’s this insane spending that proves to me that while I’ve been putting on a brave face, there have been deeper issues bubbling below the surface. However, I like to think that my session of self-sabotage is over. My wardrobe is certainly full enough – of designer goodies like a new pair of Miu Miu black patent leather stilettos, a stunning Balenciaga blazer, a take-to-my-grave Chanel LBD and a bright green Chloé gown as seen on Kylie Minogue… to name but a few – and my redundancy payment is more than half spent! After all, 'Admission' is the first step in recovery, isn't it?

The problem is that my new lifestyle (read: timetable) allows too many idle hours in the morning – when friends here are at work and friends back home are sleeping – to waste away on the Internet. And the lure of eBay is that goods can be delivered right to your door, at a fraction of their retail value. But enough is enough.

Scrapping the faeces off the little girl’s bed last Sunday made me realize just how much I earn every penny I make and how I need to start saving once again. For so long I lived in London earning practically no money at all; bound and chained to the discount isles of ASDA and Sainsbury’s, apparently doomed to live a life eating tinned spinach and tuna. Then I landed a 'good job', that paid a decent salary (with benefits) and suddenly I could pay off my debt and start to live a little. When even more suddenly that security was pulled from under me I rebelled in the only way I knew how: I spent.

This afternoon I’ll head out to collect my kidlets driving the family’s Mercedes, wait patiently at the school gates side by side with Elle Macpherson (who’s son is in the class below Master 12) and drive the three kids home to their Holland Park abode ready for their 5pm lesson with their tutors…

A good life, yes. An affluent lifestyle, certainly. I just have to remember, that while I look after Money, for the time being I’m only The Help.

Paris, je t’aime!

I love Paris in the springtime. I love Paris in the fall… Hell, I love Paris any old time and my sojourn there this past weekend – with Boyfriend in tow – only further nurtured my devotion.

Admittedly, we got off to a rocky start. Having been all loved up for the past few months we were due a little tiff and unfortunately one crash tackled us as we were finding our way from Gare du Nord to Le Marais… on foot.

Arriving Eurostar-style, as the bells of Notre Dame struck midday, we decided to embrace the glorious sunshine and make our way south sans an adequate map and ladled with two heavy carrier bags. Boyfriend’s initial wonderment and awe at the vibrancy of Europe’s most romantic city (for he was indeed a Paris-virgin) seemed to dissipate with each new crossroads and he began to ‘jokingly’ rib me about my lack of direction: “Haven’t you been here before, baby?”

Feeling just a little underappreciated – after all, I had hooked us up with some stellar accommodation on the super cheap (€ 120 for 2 nights, in the heart of Le Marais!) – I kind of snapped, yelled an expletive and called him by his full name… eek! Unsurprisingly, BF took my momentary crack very badly indeed and proceeded with his own fabulously-honed version of le traitement silencieux!

Thankfully the city of love quickly cast its lusty spell upon us once again and we managed our first hand-in-hand tour through Le Marais, across l'Isle St-Louis, into Le Cite and Notre Dame, and ending our evening with a moonlit walk around the Louvre.

Champagne and red wine and croissants and BF’s favourite, le sandwich de poulet et de fromage, consumed us, as we happily ate our way through Paris. Although we did take the opportunity to burn a few calories on Sunday when we hired bicycles and rode up Rue de Rivoli, along the Champs-Elysées, past the Arc de Triomphe, across to le Place de Trocadéro, down to and all the way up la Tour Eiffel, around l’Hotel des Invalides and into la Musée Rodin.

Not one for art or gardens, BF had to be coaxed into the latter establishment… While I reminisced about the hours spent there last summer with my girlfriend, reading our books as we lazed on sun loungers surrounded by priceless sculptures, BF was disparaging such a blatant waste of space, suggesting a mini-golf course as an alternative (and superior) use for the grounds!

On our final day we woke early to take in more of Saint Germain du Pres, le Jardin des Plantes and its menagerie, have lunch at la Grande Mosquée de Paris and a final stroll through the magnificent Jardin du Luxemburg. Apart from more comments about Paris’ severe lack of golf courses, I do believe BF fell a little in love with Paris and its historic charm. But before heading back to Gare du Nord for our evening train we took the Metro up to Chateau Rouge and climbed the (many) stairs to Basilique du Sacré Cœur. Perhaps my favourite view of Paris, our cliché moment was made complete as we listened to the soulful voice of a busker singing Louis Armstrong’s, What A Wonderful World…

Paris, je t’aime!

All grown up

Without a shadow of a doubt I’ve always known that one day I want to be a mother. Never having younger brothers or sisters, as a child I gravitated towards kids littler than me so I could play act Mary Poppins, make them cupcakes out of sand and leaves and tuck them up for nap time in dusty blankets beside the bottle brush bushes in the school playground – such were the objects at my disposal.

In my current post – as nanny – I find myself dishing out Pick’n’Mix as an after school treat, playing ‘Go Fish’ with giant snap cards depicting fairytale characters and putting my Baby Gap-wearing charges to bed covered in cashmere quilts. Decidedly more comfortable than the bottle brush bushes of years ago!

Privileged, these kids are. Baby Gucci, Baby Dolce & Gabbana… and with every conceivable toy and computer game trend at their fingertips, these kids want for nothing. Half the time their mother is in fact home, so it’s my job to simply play with Miss Six. Where I, at her age, would have whiled away hours chit-chatting to myself and my imaginary friends, Miss Six has me – paid help – to tend to her every whim.

I’m not saying I’m a push over. I’ve seen too many episodes of Supernanny to know that not be the way to a child’s heart… but I do find myself wondering just how much discipline the parents are expecting me to enforce.

The other night, Master Eight (the middle child and cheeky as a monkey with ADHD) blatantly refused to do anything I asked. His shower was postponed on three separate occasions, tens minutes here, another compromise there… and come bedtime it was a sheer battle of wills to get him upstairs to brush his teeth. He finally relented only to stomp so loudly passed a sleeping Miss Six’s bedroom that I thought, “Enough is enough,” and, “They’re not paying me enough to put up with this shit.”

Upon his return – toothbrush dangling from his mouth lest he miss another minute of Robin Williams’ latest kid-flick adventure, RV – Master Eight proceeded to ignore my requests for him to finish up his teeth and make his way to bed. He replied with mature retorts like, “Make me” and “As if I care”. Darling little cherub.

Not wanting to be outdone by a munchkin half my size I drew on all I’ve ever learnt from good ol’ Jo Frost, got down to his eye level and told him that his behaviour was, “Unacceptable” (sans her Suppernanny lisp). Stern words, a steady voice and ensuring he felt every inch the child he was I really thought I’d made some progress. And off to bed he went.

The next day I heard that kind and obedient Master Twelve had relayed the evening’s events to Mummy and Daddy. Mrs X apologised and told me how Mr X would be talking to Master Eight that night.

But I just can’t help the feeling that a talk with his Dad isn’t going to help my cause all that much. Kids nowadays are gruelling. Exposed to so much more from such a young age, they really do think themselves older than they are. I also know that Master Eight is testing the boundaries with me and for my rightful place in the hierarchy to be accepted by him I need to make sure he learns to respect me, from me. Threats from his parents will only serve to push him further away. But how to tell them that?

The sad answer is, I don’t. While a parent knows in their heart their child can be a nightmare, they are just as determined to believe the sun rises with each child’s waking breath. So I’ll continue this little interplay with Master Eight, and experience varying struggles with a similarly stubborn Miss Six until the day comes when my services are no longer required.

And pray that my yet-to-be-born chicklets don’t give me half as much grief!

This little (guinea) piggy…

Mid-August, in the spirit of helping my fellow woman – and lured by a significant monetary bonus – I enlisted in a clinical trial for a new contraceptive pill (to test its side effects, not its contraceptive function!).

So over the past month and a half I’ve dutifully dosed myself each morning – ten minutes after breakfast – noting the time in my medical diary; I’ve attended half a dozen outpatient visits, waking up at an ungodly hour to get myself to the clinic before a 7am roll call… and patiently waiting as a rather incompetent medical staff band the other ladies and I together for our regulatory Q &A – How are you feeling today? Have you drunk any alcohol since your last visit? Have you experienced any extreme exposure to sunlight? (I wish!) And last week, I even packed my overnight bag to spend a weekend on the ward to be bled dry over the course of a rather rainy Saturday.

On Friday evening, eighteen ‘healthy’ women (myself included) ranging from twenty to thirty-nine years, handed over our contraband mobile phones and midnight snacks and took our place behind the curtains of a certain university hospital just south of London Victoria. After a tasteless dinner of chicken, rice and water-sodden green beans we prepared for an undoubtedly restless sleep. On Saturday we were woken early, pricked and prodded and fitted with a cannula (a small tube inserted into the vein to aid frequent removal of blood), fed a ‘standard’ breakfast (four slices of white bread and two pieces of cheese), dosed, and then bled every half hour until lunchtime and then every hour after that, to test our body’s reaction to drug. Lovely.

Perhaps it wouldn’t have been such an unpleasant experience if I didn’t suffer from ‘dainty and feminine veins’. Quite literally the only thing ‘dainty’ about me, and it has to be my poor old veins! Not sturdy enough to handle the massive needle that has to be inserted in order to place the cannula, the doctor was forced to make a beeline for my left wrist. With the cannula chafing my wrist bone, what followed was a solid twelve hours of severe pain. Each time a blood sample had to be taken my wrist was pulled and the cannula tugged. It seemed that while this vein may have been chunkier than its counterparts, it was just as reticent about letting go of its goods. By eight o’clock that night I was begging for the cannula’s removal. So the last sample for Saturday was taken by syringe, as were the remaining four vials on Sunday morning.


When I first thought about signing up for medical research I have to say I focussed wholeheartedly on the money – three months of pill-taking for £1,860 – the nitty-gritty details of not being able to drink alcohol or take vitamins or medication when sick really didn’t bother me. Even the numerous outpatient visits and overnight stays didn’t sway my resolve. But while interned in the clinic this past weekend, I realised that this is just as much a social experiment as it is a medical one.

Cooping up a bunch of women – otherwise unknown to each other – for 36 hours, allows insight into the human psyche. Who group together to moan about the food? Which ones whinge about their curtains being drawn at 11pm for lights out and 7.30am for their wake-up call? And just how many girls will utter the words, “Just who do they think they are?” when referring to the doctors and nurses that are aiding their earning of nearly £1,900! I thought I complained, but some of those girls needed muzzles.

I can handle the vein-pain and for our next (and final) overnight stay I’ll even fain enjoyment of the bland, carb-filled meals… but next time I won’t be rushing to chat to my fellow inmates. It’ll be all about watching DVDs on my laptop, soaking up some ‘me’ time and keeping my eye on the prize.

Trocks in frocks!

Okay, if you live in London or are planning a visit here before this Saturday you just have to stop off at Sadler's Wells' Peacock Theatre and check out Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo.

It’s an all-male drag ballet troupe that parodies traditional ballet romances all the while performing exquisite and flawless routines to show off their perfectly sculpted, utterly scrumptious bods!

An ex-colleague and I met up last night in Holborn for a bite at Itsu before making our way to the theatre, not exactly sure about what we were about to witness, but the three-act performance did not disappoint.

Established in the USA in 1974, The Trocks, as they’re affectionately known, were founded by three ballet enthusiasts Peter Anastos, Antony Bassae and Natch Taylor and originally performed late-late shows in off-off Broadway lofts. A positive review in The New Yorker brought them to the world stage… and Autumn finds them in London.

Attention to detail is paramount in the performance, and not just in the dancing. Their costumes are stunning – particularly the malting-Swan in Act Two – and seeing men dancing en pointe is captivating. If only I’d stuck with physical culture as a child maybe I’d be one tenth as graceful as the darling Trocks!

Heston B takes on Sherry

Monday evening saw me rushing from a day of babysitting – I’m now in charge of the ‘school run’ for a family with three kids under 12 – and taking on the Central line at peak hour to make it to the ever-so-swanky Shoreditch House by 7 o’clock for an interview with award winning chef and culinary alchemist, Heston Blumenthal.

Blumenthal has been working with The Sherry Institute of Spain on his latest scientific-gastronomic experiment… the molecular pairing of wine and food.

Say what? Yes, that’s right, pairing aromas is so last century. The future is in matching molecules. Blumenthal has discovered a group of taste compounds known as diketopiperazines (DKPs) in Sherry – particularly dry ones – that enhance the flavour of ‘umami-rich’ foods.

Umami is the fifth taste sense following bitter, sweet, salty and sour… we lay people may have heard of it in relation to Chinese cooking, but it flavours-rampant in foods like meat, fish, cheese and shitake mushrooms.

Lucky for me it appears great chefs are among the fashionable set who like to start things late, so while my mad dash from Liverpool Street tube got me to the doors around 7.15pm, Blumenthal didn’t make it up to the press room before 8pm.

Utterly personable and incredibly engaging, this owner of Best Restaurant in Britain (two years running), the three Michelin-starred The Fat Duck, walked into the room of awaiting journos much like an excited kid eager to boast about his winning try in the footy grand final. Blumenthal’s passion for his food and research was clearly evident, as was his love of Sherry.

Now my editor was expecting a story on the pairing of white and reds, and while Blumenthal assures me that such combination analysis will be part of the next research phase, Monday night was all about, “your great aunt’s tipple”.

Question time was followed by a lengthy wait as umami-rich canapés were served alongside their perfect Sherry variety. Allegedly all the evening’s culinary concoctions could be replicated at home – sans the beaker, mortar and pestle – but I think the only one I’ll likely be able to muster is Blumenthal’s take on the toasted cheese sandwich: Gruyere melted with cloves and served with an ice-chilled Fino!