The price we pay for treading the cultured cobbles of this little village is in square footage. We're less than five minutes from the Tube, a stone's throw from the Heath and wake up to birdsong, but swing a cat and it's going to get hurt. Our little pied a terre is one of many flats in what's optimistically described by estate agents as a mansion block (I always rather dreamed of owning a mansion, but if they all have communal areas like ours I'm not so sure).
Another mansion block snuggles up to ours and I've always felt they're a little too close for comfort. An elderly lady whose living room looks right into ours loves nothing better than sticking her head out of the window for an update on our goings-on several times a day, so we put down our blinds and live in permanent semi-darkness.
This was bad enough but recently things have got worse; a couple has moved in to a flat facing ours and one floor up which has the most tremendous view into our kitchen from theirs. The previous tenants must have been barristers or members of some other hard-working, non-cooking profession, but our new neighbours are in. A lot. And they cook. A lot. Try as I might to ignore her, I have caught girl neighbour's eye once or twice as I've been stirring my soup or chopping an onion. As good manners dictate, we both quickly looked away and pretended that the other wasn't there. Boy neighbour rarely cooks so this is good, but I am rather resentful of having to curb my very infrequent but sometimes entirely necessary naked trips to put the kettle on or sort out some tupperware. Last night I was to be found in pitch blackness, stumbling around trying to decant some leftovers without scalding something sensitive.
My boy, of course, is totally ignorant of the rules of modern living. It took him all of about twenty minutes to discover that there were some new and exciting people in his life. As soon as he goes into the kitchen he points at the window and checks if he has an audience. If he does, he waves. I turn my head and pretend I don't know we have company. If I acknowledge them, where will it end? Will we write bold messages on large pieces of paper? Work out a wiring system for lending cups of sugar or, more likely, brown rice? I will continue to ponder these questions as I put in an order for a new set of blinds.
Wednesday 30 March 2011
Monday 28 March 2011
Food and the flicks
Another lovely day in the village. A school down the hill held an international food festival to launch their new cookbook so we thought we'd check it out. The grand church hall was filled with the smell of offerings from around the world: boxes of fresh sushi, bubbling post of African stews, Persian curries and the ubiquitous falafel. For the most part the stalls were run by well-meaning and enthusiastic parents, but Starbucks and Carluccio's had also got in on the act. While the crowds flocked to sample the wares of the independents, tumbleweed blew lightly across the trestle tables of the multinationals.
A rare night out tonight to see a Brit flick at the Everyman. Love that place (though my bank account does not). There's nothing quite like the challenge of eking out a large glass of wine until the credits roll. The film was pretty good, but being somewhere other than our sofa on a Saturday night was brilliant. To offset the astronomical cost of the cinema we decided to forgo dinner and instead joined the permanent queue at the crepe van outside the King William pub. Rain or shine, the little white van does a roaring trade. Two young, chiselled French guys in white aprons flip and spread and deliver to the hungry hoards while they natter to each other non-stop. Not a bad way to bring your rusty language skills up to scratch, actually, and as in the bakery up the road, many of the English customers deliver their orders in fluent French. So Hampstead. The crepes themselves were divine - fresh, hot and surprisingly light in spite of the generous bubbling filling. We wandered slowly home, ignoring each other's dripping cheese and errant ratatouille, pausing only to marvel at the prices in the estate agent's windows. If we're ever going to afford a decent sized home we'll have to cut down on visits to the Everyman.
A rare night out tonight to see a Brit flick at the Everyman. Love that place (though my bank account does not). There's nothing quite like the challenge of eking out a large glass of wine until the credits roll. The film was pretty good, but being somewhere other than our sofa on a Saturday night was brilliant. To offset the astronomical cost of the cinema we decided to forgo dinner and instead joined the permanent queue at the crepe van outside the King William pub. Rain or shine, the little white van does a roaring trade. Two young, chiselled French guys in white aprons flip and spread and deliver to the hungry hoards while they natter to each other non-stop. Not a bad way to bring your rusty language skills up to scratch, actually, and as in the bakery up the road, many of the English customers deliver their orders in fluent French. So Hampstead. The crepes themselves were divine - fresh, hot and surprisingly light in spite of the generous bubbling filling. We wandered slowly home, ignoring each other's dripping cheese and errant ratatouille, pausing only to marvel at the prices in the estate agent's windows. If we're ever going to afford a decent sized home we'll have to cut down on visits to the Everyman.
Let them eat cake!
I spoke to a friend today who is already worrying about what to do for her baby's first birthday party in July. I know how she feels - this was the subject of lengthy debate among my friends with babies a similar age to mine.
We all agreed that it would be pointless to go to any great efforts as we would all be time- and cash-poor by the time December rolled around, and the little ones would be nonplussed by the whole thing. Or so I thought.
While the rest of the country was decking the halls with boughs of holly, my friends were variously booking church halls and official photographers, sending out personalised invitations and dragging home bags groaning with parent-approved baby snacks (no proper cake in sight). Meanwhile, I had emailed a few child-free friends to ask them to join us for some afternoon cocktails to mark the occasion. In haste I ordered a stack of cupcakes from Lola's in Primrose Hill (amazing - I recommend!) so at least we would have something to stick a candle in, and bought a birthday banner and badge.
As it turns out, December was the coldest on record and the snow fell thick and relentless. Of our guest list of 30, six brave souls ventured across London to raise a glass to our happy, giggly one-year-old. It was a day of firsts: first cupcake, first sugar rush, first post-party slump. It wasn't the traditional celebration but we enjoyed it and the photos are great. Maybe next time we'll try to be a bit more organised, though, and put in a plea for good weather.
We all agreed that it would be pointless to go to any great efforts as we would all be time- and cash-poor by the time December rolled around, and the little ones would be nonplussed by the whole thing. Or so I thought.
While the rest of the country was decking the halls with boughs of holly, my friends were variously booking church halls and official photographers, sending out personalised invitations and dragging home bags groaning with parent-approved baby snacks (no proper cake in sight). Meanwhile, I had emailed a few child-free friends to ask them to join us for some afternoon cocktails to mark the occasion. In haste I ordered a stack of cupcakes from Lola's in Primrose Hill (amazing - I recommend!) so at least we would have something to stick a candle in, and bought a birthday banner and badge.
As it turns out, December was the coldest on record and the snow fell thick and relentless. Of our guest list of 30, six brave souls ventured across London to raise a glass to our happy, giggly one-year-old. It was a day of firsts: first cupcake, first sugar rush, first post-party slump. It wasn't the traditional celebration but we enjoyed it and the photos are great. Maybe next time we'll try to be a bit more organised, though, and put in a plea for good weather.
Saturday 26 March 2011
Baby talk
The boy is at a lovely stage at the moment, chattering away incessantly. He's only 15 months so is far from being a great conversationalist but if you tune your ear to his frequency you can definitely make out some English words (and no doubt several foreign ones, too). Predictably there's a bit of oneupmanship among the mums on the speaking front; many is the time I've had a list of a little one's preferred one-syllable words parroted to me by the proud mother while the little wordsmith herself has sat there mute.
I try not to engage in this apparently good natured competition - they babies will get there when they get there. Meanwhile I'm quietly enjoying listening to my boy's world opening up. Here are some of his favourite words, recorded for my own purposes and not to show how clever he is! If there's one thing my brief foray into motherhood has shown me so far, it's that time moves fast and they're changing all the time. That's why I want to get these things down before I forget.
* Bye bye (complete with frenzied waving)
* Hiya
* Mama (thank goodness - this took rather longer than I'd like, whereas Dada was a firm favourite from the start!)
* Duck
* Cat
* Miaow
* Tea (I'm working on 'milk, no sugar')
* Flower (can be applied to sequins and anything sparkling as well as the traditional bloom)
* Night night (accompanied by a look of horrific realisation that it's time for the lights to go off)
* Daddy (this is used liberally, often shouted at volume to waiters, the postman, the doctor or any male of the species, causing the odd raised eyebrow. The shame)
I try not to engage in this apparently good natured competition - they babies will get there when they get there. Meanwhile I'm quietly enjoying listening to my boy's world opening up. Here are some of his favourite words, recorded for my own purposes and not to show how clever he is! If there's one thing my brief foray into motherhood has shown me so far, it's that time moves fast and they're changing all the time. That's why I want to get these things down before I forget.
* Bye bye (complete with frenzied waving)
* Hiya
* Mama (thank goodness - this took rather longer than I'd like, whereas Dada was a firm favourite from the start!)
* Duck
* Cat
* Miaow
* Tea (I'm working on 'milk, no sugar')
* Flower (can be applied to sequins and anything sparkling as well as the traditional bloom)
* Night night (accompanied by a look of horrific realisation that it's time for the lights to go off)
* Daddy (this is used liberally, often shouted at volume to waiters, the postman, the doctor or any male of the species, causing the odd raised eyebrow. The shame)
Wednesday 23 March 2011
Wonderful Wednesday
Yesterday was Wonderful Wednesday, when each week I ditch my desk for a day of toddler-friendly fun with the boy. It felt like the first proper day of spring, the birds getting up early to usher it in with song and the white stucco houses of Belsize Park shimmering in the sun.
We spent an intense morning doing soft play class in the local leisure centre, one of the boy's most favourite things. It's also a huge favourite of mums and nannies who form a long, noisy but patient queue to squeeze into the tiny lift down to the vast sports hall half filled with foam toys of all shapes in obligatory primary colours. In the corner a bouncy castle whirrs away oddly out of place indoors. Toddlers run free, climbing, tunnelling, crawling and rocking while mothers and nannies hover and hand hold with one eye on the clock. Just fifteen more minutes and we can get a coffee and hopefully he'll sleep...
It's a different scene entirely on a Sunday when dads selflessly sacrifice a lie-in to look after their babies while their wives get a welcome - and heavily negotiated - break. It's a much more frenzied forty-five minutes, children on the loose and generally unsupervised. With the odd exception, the men root themselves to the spot, one hand in pocket and the other playing host to an exhausted iPhone. Occasionally they will look up to check that the crying child is not theirs. Last Sunday one child tried to swipe a football from another. The poor victim's father squared up to the two-foot tall offender and suggested that he behave himself better and give it back, which the offender's dad did not take well. Chests were puffed out, voices raised and swear words enunciated at volume, followed by a swift ejection by a polo-shirted attendant. I wonder if they had to share the lift...
We spent an intense morning doing soft play class in the local leisure centre, one of the boy's most favourite things. It's also a huge favourite of mums and nannies who form a long, noisy but patient queue to squeeze into the tiny lift down to the vast sports hall half filled with foam toys of all shapes in obligatory primary colours. In the corner a bouncy castle whirrs away oddly out of place indoors. Toddlers run free, climbing, tunnelling, crawling and rocking while mothers and nannies hover and hand hold with one eye on the clock. Just fifteen more minutes and we can get a coffee and hopefully he'll sleep...
It's a different scene entirely on a Sunday when dads selflessly sacrifice a lie-in to look after their babies while their wives get a welcome - and heavily negotiated - break. It's a much more frenzied forty-five minutes, children on the loose and generally unsupervised. With the odd exception, the men root themselves to the spot, one hand in pocket and the other playing host to an exhausted iPhone. Occasionally they will look up to check that the crying child is not theirs. Last Sunday one child tried to swipe a football from another. The poor victim's father squared up to the two-foot tall offender and suggested that he behave himself better and give it back, which the offender's dad did not take well. Chests were puffed out, voices raised and swear words enunciated at volume, followed by a swift ejection by a polo-shirted attendant. I wonder if they had to share the lift...
Tuesday 22 March 2011
And baby makes four
Today I heard that the first of my NCT group is pregnant for the second time. It's amazing how quickly our talk has turned from 'I couldn't even think about having another one', 'chance would be a fine thing!' and 'I'm barely managing with the one I've got' to broody murmurings. We hover over our toddlers in cafes, trying to restrain them from eating stray chips from the floor, poking a dog in the face or blowing kisses to the waiter, allowing ourselves envious glances at the quiet corner of new mothers with their snoozing babes-in-arms. Suddenly we can see all the advantages that we were blind to at the time: the constant napping, the convenience of breastfeeding and the ability to sling them in the sling and walk out of the door.
So I await news from the other girls. It won't be long before more messages of the 'I have some news...' variety make their appearance and we're once more embarking on baby massage classes together and comparing notes on newborn nappies and top tips for getting rid of colic. It takes me back to the time around our due dates. One by one the emails arrived, glowing with pride and relief in our inboxes, a hastily taken photo of a still-squashed newborn attached: (s)he is finally here!
Sunday 20 March 2011
Greetings from Pramstead.
'They call it Pramstead, you know', said the teacher at our NCT class while we took a breather from attempting to latch careworn plastic dolls onto knitted boobs. Laughter rippled around the semi-circle of cross-legged bumps. 'You must have noticed how many buggies there are. There are women and babies everywhere. You'll soon see how many friends you'll make and how baby-friendly it is. We're so lucky up here.'
I'd never really noticed it before, but she was right. Hampstead is a leafy London suburb known for being home to authors, actors, artists, musicians and intellectuals (whatever that means). But it is also crammed full of a very particular breed of mothers-to-be, mothers and their fragrant offspring. Now I'm supposedly one of them, I'm privy to a whole new world.
How to pass the time with your newborn? Baby Massage classes, of course, but how about Baby Mandarin? Your six month old isn't talking yet? Get down to Baby Signing! Or perhaps your toddler fancies thirty minutes of Baby Salsa before lunch? What do you mean he can't walk yet? No matter: he can sit on your hip on the specially made contraption just for the purpose.
Sleep-deprived and desperate for company and entertainment, I embraced this enclave and its baby madness. Now my babe-in-arms is a toddling chatterbox and I'm back at a desk for most of the week, daydreaming of picnics on Primrose Hill and coffee and cake at Kenwood.
How to pass the time with your newborn? Baby Massage classes, of course, but how about Baby Mandarin? Your six month old isn't talking yet? Get down to Baby Signing! Or perhaps your toddler fancies thirty minutes of Baby Salsa before lunch? What do you mean he can't walk yet? No matter: he can sit on your hip on the specially made contraption just for the purpose.
Sleep-deprived and desperate for company and entertainment, I embraced this enclave and its baby madness. Now my babe-in-arms is a toddling chatterbox and I'm back at a desk for most of the week, daydreaming of picnics on Primrose Hill and coffee and cake at Kenwood.
These occasional 'postcards' are my way of recording the latest news from Pramstead, NW3.
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