A triumph of our times

Some of you may remember stories from about a year and a half ago, when I dutifully accompanied Tot A to his posting on The Continent to set up something that none of us really understood very well - Ze Hub.

Imagine my pride, therefore, when I nipped over to Milan this weekend (successfully evading BA strike action - I am a travel scab) for the opening of said venture.

We arrived to a throng of Milanese notables, nibbling on light snacks and quaffing prosecco. Pleased at our decision to dress only in black, we joined right in, quaffing with the best of them and making like models.


Sort of. Inner poise at all times, that's us.


Leaving our hero surrounded by an adoring throng, we nipped out for sustenance at a nearby pizzeria, marvelling as we left at the queue that snaked around the corner. Desperate social entrepreneurs begged for entry, dropping Tot A's name like tabs of acid at an illegal rave.

We missed the swing band but made our way back in time for a bit of jigging about to the DJ. By this time most of the Milanese were outside smoking furiously. We left at 2am, the party was still rocking, and a certain third sector networker from Bologna was licking his lips at the sight of a buff young Swiss man dipping a cucumber into a tub of cream cheese.

Next morning we left A to his hangover and tidying, and trotted up to the top of the cathedral in the sunshine.


The rest of the weekend was spent eating raw fish with Sicilians (am still not convinced it's right for a pregnant woman to eat raw prawns), a day trip to Genoa and its splendid aquarium and even more splendid pesto, more munching in a restaurant that delighted me by playing Edith Piaf, and moving A's sofa bed up from the vaults to the much brighter glass mezzanine level so he can imagine himself as living in a New York style loft apartment rather than as Quasimodo.


Terribly proud of my tot. I think the post-it says it all.

Country pursuits

The purchase of new swimwear is an activity guaranteed to strike fear into my heart. And into those of my nearest and dearest, forced to witness tears, tantrums and on occasion, full-blown and prolonged depression.

This year, however, we are spared. Yes, DJ S bypassed the whole traumatic process by presenting me with a marvellous black costume, which not I not only liked the look of but which actually FITTED.


She is in charge of my leisurewear from now on.

Suitably equipped, we skipped off to Hartwell Hall, a delightful country house hotel somewhere in the Home Counties, to sample their spa facilities.


Imagine our rapture on being told we'd been upgraded. To a room with a four-poster bed.


Which was of course perfect for....


Porking down smoked salmon sandwiches and slurping Sauvignon Blanc, swathed in robes at all times.

We lounged by the pool reading Vogue.

Piqued our appetites with a selection of delightful amuse-bouches.

Battled at after-dinner backgammon in the library.

And avoided the Mother's Day crush.

I tried to get her to dive into the lake for a Mr Darcy moment, but she wasn't having any of it.

Am seriously thinking of buying a twinset and tweeds.

Bouncy bouncy

DJ S doing her bit to promote 'LGBT community involvement' in this year's Sport Relief.

The drag queen appears to share my feelings about going to the gym...