The Mother's Day Reality

My Mother's Day last year ...

7am: "Can I have breakfast mum?"

7.10am: "MUM. Can I have breakfast?"

7.15am: Drag myself out of bed looking like wild wonga woman. Black mascara smudged under eye. Hair like a scarecrow.

7.20am: Make bacon butties for sons. Attack the mighty pile of washing. Start cleaning.

10.15am: Stop cleaning to take son number two to football training and son number one to football match. Both at opposite ends of town. Car is making funny noises again.

12-ish: Gather boys back from footie and stare in horror at two pairs of football boots caked with enough mud to keep a Turkish spa going for a year... not to mention the bedragled kits. More washing.

Just past 12-ish: Make lunch before attacking mud on boots.

12.45pm: Still cleaning boots...

1pm: Quick cuppa before the ironing, washing sorting. Endless trips with assorted soaks, trousers, boxer shorts and footies shirts to different rooms in house. Put away my one item in the washing, a single pair of knickers.

3pm: Still sorting washing and ironing...

4pm: Start making dinner and shout "have you got any homework lads?"

4.15pm: Start homework. Battle through French verbs and help son number two write a speech about his favourite hobby, football.

5pm: Start to feel ridiculously tired. Sort schoolbags and uniforms for the next day.

6pm: Finally sit down on sofa for a bit but notice everywhere needs dusting. Get cloth...

7pm: Friend (minus children) rings to tell me she's spent the day in Brum buying loadsa clobber. I stifle a yawn.

8pm: Bedtime for boys - and me. I can't wait!

8.30pm: Cuddle both my boys and chat for ever about nothing in patrticular. Love this time. Love them.

9pm: Nod off thinking that Mother's Day... is just another day.
But I wouldn't swap my kids for the world.

The Mother's Day Dream

Ask any mother what they would most like for Mother’s Day and, chances are, they will say “time”.
Just a guilt-free hour to flick through a magazine, go shopping on their own or have someone else prepare a meal for them – and do the clearing up – would be nice.
But, in reality, if they are at home, me-time is about as likely as finding David Beckham in their lounge, in a pinny, doing the hovering.
No, to give your mum a real treat you have to take her away, get out of town and lavish her in the kind of pampering and luxury celebrities take for granted but the average British mother enjoys once in a blue moon.
Take her to The Chesterfield Hotel in Mayfair, London.
Just one night will do - one night of sheer, five-star bliss.
How do I know? Because I am a mum and I have just spent 24 hours in this achingly atmospheric, elegant, luxury hotel where nothing is too much trouble.
I am getting a princess-and-the-pea reputation for being fussy, liking the good things in life. I confess, with age, that has occurred.
In younger days, I roughed it in Munich station, spent a night in a Rome ‘hotel’ with stomach-churning stains on the sheets and endured a Blackpool B&B room which had ashtrays full of fag ends dotted around it – when I was shown into it!
Never, ever again. Free time is precious and where I spend it has become incredibly important. That’s why I picked The Chesterfield. It’s one of a group of Red Carnation Hotels, all renowned for their excellence.
Tripadvisor rates it as the ninth best hotel in the world and the fourth best hotel in Europe.
So, what’s it like? Well, imagine rich antiques, glistening chandeliers, polished wood, marble floors, extravagant drapes, a subtly-lit bar with cosy booths and a pianist playing gentle, mood-enhancing music.
Imagine staff who can’t do enough for you, smile rather than grimace, actually enjoy the art of serving people well.
Imagine a unique room (all are different to match the
traveller) with sumptuous furnishings – all rooms have been refurbished - superb bathroom and every conceivable extra from luxury Elemis toiletries to flat-screen TV and tea and coffee-making facilities.
A hotel room should be so good you don’t want to leave it. Instead, run a warm bath, pop on the thick bathrobe and slippers (complimentary of course), choose a couple of the free magazines laid out neatly on the polished desk, Red and Woman and Home should do it, and smile broadly.
No housework, no mouths to feed, just you and sheer luxury.
When thoroughly chilled out, take a stroll around the hotel, where Sven Goran Erikksen stayed just a few days before me.
I can imagine it appealing to the quiet Swede. Like many of the best hotels in London, The Chesterfield was formerly a wealthy gentleman’s residence and has the feel of a private, exclusive, and typically English, club.
And you don’t even have to stay there to enjoy it. Its restaurant, famed for its Dover sole, is open to anyone and lunch is reasonably priced at around £20-£25 per head. Alternatively, feel like the Queen and enjoy high tea. I can certainly vouch for its pastry chef, who makes the sweet treats served. He made the most amazing birthday cake for my travelling companion. It arrived with a bottle of Champage on ice and was so gorgeous I stared at it with my mouth gaping open for 10 minutes.

It also demonstrated just how good the service at The Chesterfield is. You see, I hadn’t told them about the birthday. However, the previous year I stayed at another Red Carnation Hotel at the same time to celebrate the very same birthday. They remembered! We were both knocked out by the faultless attention to detail.

Now you can probably understand why, for 24 hours, I never wanted to leave it. I soaked up every second there.
Wrapped in fluffy robe, I did nothing more strenuous than paint my nails and order room service.
Yes, London has a multitude of entertainment on offer but for worn-out mothers it’s good, just now and then, to do absolutely nothing. The ultimate treat? You bet.

Getting there: We travelled by car and parked at an NCP car park five minutes away from the hotel but train fares to London are great value from Derby if booked in advance.
Where to stay: The Chesterfield is exceptional but the Red Carnation group also has other top-notch hotels in the Capital, such as The Milestone and The Egerton.
How much: The Chesterfield has some great weekend deals including its value Mayfair weekend package, from £310 for two. For that you and a companion enjoy a two-night stay, full English breakfast, a complimentary bottle of Champagne, high tea and a 6pm check-out. Pet lovers may also be interested to know that The Chesterfield welcomes dogs.
To find out more, visit www.chesterfieldmayfair.com or www.redcarnationhotels.com.




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Rap on the knuckles for Derby County

"I must be mad," said the bloke queuing behind me queuing for autographs at Pride Park, the home of Derby County.
Rams boss Paul Jewell and players Robbie Savage and Tito Villa had very kindly put an hour aside to meet the fans at the club shop.
Trouble was, an hour was not enough. Not in a million years.
But I waited, and I waited. An hour went by. It was sub-zero. My feet and hands were frost-bitten and, I reckon, close to dropping off.
After an hour, a bit like queuing for Wembley tickets, you think you might as well stick it out. Plus, if I failed to go home without the autographs from my Rams-mad sons I would be lambested beyond belief.
So I waited. Like a loonie. The queue snaked round the side of the ground and there was about 30 people behind me. The queue had an end.
We edged forward, painfully slowly. At last I could see the club shop door, but there must have been at least 100 people patiently waiting their turn before me.
That's when the woman with a helpless smile said: "Sorry ladies and gents, but they are all leaving in five minutes so it's unlikely you'll get an autograph."
Unlikely! I had more chance of conquering the North Pole. Though the lack of sensation in my frozen feet made me feel as if I had.
I was beaten. Frozen and miserable, I scurried back to my car. An hour wasted. I felt even more sorry for the children who, with patient mums and dads, had braved the icy weather just for one of Sav's smiles. So much for a half term treat.
Surely one of the players could have stayed behind? Just for a bit.
I'll never know for sure what happened of course. I had to leave. Defeated. My late lunch hour autograph plan had failed dismally. And, I felt, DCFC, had failed me, a season ticket holder, and rather a lot of other diehard fans too.
I'm told that these autograph sessions are hugely popular so why not organise them better? Have four players working in half-hour shifts (but only tell us fans we have an hour to get those signatures), then no-one will go home disappointed.
I'd made a lovely collage of Sav, Tito and Jewell for them to sign for my lads. Hope you don't mind gents, but I forged your names! Providing they don't read this, they'll never know!!

Tribute to bad cooks everywhere

Let’s hear it for Delia Smith, a woman who, for the first time ever has made me contemplate buying a cookery book.
Her idea to conjure up a bagful of tasty recipes using convenience foods is a brainwave that leaves me in dumbstruck awe – while chuckling as I picture Jamie, Gordon and Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall fighting it out over food ethics by bashing each other over the head with battery-farmed chickens.
Good old Delia, a humble kitchen maestro without Nigella’s suggestive pout or Jamie’s trendy youth-speak, has stayed in the shadows for years while a multitude of celebrity chefs have risen to prominent glory, pontificating about what we should and shouldn’t eat, making us feel guilty if we haven’t got an allotment, herb garden and free range chickens hurtling around our gardens. Making us feel – or it is just me? – that we are hopeless cooks.
Being a Norwich City supporter it is hardly surprising that Delia has kept her head down for a while, but she has risen like a phoenix to knock Jamie and co off the top spot. Move over Gordon, 66-year-old Delia is head chef again, master of the apron strings, top dog in the kitchens.
And it’s all thanks to Delia’s How To Cheat At Cooking. Everyone is talking about it, even me.
And food manufacturers are rubbing their hands together with glee as Delia names the best convenience foods to cook up a storm. For example, to make a quick spinach tortelloni with leeks and Gorgonzola, she recommends fresh spinach and ricotta tortellini from either Tesco or Sainsbury’s, and dried ciabatta breadcrumbs and grated Parmesan from Tesco.
Such recommendations are expected to produce the “Delia effect” – a term included in the Collins English Dictionary in 2001 after she sent sales of cranberries through the roof after using them on television. Customers also bought 54 million extra eggs after she showed the nation how to boil or fry them.
Among recommendations in her book are Fratelli Camisa, an Italian fine food supplier that stocks Martelli pasta, spices from Seasoned Pioneers, Marks and Spencer’s roasted red and yellow peppers in oil and jalapeno peppers from the Cooks’ Ingredients range by Waitrose. Even Aunt Bessie’s instant mashed potato gets a look in.
Pre-orders on the book alone have made it a best-seller and it’s obvious why. Time. We don’t have enough of it. Yes, it would be wonderful to wander off to our vegetable patches, hand-pick lunch and rustle up a vitamin-packed dinner for the kids. But, in all reality, many of us struggle to find time to buy food, let alone cook it – let alone grow it!
The likes of Jamie Oliver make it look so easy but cooking is their job. We have jobs too, but they generally don’t involve us performing culinary miracles in front of a TV camera. After a day’s grafting, we have houses to clean, washing to cope with, families to care for, chores to do – then we have to cook. Big difference.
Of course there are those who like to cook. I see them on Master Chef every week and watch in humble admiration.
But I’m from the Delia Smith school of thought. If it’s got more than five ingredients and takes more than half an hour to cook, forget it.
Having said that, I try to cook healthily. Pasta is my staple diet. Taught by the Italians, I know who to make a tomato sauce to die for and this has served me well for more than 20 years.
I’ve amazed friends, impressed at dinner parties and managed to keep my kids well fed and happy with one basic recipe. Perhaps I should write a book about it.
In case you can’t wait that long, here’s what you do. Dollop some olive oil in a pan and fry some bacon bits (Aldi’s are good) until crispy. Keep the heat low and add some crushed garlic (TV chefs tell you not to use a crusher but what do they know?).
Give it a stir and, after a couple of minutes, add a carton of rich tomato sauce (every supermarket has some). Stir from time to time, add a bit of pepper and leave to gather flavour while you chuck any pasta of your choice into boiling water.
By the time the pasta is ready the sauce should taste delicious. Drain your pasta, add some of the sauce and give it all a good stir to stop the pasta sticking. Serve in a bowl with more sauce on top and sprinkle with hand-grated Parmesan (Aldi’s Parmesan is a great buy). Hey presto, good healthy food.
Now that, to me, is sensible cooking. I can also make a mean cappuccino and my banana and yoghurt sundaes are superb.
Aside from that, my cooking is so awful my sons let out a cheer every morning if I manage to produce boiled eggs that are runny as opposed to rock hard.
Three more cheers please – for hopeless cooks and Delia.

Crow's feet and feeling like an old bat

“LOOK at me,” I moaned. “My body is sagging, my crow’s feet are deeper than a mountain crevice, my thighs are like lumps of melting lard and everything on my entire body is heading south.” “Well mum,” said my 11-year-old kindly, “at least your eyesight is OK.”

After giving him a swift clip round the earhole, I internally reprimanded myself for being such a pathetic drip. It’s just that while men grow old and “rugged” (apparently, most women would like Sean Connery as a neighbour and he’s 77), women are seen as past it once they pass 25 (most men would like any blonde bombshell under 25 as a neighbour).

This means that, though we shouldn’t feel it, fading looks make some sensitive female souls feel devalued. As a colleague, 50 if she’s a day but she’s never told anyone her age, once put it: “Once you hit 40 you become invisible.” By that she means invisible to men. Which you might think is no bad thing, until the elderly tramps in the street have to avert their eyes because your haggard face makes them feel bilious. As a teenager and young woman you go through a period of time thinking that all wolf whistles are tediously rude.

In my 20s, I wrote a letter of complaint to a brewery in Burton because the workmen doing up a pub in the town always yelled at me when I strolled to the shops for my lunchtime sarnie. This, I pompously told Bass Brewery, was most distasteful and embarrassing and the men concerned should be severely reprimanded for their crude behaviour. If they did the same thing now I’d probably shin up the scaffolding and give them all a great big kiss. I would be ridiculously grateful.

Because, post-40, when an 80-year-old admirer tells you you’re looking good today you feel like skipping down the street. In fact, 35-plus chums start to regale each other with such incidents, because they become so rare. One happily married mum-of-two was staggered to be asked out by the bloke behind her in the supermarket queue as she bought a cooked chicken. He was buying the same thing and suggested they chewed on a leg together.

Another chum caught the eye of a passing motorist in Mickleover, who began the grinning and winking routine – until he spotted two car seats in the back of her motor. The smiles then vanished and he shot off in a Formula One heat haze of speed. Another pal was propositioned by her builder when he spotted her coming out of the shower clad only in a towel. This, she said, was the first time a man had looked at her “in that way” since 1985.

Workmen must be rather forward in an Adventures-of-a-Window-Cleaner type way because a chum was pinned to the wall by the plumber fitting her new sink. Utterly shocked, she did the obvious and offered to make him a cuppa. As if to underline to women that they are no longer attractive, when they hit 35 “beauty product” literature starts thundering through the letterbox. The letters begin something like this: “Now you have reached a certain age and your skin is maturing, it’s time to take action to hold back the passage of time.” The accompanying brochures are filled with innumerable time-defying lotions and potions to firm up sagging skin, smooth out wrinkly hands, conquer ugly cellulite, attack the ravages of time on “that delicate eye area” and even plump up your sagging backside.

This is accompanied by a picture of an offending bottom with its depressed owned looking over her shoulder in despair at her puckered posterior. Frankly, if you were depressed about your looks before the post arrived, your best bet is to dump any sales stuff for “women of a certain age” in the nearest recycling bag. My sister was so mad to receive one such brochure she stormed to my house, brandishing the offensive material, yelling: “I don’t want to look at this!

Why would I want to look at this? Why are people sending me this?” Time for a little message to the, no doubt, painfully young and rosy-cheeked marketeers out there. You may think we look awful, we may look awful, but don’t tell us we look awful or, if you are ever unfortunate enough to meet a mature-skinned woman, she will make you look awful, by biffing you in the chops. For any hapless male readers confused by the arrogant and rude reaction of younger women to their admiring glances and compliments, stop wasting your time.

Toss your compliments the way of anyone over the age of 35. They will be utterly delighted – and may even offer to share a cooked chicken leg with you.

Christmas... not

MY new neighbour was clearly shocked when I thrust my arm into the air and leapt up and down making loud whooping noises. This is what I normally do when Derby County score (please dear Lord, let them bag a goal soon).

What had he done? He had told me he hadn’t bought a single Christmas present, written a card, switched on a chaser light and definitely wouldn’t be filling his front garden with blow-up Santas. “I’m not big on Christmas,” he said in a laid-back drawl. “What do you need presents for anyway? Everybody’s got everything these days. “I suppose I’ll eventually buy a few vouchers for people so they can get what they want.

“When I was a boy I got a sweater knitted by my auntie and a second-hand bike if I was lucky.” “Oh, come on, you’re younger than me,” I snorted, “You’ll be telling me about apples and oranges next. And, by the way, does this all mean you won’t be dressing up your house like Blackpool illuminations?” He tossed his eyes heavenwards, shaking his head with a rueful grin on his face. My goal-style celebration followed his festive announcement.

I confess, my jubilant response stunned me as much as it stunned him. But I felt a giant rush of elation to know that someone was as disorganised and dismissive of the big festive hoo-ha as me. “I am so pleased to hear you say you’ve done practically nothing yet,” I told him gleefully. “I’ve not bought a card yet, let alone written one. And I hate the Christmas crush in town, wandering round aimlessly trying to buy stuff that people don’t need. “All the shops seem to have is mountains of pointless toiletry sets anyway. How many bottles of bubble bath does one person need in a lifetime? And they’ll all be half price on Christmas Eve.” Our nods of agreement were heart-warming. It’s so good when you meet a like-minded soul – especially when you’re surrounded by festive fashionistas. You know, the ones who’ve already wrapped up all their presents in sensational, colour co-ordinated gift-wrap with matching bows and twirly bits.

The smug ones. The ones who buy posh cards for the people they want to impress and go to Poundland for the rest. The ones who bought a black tree this year – or maybe the new upside down one – and smothered it in ridiculously expensive baubles. The ones who send out a round robin letter informing you of a multitude of family successes in 2007: “Justin got 15 Grade As in his GCSEs, Miranda is going to Oxford, we’ve just had a swimming pool built and I’ve taken up helicopter lessons for a bit of fun. Apart from that, 2007 has been pretty dull”.

The ones who use Christmas to show off a bit. Then there’s the festive “party season” to get to grips with. Having kids, my social life became extinct on March 14, 1996 to be exact. Yes, I get out once every couple of months. I’m not actually that bothered. What with work, chores, school homework, football training (not me, my lads) and following the Rams, my life is full to bursting.

For me, grabbing 10 minutes to read a magazine is quality time enough. Besides, life is so full on, anything else topples me into total chaos. I am now in total chaos. In the next week, I’ve got two works dos, two Christmas school concerts, one of which falls on a day I simply can’t make because of work commitments (mum guilt shocker) and two nosh-ups with pals. It’s all very nice but more nights out than I usually pack into an entire year. And there’s still the job, the housework, the homework and the football to cram in. Oh, and a few zillion cards and presents to sort out.

To ease the load my nine-year-old e-mailed me his Christmas list. It included a PS3, a laptop and a Wii. “Better go and find myself a millionaire,” I laughed. “You don’t have to get me everything mum,” he conceded. “Just the laptop would be all right.” No pressure there, then. But while older readers may now be groaning in unison over the nation’s spoilt brats of today, may I offer a little hope? In boy-world 2007, collecting football cards is currently de rigeur.

Not so different from days gone by, eh? These much-desired cards – great for swaps in the playground – cost 35p a pack. “If I can’t afford a laptop would a few Match Attack cards do?” I suggested to my son. “Yeees!” A Rams goal-style celebration followed. Don’t call me mean. I’ll throw in a second-hand bike too. And, if he’s lucky, his auntie might knit him a sweater. “I felt a giant rush of elation to know that someone was as disorganised and dismissive of the big festive hoo-ha as me.”

The nanny state

JUST back from a snow-filled winter break, the first headline to grab my attention involved the hoo-ha over packed-lunch policing at a Derbyshire school. This is nothing new, surely? Schools have been thrusting the healthy eating message down our throats for years.

My lads get nothing but shredded lettuce and cucumber in their pack-ups on account of one son getting firmly reprimanded for taking in a one-inch yogurt-filled bar coated in – dare I say it – chocolate. “But, mum,” he moaned. “I know the teachers eat biscuits and chocolate in the staff room – and loads of cake.” “Of course they don’t,” I snapped. “Your teachers only ever eat gruel washed down with sugar-free vitamin juice.” And then there was the nut bar incident which still makes my stomach churn.

I accidentally sent son number one to school with a vitamin-fortified cereal bar and failed to notice it had a smattering of nuts in it. This prompted an hysterical outburst from a girl sitting next to him at the dinner table (she wasn’t allergic to peanuts, just a drama queen and a grass) and – horror of horrors – this led to a public reprimand in assembly. And don’t lecture me about nut allergies. I am, according to one relieved parent, one of the few people who ever invites her lad round. Due to his severe allergy, no one wants the responsibility.

I know all about how lethal it can be but life is filled with risks and we can’t protect ourselves from all of them, no matter how hard we try. I was reminded of this on my holiday, which was in Austria, a wealthy European neighbour with similar values to our own. Or so I thought. When I walked into my hotel, a weird smell assailed my nostrils. It was smoke from fags, cigars, those horror cancer sticks and the toxic fumes were wafting in my direction. This was a shock for my sensitive nostrils because I had forgotten what it was like. I don’t smoke and, thanks to the no smoking laws in the UK, pubs and restaurants on our side of the pond are now free of this stink.

It’s rare that I get down to a boozer but I confess that, for me, it is a much more pleasant experience without the smoke. Pre-fag ban, you’d finish a night out smelling like an ashtray from head to foot. Smokers may not be aware of this (because their noses stop registering the stench) but us goody-two-shoes non-smokers used to have to strip off the minute we walked in from a night out, toss all our clothes into the washbasket while holding our noses and then wash our hair immediately as it, too, reeked of stale fags. But suddenly, here I was, in a breathtakingly beautiful part of Austria, surrounded by snow-capped mountains, health spas and wellness clinics, and cigarettes were back on the agenda. Being a pretty right-on place, I imagined Austria would have had a smoking ban in place before the UK – but no. I looked across the lobby and not only was a woman puffing away on a cigar but she was wearing – gird your loins – a thick, real fur coat, fur trousers (I kid you not) and fur boots.

There was so much animal skin on her, I feared she’d raided a zoo. You just don’t see people in England strolling around in animal fur. Over here, she couldn’t walk down the street without being stoned by animal activists. And if she wanted a cigar she would have had to stand outside in sub-zero temperatures in the naughty smokers’ corner. It’s clear from the above that I don’t like cigarettes. Nevertheless, witnessing a more relaxed approach to life did make me question our ultra- PC, nanny nation. Fur coats in freezing ski resorts keep you warm.

Cigarettes are bad for you but you pay your money and you take your choice. As for the obesity timebomb, the pressure we’re putting on our children to eat healthily may have the opposite affect. Fed up with being told how fat, unfit and stupid, they are, by the age of 14 they’ll be gathering in parks with bagfuls of Dunkin Donuts. Instead of sneaking off for an illicit fag or bottle of cider, they’ll be smuggling chocolate cake into their hidey-holes and gorging themselves silly on Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. I was pondering all this in Austria, only to be greeted on my return by the outrage over a five-year-old boy being warned about eating chocolate spread in his sarnies. The head – and remember she’s only being ordered about by Government loonies – backed up her strict policy by mentioning that someone once brought in three Mars bar for dinner. Crazy, yes but isn’t Britain’s whole lecturing, pontificating, patronising and rule-laden climate just one screw short of nuts? I’m thinking of emigrating to Austria...

Monday morning blues

I may be a jounalist, I may be a columnist and I may be slightly insane but there is little more important in my life right now than supporting Derby County.

Like most Rams fans I am stoical to the last and have coped well with the knocks this season.

But last Saturday's game against Spurs left me feeling at rock bottom because the scoreline in no way reflected the skill, spirit and determination shown by all the players that day. "3-0 to the referee," chanted the fans and how right they were.

A few days ago I was lucky enough to meet Rams player Jay McEveley and he was very upbeat.

He said the club was on a sound financial footing now and, though the team knew they Championship beckoned, they were convinced they would bounce straight back up, bigger and stronger.Of course, he's right!

Still on the subject of footie I couldn't help but smile at the rules laid down by new England boss Fabio Capello. Apparently, the spoilt Prem boys can't leave the table when they eat until everyone is finished. They also don't get pudding until they've eaten all their greens and if they don't clean their teeth at bedtime they get a sound thrashing.

Wags, of course, are banned, as are eating cheesy nachos in their rooms as room service is also banned. Fab has aslo complained that their hotels are too luxurious.

It's brilliant and a tad ironic. Italy is a country renowned for tossing rules to one side and going its own way.

When they first brought in the seatbelt law in Italy, people had T-shirts printed with diagonal black stripes to fool the police.

Our prem boys could never think of anything so clever to slip past Fabio's fab rules. A bit of Army discipline is just what they need. Fab fab!