Mostly, I just bring Sebastian with me. He's old enough now to sit up and be mildly entertaining, and he eats normal food. (By eats, I mean he swallows it, but it also goes up his nose and he paints interesting abstract artworks of spinach waterfalls, for example, down his front.)
My aunt from New Zealand, I mean, New Zaylin, was in town over the last week to visit my cousin, and she stayed with us a few nights.
We went to high tea at The Orangery. (Recommended. But better if you don't have a baby who is two hours late for his nap and is cranky as fuck, so screams the Victorian cornices down with his lungs. Better still, don't bring a baby at all.)
A collar at high tea is very fetching.
It sits about 14 metres from William and Kate's private garden and wing of the Palace. Which doesn't matter in the slightest, only I mention it as it looks almost quite accessible.
The thing that's strangely and pleasantly odd about this such Palace, is that it doesn't really have high fences and ostentatious security everywhere. Buckingham Palace has more than enough of that to go around, with it's mile high golden gates, actual guards and so forth. Pomp and ceremony for all our American friends.
I suppose The Queen is quite security aware. And not really into Trellidors, so the high fences have to do.
Kensington is more low key. You have the gates (standard), for show, and then you have this piddly little green fence circling around the front of it.
Not even electrified. There's a camera every few yards or so, I mean, I nearly hurdled over it just to see what would happen.
Anyway, that's the vibe there and somehow it's all cool.
So we had a glorious high tea (after Sebby fell asleep....much to the relief of all the patrons there, trying to enjoy their cucumber sandwiches and Battenburgs. Excruciating.)
We also got a sitter one night and headed to Jamie's Fifteen in Islington for cocktails and good food.
I haven't mixed my wine and cocktails in a while - it hurt the next day.
I had the pork chops, that parted like butter when my knife went through it - I mean, the last time I remember my knife doing that was when I was in Argentina, attacking a beef fillet - usually pork chops are kind of tough.
Not this guy. It was superb.
The next day I felt nauseas, the entire day. It wasn't the chop. It was a drink called 'Veshper' that did that.
And with a child, the Brit and I remembered why we only do this one in a blue moon now.
Luckily the chop - and evening in general - was worth it.
I went to go and get my hair cut.
All my hair is falling out. I suspect I'll be bald by October (er, tomorrow...) , so I went to my hairdressers, who are open late into the night - because it's the sort of establishment that turns into a pub.
Where people cut hair and get drunk. An interesting and edgy combination.
Anyway, they were serving cake and wine when I went over, which is very nice.
The lady who cut my hair this time had three bullrings in her nose, was Italian and spoke very little English, and had dreadlocks.
Now, call me old-fashioned, but ordinarily, this would've made me nervous. Luckily, these days my nerves are dulled by lack of sleep and a general nonchalance towards giving a shit, so I let her have it.
"My hair is falling out. Please take off at least three inches off the bottom."
I knew my hair might fall out after pregnancy, but why the delay? It's suddenly happening, and in clumps.
I told the Brit I was thinking about going 'mumsy the whole way' and getting an 'shoulder-length bob.'
He just about had a cadenza. Now whose old fashioned? He told me I must never cut my hair. Ever.
I knew he liked long hair, but forever's quite a long time to have the same hairstyle isn't it?
It was vaguely enjoyable, because the Italian lady was very nice in fact, and didn't try to talk to me too much, and I had a glass of wine in hand.
It never ends well when hairdressers talk too much and ask too many questions. Last time I had an awkward and shitty twins conversation with one, so when they ask me nothing and focus on the blowdrying, I'm much happier.