REESE WITHERSPOON

TOILET ROLL HOLDER

If truth be told, I found the Oscar frocks very disappointing this year.

Thought all the black was extraordinarily boring. These women can choose any dress in the world and have armies of stylists and yet all they can come up with is a Big Black Dress? (Only Rachel Weisz had any sort of an excuse).

There were no real drop-dead gorgeous frocks either this year. Controversially (since a lot of commentators seem to think it’s too busy) the mirror mirror 2006 frock Oscar goes to Naomi Watts’ pale frothy Givenchy confection. I am sure she will be thrilled.

Other random observations. Thought Reese Witherspoon looked like a loo-roll cover; liked Keira Knightley’s aubergine Vera Wang number, but not on her (anyway she is too unspeakably irritating for further comment, except to say, what’s with all the mascara love? Her eyelashes must be dreadfully tired by the end of an evening.). Does Helena Bonham Carter possess a hairbrush? Why does J-Lo persist with the Croydon facelift? Is Charlize Theron blind? Who told Michelle Wotsit that canary yellow was elegant and glamorous? When will someone tell Nicole Kidman that she looks absolutely dreadful in white?

AND THE OSCAR GOES TO

	Take one stunning springtime walk in Richmond Park. Add a delicious roast lunch cooked by lovely friends. And garnish with your favourite chocolate labrador.

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I think I have alluded elsewhere to the unhealthy obsession I conceived for Strictly Come Dancing (the UK version of Dancing with the Stars). Hey, I’m a mother – reality TV and a takeaway is my idea of a fun evening. Halfway through the series I also conceived an unhealthy obsession for the cricketer Darren Gough. I have to say that he’d never appeared remotely near my radar before – I was aware of who he is, as I quite like cricket on a good day, but he’d always seemed to me to be a bit of a Yorkshire dolt (apologies if you’re reading Darren).

But as the series went on his sheer enjoyment of the dancing, his infectious enthusiasm, his 100% commitment and the way he was turning into a pretty nifty dancer despite having a totally un-dancerlike physique (and, if I may say so, turning into a pretty fit guy as he lost weight through the dancing) completely won me over. With a few rounds of the competition to go I was having a quick look at Digital Spy (the equivalent of the water cooler for people working from home) and realised I wasn’t the only one. We’re not usually betting people, but I persuaded the Husband that the Dazzler was worth a flutter at 6-1.

There are few things more satisfying in life (yes, I know this makes me sadder than sad) than to have your favourite win a reality TV show while you end up £120 richer.

So, last night Darren treated us to a belated Valentines dinner at the Notting Hill Brasserie. The ‘brasserie’ bit is a bit of a misnomer – this is a serious grown-up restaurant with food (and prices) to match, though the impeccably friendly service, live jazz music and glamorous clientele means that it feels buzzy and intimate rather than serious and stuffy. The food was absolutely to die for – if I told you I had scallops with herbed gnocchi and shallots, followed by chicken with wild mushrooms, roasted garlic, truffled mashed potatoes and spinach, it wouldn’t begin to describe how perfectly cooked, melt-in-the-mouth and absolutely delicious each element was. So Darren, if you’re reading, thanks a bundle.

S o, the next question that the rich gypsy asked was as follows….

You have 2 minutes and a mover with you if you need heavy lifting help, to grab 5 things from your home before it morphs into a polka dotted hobgoblin and hops away. What will you take? (Food/drink/family/friends excluded …)

I thought this would be easy as I’m not a particularly sentimental person and I don’t particularly collect old things, so I don’t have much which is completely irreplaceable, and I looked around me and thought, ‘well yes, I hope the house does morph into a hobgoblin, as those sofas are definitely looking more shabby than chic,’ but then I thought about it some more and it became more and more difficult…

• My computer (or more accurately, my hard disk)

It is quite incredible to think how much of my life is now stored in this machine. It contains my whole business – all the financial records, product photographs, supplier contact details, business plan etc. It contains literally thousands of photos and videos of my baby, very few of which have made it into oldfashioned print form. It contains all the contact details of all my friends, together with reams and reams of email correspondence which I carefully save in readiness for the day when someone wants to write my biography. It contains all my recent notes and thoughts and plans and wishes and dreams.

I think I will back it up tonight.. (Now I think about it, I’m going to have to sneak my Ipod into my back pocket at the same time).

• The family archive

My parents both died when I was quite young and most of what I have left of them is a huge box of photos and family documents, including albums my mother made when she was a young girl/woman in Italy, precious snippets of my parents on old cine films (now transferred to video), my father’s school reports, their wedding photos and all the photos of me, my brother and my sister growing up. I was devastated a few years ago when the cardboard box I was storing everything in got damp and many irreplaceable photos were ruined (yes, you don’t have to tell me). So now everything is unglamorously stored in a big plastic crate from Muji (though very practical for hobgoblin-related emergencies)

I’d also throw my wedding album into the box. We got married a couple of years before digital photography really took off so if we wanted to replace any photos we’d still be in the realms of negatives and reprints. It also contains the only extant (I believe) copies of the wedding invitations and orders of service we painstakingly made by hand….

• The mosaic in the bathroom

You did say it would be possible to remove walls didn’t you? In the early days of our marriage I was transferred to Rome to work for a few months. The Husband was casting around for a project to while away the long lonely evenings without me and decided to mosaic the bathroom (!)

We designed it ourselves (I was in charge of concept and colours, the Husband was in charge of meticulous sketching, and planning it out on large sheets of brown paper). When I got back from Rome the mosaic was still only a quarter finished so we spent the next few months working on it nearly every evening until our fingers were sore from cutting up millions of tiles. We nearly divorced many times over the bloody thing. But it still gives me huge pride and pleasure every time I look at it and is one of the reasons I absolutely do not want to move. (Just the thought of the new owners smashing it off the walls makes me quite ill).

• My chandelier

For a recent rather important birthday, the Husband enquired what to buy me. I wanted to something really special and frivolous and long-lasting and unusual. So in the end we settled for ‘jewellery for the home’ in the shape of a funky modern chandelier, which I’d seen in some interiors mag or other.

It is the real deal, imported from Germany via mint, and unpacking and arranging each one of its 36 different Swarovski crystal charms was just so exciting. So you can imagine how thrilled I was to see Heal’s doing a knock-off version only a few months later….

• My 1901 cast-iron roll top bath OR my set of little spindly dining room chairs OR my new mattress

Can’t decide. The bath came with the flat and me and the Husband have shared many happy moments within it….

My six little spindly chairs were found in a junk shop on Portobello. I have no idea how old they are or where they come from (I fondly imagine they look French) but I love them dearly….

My new mattress means that I sleep like a whole forest full of logs and wake up every morning feeling like I’ve had a holiday. I don’t know how I lived without it.

Afternoon tea. In the Orangery. We wrestle with our babies while tourists watch disapprovingly (the place is full of mothers, babies and Americans). A few tables along, Claudia Schiffer. Also wrestling with her babies. And her roots needed doing. Nice to know that motherhood is no respecter of persons.

As regular as clockwork the Minx starts a new cold three to four days after attending nursery. Today’s cold has been particularly nasty, resulting in early rising, lots of crying and general grumpiness, punctuated by the most astonishing amount of sneezing.

I feel terrible seeing my poor little girl so sad and know that tomorrow we’re going to have to spend the day miserably at home instead of going to the Anna Piaggi exhibit at the V&A as planned. I just wish it didn’t feel so much like retribution for sending her to nursery in the first place.