Well, a rich gypsy appears to have tagged me with a ‘meme‘ (note use of cool blogspeak, have become trendy blogging-type person), which appears to mean that I am forced to answer lots of questions of a deeply personal nature. Being a shy retiring little flower, I do so hate talking about myself (says the woman who positively enjoys job interviews – Ed,) but hey…

What were the three things you wanted to be growing up?

When I was very young I wanted to be in Pan’s People because they got to wear nice frocks, danced a lot and had lovely hair.

At secondary school I remember telling everyone that I was going to be a) a journalist and b) a millionaire, until I worked out that journalists had deadlines and a) was pretty much incompatible with b).

Thereafter I variously decided that I was going to be an air traffic controller (at the risk of offending the many thousands of air traffic controllers who are no doubt avidly perusing this blog, I’m not sure what I was thinking of at this point), an interpreter and a diplomat. I gave up on that idea when I realised that one had little say about where one was sent (so it was unlikely that I’d be sent immediately to a glamorous little embassy in Paris or Rome) and also that I am the most undiplomatic person on the planet.

So there was nothing for it but to become an investment banker, which I did for eight years, before realising that I absolutely loathed it.

I’d still like to be a millionaire though.

[I think I will answer the next questions as part of an occasional series, before I manage to bore all three of my readers to death]

Am very proud mama.

Today my baby girl lurched forward two tiny, shuffling, protesting, UNSUPPORTED paces and became a toddler.

I’ve never known much about my father’s parents. 

My father died nearly twenty years ago now and he himself had very few memories of his parents who were killed during the war.  He would have been about nine when they died, but never knew them very well, as he was evacuated to Cornwall at the age of six and before that had been in and out of hospital.

I was never even quite sure of my grandparents’ names and the only photo we have is of my grandfather. I must admit that one of the main reasons for going to visit my aunt was to see if I could find out a little bit more about the family before it was too late.

Well, my aunt excelled herself. Not only was she full of memories and anecdotes about her parents – she is two years older than my father which made all the difference memory-wise – but she also had a treasured photo album, full of pictures of her parents, pictures of herself and my father as children and even pictures of my father as a baby. 

And so for the first time I came face to face  with my grandmother.  Facially we don’t look very alike, but I have her eyes and for the first time can see where my tendency to plumpness and ample bosomage comes from.  The above is the earliest and most formal photo my aunt has of her.  The others show a very jolly-looking woman whom I wish I’d known. 

I am now full of questions.  How come she didn’t have her children until she was 39 and 41 respectively?  How did she manage to nab herself a handsome toyboy 11 years her junior? (The Husband is 7 years younger than me, so running after young boys is clearly a congenital proclivity.)  And what was it like to have your six-year old son and eight-year old daughter evacuated and hardly see them for years?  Using the new information I have I was able to find her on the 1901 census. She and her sisters are there,  living with their Welsh parents in a grocer’s shop in London.  I appear to come from a long line of shopkeepers, so it’s nice to know that in other ways I’m keeping up the family tradition. 

The end of her story is a tragic one.  My grandparents moved from London to Cheltenham, presumably to be closer to their children, and, according to their ID cards, both worked in an aircraft factory there.  They were killed by German bombing in Weston-super-Mare – the family story is that they were on their way to see the children in Cornwall. When I Googled for their names on the off-chance, the first thing that came up is the Weston-super-Mare Blitz War Memorial, an online list of everyone who lost their lives due to enemy action in the town.  It is somehow nice to know that their names will live online for posterity.

My aunt believed that her parents were killed by a freak accident, by a German plane discharging unused bombs on its way home.  The reality is more sobering.  The same lovely person who researched the War Memorial has discovered that in fact heavy bombing of Weston-super-Mare was a reprisal for the bombing of Bremen, because they thought Winston Churchill was in the area after returning from the US. 

My father hardly knew his parents, my aunt still misses them even now and I never got to meet my jolly-looking grandmother.  Who knew that the bombing of Bremen would have such profound and tragic consequences for us all?  As I look at the photos of the grandparents I never knew, the politics of the war have finally become personal and I’m finding it all both intensely moving and very sad.

Some questions.

Aren’t the Kaiser Chiefs just a Jam tribute band? 

Weren’t Prince and Kanye about a gazillion times better than anyone else?

Is anyone else thrilled that Coldplay have decided to take a break? 

What is Chris Martin doing with a Kevin Keegan perm? (Poor Gwyneth).

How did James Blunt survive in the Life Guards with that voice?

Was this the final nail in the coffin of Chris Evans’ career?

When will someone tell Madonna (whom I admire greatly) that her long stringy hair looks awful? Totally wrong colour and completely wrong for her face shape.

Feel much better having got that off my chest. Next stop the Oscars I think…

Went to see a supplier today (remember the gorgeous Darling It’s Perfect earrings? – well they’re going to be on the site VERY soon). 

I put on dangly fan earrings (impossible to wear with a grasping baby), lots of lippy (no danger of it being wiped off with snotty kisses) and walked out feeling very light and carefree and strangely underdressed. 

It took me some time to work out why – instead of my usual huge changing bag full of bottles of milk, sippy cups full of water, miscellaneous snacks, soggy rusks, mussies, nappies, bibs, assorted large picture books, Small Clanger, telephones (Minx’s and mine), bottles of suntan cream (heaven knows why in an English February) and a small plastic tambourine, I just had a small handbag containing purse, keys, phone and lipstick.  Of such pleasures heaven is made.

The meeting was in Clerkenwell and afterwards I called the Husband, who works nearby, who took me for a delicious lunch at the Zetter.  We looked at each other awkwardly, conscious only of the large, buggy-shaped, absence at the table.  What on earth do couples, going out for their first lunch sans baby talk about?  But of course, we talked about her.

Am feeling a bit despondent at the moment as orders have tailed off dramatically after Valentines Day and and the Independent-fuelled flurry earlier in the month.

The problem is that mirror mirror is currently in the wonderful world of ‘breakeven’ ie. we only just about make enough each month to cover our costs, which is all faintly depressing (particularly when Christmas, when we do much more than breakeven, is so far away). Sometimes this business feels like pushing a huge boulder downhill.  It seemed to gain momentum over Christmas but it’s got bogged down a bit now and I need to push at it a bit more again.

I know in my heart of hearts that online retail is a volume business, that I just need to keep going and hopefully the volume of orders will continue to build gradually so that we flip easily into profit each month.  However we’re not quite there yet and every time we get a dip in orders I worry that it’s all going pear-shaped and I will be left with thousands of pounds worth of unsold stock. (The Husband says I overdramatise things somewhat).

I didn’t make the above graph, but am finding it strangely reassuring as it’s telling me that this is the classic pattern for a small business.  I read somewhere that the start-up period was basically a competition to get the business to a stage where it can cover its basic costs before you run out of money to invest. Once you’ve got to that stage you know you’ve won and can then focus on growing the business.  Scarily though most small businesses never get there.

"THIS season I have been inspired by a strong spirited, mysterious and yet utterly glamorous woman with more than a touch of Du Maurier’s Rebecca De Winter," Amanda Wakeley wrote in her show notes. "She lives dangerously, drives too fast, flirts expertly and dresses immaculately."

I want her to shop at mirror mirror …

(This image from Wakeley’s new collection shows what I’m going to wear when I become a foot taller and ginormous post-breastfeeding boobs shrink into beestings.)