Provence meets Chigwell

It's strange really as I've found it unsettling being around so many English again on holiday in Provence. I must feel at home now in Paris as despite having the crazy son myself, it's irritating having other families noisy children biting at your ankles. Honestly though, some of the English parents are even more annoying than their offspring. Surrey WAG was omnipresent with her gormless but no doubt fabulously nouveau riche husband and their brood of three. Assumed number four was on the way but she said she's eaten too much foie gras. Luckily, before I congratulated her. She turned out to be desperately friendly which just makes you feel like a meanie for such negative judging.

Since my husband turned manorexic (obsessed with eating the right foods) and downloaded the 100 press ups in a minute iPhone app, he's been confidently hanging around the pool. His six pack is almost complete - a new 'I'm almost 40 now' obsession. Son's potty training has gone to s!£@. Literally. I downed a champagne almost in one at the shock of seeing him pee all over the stone floor in full view of the smart restaurant diners. Mortified doesn't begin to describe it. Keen as mustard daughter found another young male admirer - we're not supposed to call them Cougars now, are we? Anyway, Samuel from LA was 6 and had more than a touch of the mini movie moguls about him, speaking in a droll, deep, semi-patronising manner. Daughter meanwhile was far more interested in analysing the 'constellation of stars' than the virtue of the Nintendo Wii in the VIT room (Very Important Teens room) that had been stormed by sugar-high, not so important 5-10 year olds whose parents didn't want to pay vast sums for babysitters while they dined.

Heaven and pees

I am sitting by the pool in Provence en famille after a week in Nice with blonde, 30 year old single mum friend (who claims she's getting old. Hello?!) and her 5 year old beach loving son who worships smart daughter like she's a mini Goddess. 

Here in Provence, 8 year old daughter is having an accidental  private swim lesson. I say accidental as she'd cannily signed herself up for kids club swim which turned out to be a session with a French natation expert extrordinaire. And there was I thinking she'd just be playing with new little friends. A challenging lesson however was just how she likes it. Relaxation is a dirty word in her book. She's an Aries.  

Crazy son trips off to the kids clubhouse in his new mini Havaianas, minus a nappy (only falling twice flat on his face). He's due to start Parisien school next month and nappies are a no no. Where better to train him than in the sunshine at such a heavenly location. It's ok - even I draw the line at him risking the pool au naturel. We'd be arrested for a floating log here I'm sure. This is France. While coaxing him onto the big loo earlier, he endearingly stared up at it and asked if he'd need a seatbelt.        

The Bicycle Thieves

If you're reading this in London, you will have seen, might even have tried, the new bikes for hire around the city. Velib, Paris's version, have been around a while and I first became excited about them when The Noise and Knows a Lot daughter were away with family in the Loire and my oldest friend came to visit for the deliciously sunny weekend. Heaven. In theory. Ordinarily, with kids OBV*, I'm a safety freak but hey, this is summer in Paris and fear of a sweaty head hairdo got the better of me so this was minus a helmet. It's ok - I know you're pre-empting an accident here and luckily there wasn't one - not of the injury kind at least. But a huge dent in my bank balance after I didn't read the Velib small print and realise that every time you stop somewhere, you dock it at the Velib station, rather than using the bike lock, or you can end up with a whopping bill, not to mention the late night search for a stolen bike and a very cross husband to add to the mix. In my dreams, child-free time is chilled, stylish and relaxed. A parallel universe like stepping through the Narnia wardrobe. My weekend that should have been Paris at its best turned into a rather less romantic version of The Bicycle Thieves.
*Just so you know I can be trusted with your little darlings at playdates.