Life & Times of a Failed Domestic Goddess



Finally I am in the blogosphere. Is the air more rarefied here? Or does it seem a little crowded already.

Domestic Goddess. I had aspired to that in the early Noughties when London was our playground. Between sipping Chocolate Martini’s at The Great Eastern Dining Room, obsessing about SJ’s alter-ego with the girlfriends and watching all those Nigella Lawson cooking shows it just seem apt.

How so effortlessly soigné she appeared after a day with two kids in her gorgeous Hampstead Heath home. That super organised pantry, the elegance with which she was able to whip up a mid-week dinner party, put the kids to bed then sneak downstairs for a massive chocolate cake nightcap. What was there not to like?

When my first child came along, I was working in fashion – reporting on London Fashion Week, red carpet events, plus doing some sartorial PR for a young designer, I bounced back from baby-brain and was able to get back into working. Nobody was more surprised than me! I was putting on fancy frocks and kitten heels as I headed confidently out the door every morning, albeit with a stopover at the neighbourhood daycare first.

We had no domestic help at home. I was the domestic goddess.

So when did I fail?

You have to come join me on my descent. That mad roller coaster of a woman trying to carve a glimmer of glamour in the world of domestic chaos.

It was always going to be a battle.