Friday 21 March 2008
Galvanised into action by the sudden vacuum in the family finances I kick the Husband out of the house on Good Friday to fetch chocolate eggs and distract the children while I get on with some work. I still need brand names – mum4hire? Mumsitters? – and a website, posters, fliers…
This leads me to making yet more to-do lists with action points and division of tasks between my Partner in Crime and me, involving neatly folded paper and different coloured pens. I have always had this fetish: I have written the list, ergo the job has been done. Which of course it hasn’t and I’ve spent so long cataloguing jobs to do I no longer have any time left to do them. The Husband is now back with the children – one of them is high on chocolate and the other is desperate for some boob. Project millionaire is postponed for another day.
Saturday 22 March 2008
At last the unmistakable franked envelope from my first ever publisher plops heavily through the letter box. I’m not ashamed to say I practically drop the baby on the floor in the rush for it. Figures baffle me at the best of times but I’m fairly sure that the number of minus signs next to four- and five-figure numbers is not encouraging. Matched by the virtual tumbleweed blowing through my online banking account I think it’s safe to say that those minus signs mean what I think they do. To cheer myself up, I hop in the car to go to the supermarket. I intend to spend next month’s freelance income (not actually commissioned but hey, it’s on the list) on baby trinkets and wine.
Or that is the intention but I am in such a hurry that I prang my neighbour’s car while executing a speedy three-point turn. He is parked on the double yellows that are there precisely to give you enough space to do a three-point turn without hitting any parked cars. I call the insurance company and pretend to be on their side:
‘I hit his driver-side bumper but it’s only a wee scratch really.’
‘So it’s your fault, madam?’
‘Ye-es, but he’s parked on the double yellows that are there to let you turn safely. Really, it’s his fault because he shouldn’t have parked there in the first place. If it’s his fault then you should refuse to pay. That I get to keep my No Claims is neither here nor there.’
‘But, madam, you were moving, he was not. Therefore, it’s your fault, your claim, your insurance and your No Claims, I’m afraid. I’d say you were into him by about £500.’
‘Bugger.’
It’s not 1 April yet, is it?
Thursday 3 April 2008
You know that you’re a proper mumpreneur when you find yourself fixing your make-up in the dark in an underground car park using little more than Touche Éclat and a pair of blue Noddy pants, age 2-3.
I’m venturing out into the big wide world today. Often there aren’t just days but weeks when I don’t go much further than the edge of the village. But today I’m going up to town, to the smoke, to London. I’ve arranged to meet an old contact from my PR days who knows a bit about start-up businesses and how to go about getting them going.
The thrill of being allowed back into the world of the grown-ups (mothers’ corner at playgroup doesn’t count) is swiftly extinguished by yet another wardrobe crisis. That joey pouch is refusing to budge despite me spending the last four weeks pounding on the treadmill. Bosoms are also an issue, insofar as they don’t stay inside anything that’s not made of metres of cotton jersey. Shirts are a definite no-no as my cleavage is paying tribute to Debbie Does Dallas. I eventually drag on a dress which somehow manages to be both frumpy (hemline) and whoreish (neckline) at the same time. Hopefully the Pepto-Bismol-hued pashmina will distract my friend’s attention.
At least this time I remember the breast pads. Three weeks ago I was happily burbling away at Henry K on the radio show when I felt the telltale tingle under my armpits. This signals that I have exactly thirty seconds to deploy padding before the milk dam bursts and my top starts to darken in two very unmistakable ways. Halfway through dissecting the American Presidential Primaries I nonchalantly crossed my arms, hoping no one noticed me trying to stem the tide. I’m sure Henry thought it slightly odd that I kissed him goodbye and tried to leave the studio at the end of the show still with my arms firmly crossed over my chest.
My meeting today is instructive:
Could I cope if lots of mums wanted to use the service straight away? (Probably, maybe, in fact no, not really.)
Could I survive financially if no one used it straight away? (See 1.)
Had I thought about marketing, had I developed a distinct brand and did I have a budget set aside for it? (Yes, no and although I have a percentage of revenues set aside for marketing, 10 per cent of nothing is still nothing so, no.)
Was there a distinct division of labour between Partner in Crime and me to establish roles, boundaries, remuneration, etc. (No, in fact I haven’t seen her in ages. Must do something about that.)
Had I arranged my tax, insurance, qualifications, criminal record checks, etc.? (No, no, no and um, no. Oh dear.)
There’s a saying: ‘If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.’ Well, there are precious few solutions that come out of my meeting but a massive list of problems. At least I had a fairly comprehensive to-do list. I suppose I should be depressed that I thought I was good to go and it seems that I’m not even 5 per cent of the way to getting going on my own. But strangely I’m not. Now I’ve got my list of things to get on with, and if they’re all completed satisfactorily, I should have me a business.
Saturday 5 April 2008
Boy One has a date at his friend’s birthday party. Twenty screaming children aged three and four rampaging round a playbarn fuelled by cheesy puffs, cake and lemonade. This doesn’t frighten me as much as perhaps it should because:
it’s someone else’s party,
in someone else’s building, and
in two hours Boy One will experience a massive sugar
crash and lie comatose and drooling in front of The Lion King until it’s time for an early bed.
Therefore I can look forward to a longish period of peace and quiet this evening. I think I may sleep. Haven’t done that for a while.
Sunday 6 April 2008
Party was a great success except Boy One is now determined to have his own bash there in September. This will, I fear, be expensive and painful. However it has made me realise something about starting up this concierge service. Managing people doesn’t bother me, the tax situation is baffling but I’m sure I’ll figure it out. Setting up websites and whatnot is actually quite fun (new career as an IT wonk? Not impossible). But, by offering a party helper service as part of our package, it dawns on me that I could be stuck in a kids’ party filled with hyperactive three-year-olds every Saturday from now until the hereafter. This is terrifying.
I also give Boy One his biannual haircut today. I usually wait until 40-year-olds start saying, ‘What a pretty girl!’ before deciding he needs a trim. We’re going for the long-locked surfer dude look at the moment. The haircutting experience usually consists