Читать книгу The Mumpreneur Diaries: Business, Babies or Bust - One Mother of a Year - Mosey Jones - Страница 41

I got back from an interview at 9.45 am and am already so tired I don’t know what to do with the day. BBC Breakfast rather deliciously wanted me on at 7ish to talk about the insanity that is Nannycams – plastic trinkets that ‘hide’ a camera where you can check up on the hired help. I have never seen anything that so obviously screams WE’RE WATCHING YOU! If you’re so scared about leaving your children alone, don’t. And if you have to, do your research, don’t just abandon them with the local psycho and hope for the best, secure in the knowledge that if they’re being slapped six ways from Saturday, you can watch it all happen 40 miles and two hours away.

Despite a background as a cynical hackette, I still get excited about the prospect of being on the goggle box (if TV is a goggle box, does that make a computer the google box?). The first time I was on TV it was about men being useless at home. I suggested on air that they weren’t and that division of labour was key. However, as my maths isn’t up to squat, division of labour at our house comes down to: work divided by 2 = emptying dishwasher by husband + rest of everything by me.

And I suspect the first time I was on I couldn’t have been too coherent, since I was horrifically hungover. When I got the call the night before (being called onto BBC Breakfast is all very urgent, last-minute stuff and is a deeply thrilling ‘I only got the call at 6 pm the night before and simply didn’t have a thing to wear’ affair), I got all overexcited and insisted on bending the Husband’s ear about how great I was going to be over several gins and bottles of white. As I was being conveyed in a luscious Jag – nice to see the wise use of my licence fee, Auntie, by the way – to Broadcasting House at 5 am the following day, or it could have been the same night for that matter, I was clutching my 2-litre bottle of water very tightly and attempting to turn my eyeballs from pink back to white. The make-up ladies were very sympathetic and didn’t mention the fact that I was sweating pure ethanol. And apparently studio lights are so strong they bleach out your eyes anyway, hence the orange pancake make-up.

This time I didn’t make the mistake of staying up all night drinking. Instead I stayed up all night breastfeeding. The pink eyes were still there and instead of ethanol I seemed to be sweating Gold Top. What poor Sian Williams thinks of me I do not know.

But even with an hour’s sleep and leaking boobs, I’m ducking and diving, doing deals. Once I was back in the green room (an affront to trades descriptions since it is the orange broom cupboard), I had a chance to chat with the bloke I was pontificating on screen with. He’s the publisher of a dads’ mag and I’m anxious to get my foot in the door. Much as I’m getting excited by my nascent mumciergery, wonga for words is what’s currently paying the bills and it’s good to have a standby. I loosely pitch a couple of ideas at him and leave it at that.