A Play Date With Poshy McPoshface (the sequel) and

So…you survived a play date round at Poshy McPoshface’s. You’ve spent the weeks following trying to decide what to wear on the day you receive the Victoria Cross for bravery.

But, what fresh hell is this?

Your children have been asking when Poshy and her brood are coming round…

“But you promised!” features heavily in their argument and, ultimately, even Poshy McPoshface clapping her Chanel eyeliner lined peepers on your Petit Filous-stained TK Maxx cushions is a more bearable outcome than weeks of listening to the kids whinge.

Everything is unusually clean ahead of Poshy’s visit.

The sacred mound of faded receipts and important letters, some of which date back to 2012, is shoved into the nearest kitchen drawer, along with the hope of the pile ever being sorted through.

You imagine archaeologists finding that pile of receipts in hundreds of years’ time and using it to form a picture of what 21st Century life was like. They’ll conclude that we were a Pinot Grigio guzzling species with a penchant for Mini Rolls.

The other giveaway that posh visitors are imminent is the glass coffee table, now transparent for the first time since your eldest child learnt to walk in 2011.

The minutes before Poshy’s arrival are crucial.

They involve a delicate process of shovelling contraband (Happy Meal toys and one-legged Barbies) into the bathroom cabinet and hissing at the children that they must NOT pick their noses, pass wind or talk about the day Mummy accidentally called Daddy a b*****d.

A quick dousing of the house in a nice, probably carcinogenic, air freshener takes place to mask the smell of the 5-day old spaghetti bolagnaise sludge lurking at the bottom of the bin, and the rectal habits of your children.

“Poshy must never ever know that my children fart,” you think to yourself giving the kitchen an extra little spray.

All of a sudden your house is plunged into darkness.

You realise that Poshy has arrived and her gigantic newborn of a 4×4 is eclipsing your entire property as it sleeks its way into the parking space.

Peering out of the kitchen window you catch Poshy’s elegant ascent towards the back door.

She’s delicately balancing a box of pastries in one hand and a riotously colourful bouquet of exotic flowers in the other. Flowers that don’t even have cellophane wrapping. Flowers that are tied with that posh fecking fancy string that looks like brown bailer twine to the untrained (unposh) eye.

“Kids! Don’t tell her you watch TV…or eat fish fingers…or that Mummy buys clothes in Asda….or sometimes tells special grown-up jokes about her to Daddy” you hiss one last warning to the kids and dive to open the front door for Poshy and her immaculate, Ralph Lauren-clad children.

“Darling!!!!” Poshy breezes through the doorway in a cloud of ridiculously expensive-smelling perfume and air kissing.

Of course, her children wipe their feet on the mat and you silently celebrate the first action the mat has seen since its purchase in 2015.

The children, with their blissfully innocent ignorance to rank and class, immediately begin chattering and bustle excitedly towards the play room.
You silently pray they don’t find the Minion Fart Blaster you chucked down the back of the sofa in the minutes prior to Poshy’s arrival.

Poshy talks about her latest avocado-based diet, trips to Switzerland and her delightful, rich and very shiny husband who makes yours look like a cross between Rab C. Nesbitt and a pantomime horse.

You talk about your bread-based diet and trips to far flung places, like Ikea.

“Mummee?” comes the refined call of a child you know not to be one of yours given how the word is politely spoken and not growled out through a mouthful of Jaffa Cake.

“Where on this TV do I plug in my Super Cool Technoloigcally Advanced Uber Brilliant Futuristic Gadget of 22nd Century Dreams?” (you can’t remember the exact name).

“Oh he can never find the port on our plasma portal to another universe at home either.” (Or something like that) giggles Poshy as she glides towards the playroom to assist.

Then comes, “Oh. I’m not sure this TV has one son.” And you immediately know that Poshy has discovered you’re poor and have had the same TV since time immemorial.

“More chance of finding a slot for a cassette tape than a thingy-ma-bobber-cable,” you mutter under your breath wondering what your tea would taste like if it was laced with wine.

Poshy puts on an applaudably brave face eating the delicacies you serve-up for afternoon tea. Ham sandwiches and Party Rings, obviously.

Before you know it, and probably sooner than planned following the terror of having to eat ham sandwiches, Poshy is upstanding and announcing that she needs to head home to let the cleaner in.

You find yourself beginning to take proper breaths at last.

You’re nearly out of the woods.

Your kids didn’t try to cough crumbs at Poshy’s kids, or fling open the cabinet housing the one-legged Barbies.

You are literally winning at life right now.

Rubbing shoulders with the rich.

Maybe you’re classier than you thought!

Maybe you’ll get a cleaner too.

Maybe even…..“Mummy remember the time Daddy said ‘SHAT’!!!!! HAHAHAHAHA!!!!!” squeals one of your children, high on Party Ring additives.

And that is the precise moment you know you are not winning at life and will never, ever be posh.


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