WHEN MISTER P TURNED TWO //

My social calender for Sunday extended to a two year old’s birthday party- indeed, living on the edge. I hopped on a train, travelled the length and breadth of the South East- Sunday engineering works. Yay. Just love them. You?- and finally arrived in Chelsea daaahhhhrrling for my favourite tot’s football-themed birthday bonanza.

Washed down with a glass or five of the fizzy stuff, I ate my body weight in posh nosh. Drippy buttery lobster cake loveliness (with next day’s lingering stench of garlic not quite so lovely), mushy yummy mozzarella balls and an absolute sensation of a salad were among the offerings devoured- by which point I declared all attempts at the Dukan Diet an epic fail. A cheese board and rainbow birthday cake followed, as well as a cupcake or two- my dislike of cheesecake thankfully avoiding yet another calorific catastrophe.

The mutt-loving birthday boy in question was delighted to see one guest in particular; an eight week old “awwww”-inducing Yorkiepoo that provided entertainment for everyone, not least the kiddiewinkles. (Top tip to parents: forget the ludicrously expensive children’s entertainer- borrow a puppy!)

Slobbery kiddie kisses were shared, piñatas smashed and drinkies drunk before I bid a fond farewell to my fellow party-goers and those fab party-throwers. Armed with a doggie bag the size of the weekly shop- making for the most AH-MAY-ZING desk picnic on Monday (I was salivating so much it was almost indecent)- I boarded the train and thanked my lucky stars I’d arrived early enough to sneak my recession-proof purchase behind the gifted bags of Burberry. (Though I hear he loves my foam bat and ball.)

A SMASHING shindig you say? Abso-bloody-lutely! I don’t envy the next raggermuffin to turn two.

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