How to Make Korean Hair Bun

Sweet Love Song ..

ONE

Lee So Jung

 

 When, I saw you for the first time
I knew you were the one.
You didn't say a word to me.
But love, was in the air.

Then you held my hand
Pulled me into your world
From then on my life
Has changed for me

Now I'll never feel lonely again
Coz you are in my life...

Love...
How can I explain to you
The way I feel inside when I think of you..
I thank you for everything that you showed me.
Don't you ever forget that I love you.

Love, I know that someday real soon
You'll be right next to me.
Holding me so tight.
So I will always be yours.
Although we can't be together now.
Remember I am here for you.

And I know you're there for me.
Whenever I want to be with you
I just close my eyes and pretend you're near
I see you, I touch you, I feel you, like real

Nothing can ever change what I feel inside.

How long must I be far away from you?
I don't know dear, but I know we are One...

The best love song :)

SHOPAHOLIC'S BOOK SERIES

Confessions of a Shopaholic

first book :

Ok. don't panic. Don't panic. It's only a VISA bill. It's a piece of paper; a few numbers. I mean, just how scary can a few numbers be?

I stare out of the office window at a bus driving down Oxford Street, willing myself to open the white envelope sitting on my cluttered desk. It's only a piece of paper, I tell myself for the thousandth time. And I'm not stupid, am I? I know exactly how much this VISA bill will be.

Sort of. Roughly.

It'll be about ... £200. Three hundred, maybe. Yes, maybe £300. Three-fifty, max.

I casually close my eyes and start to tot up. There was that suit in Jigsaw. And there was dinner with Suze at Quaglinos. And there was that gorgeous red and yellow rug. The rug was £200, come to think of it. But it was definitely worth every penny - everyone's admired it. Or, at least, Suze has.

And the Jigsaw suit was on sale - 30 percent off. So that was actually saving money.

I open my eyes and reach for the bill. As my fingers hit the paper I remember new contact lenses. Ninety-five pounds. Quite a lot. But, I mean, I had to get those, didn't I? What am I supposed to do, walk around in a blur?

And I had to buy some new solutions and a cute case and some hypoallergenic eyeliner. So that takes it up to ... £400?

At the desk next to mine, Clare Edwards looks up from her post. She's sorting all her letters into neat piles, just like she does every morning. She puts rubber bands round them and puts labels on them saying things like "Answer immediately" and "Not urgent but respond." I loathe Clare Edwards.

"OK, Becky?" she says.

"Fine," I say lightly. "Just reading a letter."

I reach gaily into the envelope, but my fingers don't quite pull out the bill. They remain clutched around it while my mind is seized - as it is every month - by my secret dream.

Do you want to know about my secret dream? It's based on a story I once read in The Daily World about a mix-up at a bank. I loved this story so much, I cut it out and stuck it onto my wardrobe door. Two credit card bills were sent to the wrong people, and - get this - each person paid the wrong bill without realizing. They paid off each other's bills without even checking them.

And ever since I read that story, my secret fantasy has been that the same thing will happen to me. I mean, I know it sounds unlikely - but if it happened once, it can happen again, can't it? Some dotty old woman in Cornwall will be sent my humongous bill and will pay it without even looking at it. And I'll be sent her bill for three tins of cat food at fifty-nine pence each. Which, naturally, I'll pay without question. Fair's fair, after all.

A smile is plastered over my face as I gaze out of the window. I'm convinced that this month it'll happen - my secret dream is about to come true. But when I eventually pull the bill out of the envelope - goaded by Clare's curious gaze - my smile falters, then disappears. Something hot is blocking my throat. I think it could be panic.

The page is black with type. A series of familiar names rushes past my eyes like a mini shopping mall. I try to take them in, but they're moving too fast. Thorntons, I manage to glimpse. Thorntons Chocolates? What was I doing in Thorntons Chocolates? I'm supposed to be on a diet. This bill can't be right. This can't be me. I can't possibly have spent all this money.

Don't panic! I yell internally. The key is not to panic. Just read each entry slowly, one by one. I take a deep breath and force myself to focus calmly, starting at the top.

WHSmith (well, that's OK. Everyone needs stationery.)

Boots (everyone needs shampoo)

Specsavers (essential)

Oddbins (bottle of wine - essential)

Our Price (Our Price? Oh yes. The new Charlatans album. Well, I had to have that, didn't I?)

Bella Pasta (supper with Caitlin)

Oddbins (bottle of wine - essential)

Esso (petrol doesn't count)

Quaglinos (expensive - but it was a one-off)

Pret à Manger (that time I ran out of cash)

Oddbins (bottle of wine - essential)

Rugs to Riches (what? Oh yes. Stupid rug.)

La Senza (sexy underwear for date with James)

Agent Provocateur (even sexier underwear for date with James. Like I needed it.)

Body Shop (that skin brusher thing which I must use)

Next (fairly boring white shirt - but it was in the sale)

Millets...

I stop in my tracks. Millets? I never go into Millets. What would I be doing in Millets? I stare at the statement in puzzlement, wrinkling my brow and trying to think - and then suddenly, the truth dawns on me. It's obvious. Someone else has been using my card.

Oh my God. I, Rebecca Bloomwood, have been the victim of a crime.

Now it all makes sense. Some criminal's pinched my credit card and forged my signature. Who knows where else they've used it? No wonder my statement's so black with figures! Someone's gone on a spending spree round London with my card - and they thought they would just get away with it.

But how? I scrabble in my bag for my purse, open it - and there's my VISA card, staring up at me. I take it out and run my fingers over the glossy surface. Someone must have pinched it from my purse, used it - and then put it back. It must be someone I know. Oh my God. Who?

I look suspiciously round the office. Whoever it is, isn't very bright. Using my card at Millets! It's almost laughable. As if I'd ever shop there.

"I've never even been into Millets!" I say aloud.

"Yes you have," says Clare.

"What?" I turn to her. "No I haven't."

"You bought Michael's leaving present from Millets, didn't you?"

I feel my smile disappear. Oh, bugger. Of course. The blue anorak for Michael. The blue sodding anorak from Millets.

When Michael, our deputy editor, left three weeks ago, I volunteered to buy his present. I took the brown envelope full of coins and notes into the shop and picked out an anorak (take it from me, he's that kind of guy). And at the last minute, now I remember, I decided to pay on credit and keep all that handy cash for myself.

I can vividly remember fishing out the four £5 notes and carefully putting them in my wallet, sorting out the pound coins and putting them in my coin compartment, and pouring the rest of the change into the bottom of my bag. Oh good, I remember thinking. I won't have to go to the cash machine. I'd thought that sixty quid would last me for weeks.

So what happened to it? I can't have just spent sixty quid without realizing it, can I?

"Why are you asking, anyway?" says Clare, and she leans forward. I can see her beady little X-ray eyes gleaming behind her specs. She knows I'm looking at my VISA bill. "No reason," I say, briskly turning to the second page of my statement.

But I've been put off my stride. Instead of doing what I normally do - look at the minimum payment required and ignore the total completely - I find myself staring straight at the bottom figure.

Nine hundred and forty-nine pounds, sixty-three pence. In clear black and white.

For thirty seconds I am completely motionless. Then, without changing expression, I stuff the bill back into the envelope. I honestly feel as though this piece of paper has nothing to do with me. Perhaps, if I carelessly let it drop down on the floor behind my computer, it will disappear. The cleaners will sweep it up and I can claim I never got it. They can't charge me for a bill I never received, can they?

I'm already composing a letter in my head. "Dear Managing Director of VISA. Your letter has confused me. What bill are you talking about, precisely? I never received any bill from your company. I did not care for your tone and should warn you, I am writing to Anne Robinson of Watchdog."

Or I could always move abroad.

"Becky?" My head jerks up and I see Clare holding this month's news list. "Have you finished the piece on Lloyds?"

"Nearly," I lie. As she's watching me, I feel forced to summon it up on my computer screen, just to show I'm willing.

"This high-yield, 60-day access account offers tiered rates of interest on investments of over £2,000," I type onto the screen, copying directly from a press release in front of me. "Long-term savers may also be interested in a new stepped-rate bond which requires a minimum of £5,000."

I type a full stop, take a sip of coffee, and turn to the second page of the press release.

This is what I do, by the way. I'm a journalist on a financial magazine. I'm paid to tell other people how to organize their money.

Of course, being a financial journalist is not the career I always wanted. No one who writes about personal finance ever meant to do it. People tell you they "fell into" personal finance. They're lying. What they mean is they couldn't get a job writing about anything more interesting. They mean they applied for jobs at The Times and The Express and Marie-Claire and Vogue and GQ, and all they got back was "Piss off."

So they started applying to Metalwork Monthly and Cheesemakers Gazette and What Investment Plan? And they were taken on as the crappiest editorial assistant possible on no money whatsoever and were grateful. And they've stayed on writing about metal, or cheese, or savings, ever since - because that's all they know. I myself started on the catchily titled Personal Investment Periodical. I learned how to copy out a press release and nod at press conferences and ask questions that sounded as though I knew what I was talking about. After a year and a half - believe it or not - I was head-hunted to Successful Saving.

Of course, I still know nothing about finance. People at the bus stop know more about finance than me. Schoolchildren know more than me. I've been doing this job for three years now, and I'm still expecting someone to catch me out.

buy it and read it .. :) the best novel i ever read !

I almost cried with laughter. - Daily Mail
This book is an indulgence that is definitely worth every penny. - New Woman

Like mother, like daughter .. !

 BUY N READ THIS NOVEL !!

NEW BOOK !

MINI SHOPAHOLIC

ONE
OK. Don’t panic. I’m in charge. I, Rebecca Brandon , am the adult. Not my two-year-old daughter.
Only I’m not sure she realizes this.
‘Minnie, darling, give me the pony.’ I try to sound calm and assured, like Nanny Sue off the telly.
‘Poneeee.’ Minnie grips the toy pony more tightly.
‘No pony.’
‘Mine!’ she cries hysterically. ‘Miiiine poneee!’
Aargh. I’m holding about a million shopping bags, my face is sweating, and I could really do without this.
It was all going so well. I’ve been round the whole shopping mall and bought all the last little things on my Christmas list. Minnie and I were heading towards Santa’s Grotto, and I only stopped for a moment to look at a dolls’ house. Whereupon Minnie grabbed a toy pony off the display and refused to put it back. And now I’m in the middle of Pony-gate.
A mother in J Brand skinny jeans with an impeccably dressed daughter walks past, giving me the Mummy Once-over, and I flinch. Since I had Minnie, I’ve learned that the Mummy Once-over is even more savage than the Manhattan Once-over. In the Mummy Once-over, they don’t just assess and price your clothes to the nearest penny in one sweeping glance. Oh no. They also take in your child’s clothes, pram brand, nappy bag, snack choice and whether your child is ­ smiling, snotty or screaming.
Which I know is a lot to take in, in a one-second glance, but believe me, mothers are multi-taskers.
Minnie definitely scores top marks for her outfit. (Dress: one-off Danny Kovitz; coat: Rachel Riley; shoes: Baby Dior.) And I’ve got her safely strapped into her toddler reins (Bill Amberg leather, really cool, they were in Vogue). But instead of smiling angelically like the little girl in the photoshoot, she’s straining against them like a bull waiting to dash into the ring. Her eyebrows are knitted in fury, her cheeks are bright pink and she’s drawing breath to shriek again.
‘Minnie.’ I let go of the reins and put my arms round her so that she feels safe and secure, just like Nanny Sue recommends in her book, Taming Your Tricky Toddler. I bought it the other day, to have a flick through. Just out of idle interest. I mean, it’s not that I’m having problems with Minnie or anything. It’s not that she’s difficult. Or ‘out of control and wilful’, like that ­ stupid teacher at the toddler music group said. (What does she know? She can’t even play the triangle properly.)
The thing about Minnie is, she’s . . . spirited. She has firm opinions about things. Like jeans (she won’t wear them), or carrots (she won’t eat them). And right now her firm opinion is that she should have a toy pony.
‘Minnie darling, I love you very much,’ I say in a gentle, crooning voice, ‘and it would make me very happy if you gave me the pony. That’s right, give it to Mummy . . .’ I’ve nearly done it. My fingers are closing around the pony’s head . . .
Ha. Skills. I’ve got it. I can’t help looking around to see if anyone’s observed my expert parenting.
‘Miiiine!’ Minnie wrenches the pony out of my arms and makes a run for it across the shop floor. Shit.
‘Minnie! MINNIE!’ I yell.
I grab my carrier bags and leg it furiously after Minnie, who has already disappeared into the Action Man section. God, I don’t know why we bother training up all these athletes for the Olympics. We should just field a team of toddlers.
As I catch up with her, I’m panting. I really have to start my post-natal exercises sometime.
‘Give me the pony!’ I try to take it, but she’s gripping it like a limpet.
‘Mine poneee!’ Her dark eyes flash at me with a resolute glint. Sometimes I look at Minnie and she’s so like her father it gives me a jolt.
Speaking of which, where is Luke? We were supposed to be doing Christmas shopping together. As a family. But he dis­ appeared an hour ago, muttering something about a call he had to make, and I haven’t seen him since. He’s probably ­ sitting somewhere having a civilized cappuccino over the newspaper. Typical.
‘Minnie, we’re not buying it,’ I say in my best firm manner. ‘You’ve got lots of toys already and you don’t need a pony.’
A woman with straggly dark hair, grey eyes and toddlers in a twin-buggy shoots me an approving nod. I can’t help giving her the Mummy Once-over myself, and she’s one of those mothers who wears Crocs over nubbly home-made socks. (Why would you do that? Why?)
‘It’s monstrous, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘Those ponies are forty pounds! My kids know better than to even ask,’ she adds, shooting a glance at her two boys, who are slumped silently, thumbs in mouths. ‘Once you give in to them, that’s the ­ beginning of the end. I’ve got mine well trained.’
Show off.
‘Absolutely,’ I say in dignified tones. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’
‘Some parents would just buy their kid that pony for a quiet life. No discipline. It’s disgusting.’
‘Terrible,’ I agree, and make a surreptitious swipe for the pony, which Minnie adeptly dodges. Damn.
‘The biggest mistake is giving in to them.’ The woman is regarding Minnie with a pebble-like gaze. ‘That’s what starts the rot.’
‘Well, I never give in to my daughter,’ I say briskly. ‘You’re not getting the pony, Minnie, and that’s final.’
‘Poneeee!’ Minnie’s wails turn to heart-rending sobs. She is such a drama queen. (She gets it from my mum.)
‘Good luck, then.’ The woman moves off. ‘Happy Christmas.’
‘Minnie, stop it!’ I hiss furiously as soon as she’s dis­ appeared. ‘You’re embarrassing both of us! What do you want a stupid pony for, anyway?’
‘Poneeee!’ She’s cuddling the pony to her as though it’s her long-lost faithful pet that was sold at market five hundred miles away and has just stumbled back to the farm, footsore and whickering for her.
‘It’s just a silly toy,’ I say impatiently. ‘What’s so special about it, anyway?’
And for the first time I look properly at the pony.
Wow. Actually . . . it is pretty fab. It’s made of painted white wood with little glittery stars all over, and has the sweetest hand-painted face. And it has little red trundly wheels.
‘You really don’t need a pony, Minnie,’ I say – but with slightly less conviction than before. I’ve just noticed the saddle. Is that genuine leather? And it has a proper bridle with ­ buckles and the mane is made of real horse hair. And it comes with a grooming set!
For forty quid this isn’t bad value at all. I push one of the ­ little red wheels, and it spins round perfectly. And now I think about it, Minnie doesn’t actually have a toy pony. It’s quite an obvious gap in her toy cupboard.
I mean, not that I’m going to give in.
‘It winds up, too,’ comes a voice behind me, and I turn to see an elderly sales assistant approaching us. ‘There’s a key in the base. Look!’
She winds the key, and both Minnie and I watch, mesmerized, as the pony starts rising and falling in a carousel motion, while tinkly music plays.
Oh my God, I love this pony.
‘It’s on special Christmas offer at forty pounds,’ the assistant adds. ‘Normally, this would retail for seventy. They’re hand-made in Sweden.’
Nearly 50 per cent off. I knew it was good value. Didn’t I say it was good value?
‘You like it, don’t you, dear?’ The assistant smiles at Minnie, who beams back, her stroppiness vanished. In fact, I don’t want to boast, but she looks pretty adorable with her red coat and dark pigtails and dimpled cheeks. ‘So, would you like to buy one?’
‘I . . . um . . .’ I clear my throat.
Come on, Becky. Say no. Be a good parent. Walk away.
My hand steals out and strokes the mane again.
But it’s so gorgeous. Look at its dear little face. And a pony isn’t like some stupid craze, is it? You’d never get tired of a pony. It’s a classic. It’s, like, the Chanel jacket of toys.
And it’s Christmas. And it’s on special offer. And who knows, Minnie might turn out to have a gift for riding, it ­ suddenly occurs to me. A toy pony might be just the spur she needs. I have a sudden vision of her aged twenty, wearing a red jacket, standing by a gorgeous horse at the Olympics, saying to the TV cameras, ‘It all began one Christmas, when I received the gift that changed my life . . .’
My mind is going round and round like a computer ­ processing DNA results, trying to find a match. There has to be a way in which I can simultaneously: 1. Not give in to Minnie’s tantrum, 2. Be a good parent and 3. Buy the pony. I need some clever blue-sky ­ solution like Luke is always paying business consultants scads of money to come up with . . .
And then the answer comes to me. A totally genius idea which I can’t believe I’ve never had before. I haul out my phone and text Luke:

Luke! Have just had a really good thought. I think Minnie should get pocket money.

Immediately a reply pings back: Wtf? Why?
So she can buy things, of course! I start to type – then think again. I delete the text and carefully type instead:

Children need to learn about finance from early age. Read it in article. Empowers them and gives responsibility.

A moment later Luke texts: Can’t we just buy her the FT?
Shut up, I type. We’ll say two pounds a week shall we?
R u mad? comes zipping back. 10p a week is plenty.
I stare at the phone indignantly. 10p? He’s such an old ­ skinflint. What’s she supposed to buy with that?
And we’ll never afford the pony on 10p a week.
50p a week, I type firmly, is national average. (He’ll never check.) Where r u anyway? Nearly time for Father Christmas!!
OK, whatever. I’ll be there, comes the reply.
Result! As I put away my phone, I’m doing a quick mental calculation. 50p a week for two years makes A352. Easily enough. God, why on earth have I never thought of pocket money before? It’s perfect! It’s going to add a whole new dimension to our shopping trips.
I turn to Minnie, feeling rather proud of myself.
‘Now listen, darling,’ I announce. ‘I’m not going to buy this pony for you, because I’ve already said no. But as a special treat, you can buy it for yourself out of your own pocket money. Isn’t that exciting?’
Minnie eyes me uncertainly. I’ll take that as a yes.
‘As you’ve never spent any of your pocket money, you’ve got two years’ worth, which is plenty. You see how great ­ saving is?’ I add brightly. ‘You see how fun it is?’
As we walk to the check-out I feel totally smug. Talk about responsible parenting. I’m introducing my child to the principles of financial planning at an early age. I could be a guru on TV myself! Super Becky’s Guide to Fiscally Responsible Parenting. I could wear different boots in each episode—
‘Wagon.’
I’m jolted out of my daydream to see that Minnie has dropped the pony and is now clutching a pink plastic ­ monstrosity. Where did she get that? It’s Winnie’s Wagon, from that cartoon show.
‘Wagon?’ She raises her eyes hopefully.
What?
‘We’re not getting the wagon, darling,’ I say patiently. ‘You wanted the pony. The lovely pony, remember?’
Minnie surveys the pony with total indifference. ‘Wagon.’
‘Pony!’ I grab the pony off the floor.
This is so frustrating. How can she be so fickle? She ­ definitely gets that trait from Mum.
‘Wagon!’
‘Pony!’ I cry, more loudly than I meant to, and brandish the pony at her. ‘I want the poneee—’
Suddenly I get a prickly-neck feeling. I look round to see the woman with toddler boys, standing a few yards away, staring at me with her pebble-like eyes.
‘I mean . . .’ I hastily lower the pony, my cheeks burning. ‘Yes, you may buy the pony out of your pocket money. Basic financial planning,’ I add briskly to the pebble-eyed woman. ‘What we learned today is that you have to save up before you can buy things, didn’t we, darling? Minnie’s spent all her pocket money on the pony, and it was a very good choice . . .’
‘I’ve found the other pony!’ The assistant suddenly appears again, breathless and carrying a dusty box. ‘I knew we had one left in the stock room. They were originally a pair, you see . . .’
There’s another pony?
I can’t help gasping as she draws it out. It’s midnight blue with a raven mane, speckled with stars, and with golden wheels. It’s absolutely stunning. It complements the other one perfectly. Oh God, we have to have them both. We have to.
Rather annoyingly, the pebble-eyed woman is still standing there with her buggy, watching us.
‘Shame you’ve spent all your pocket money, isn’t it?’ she says to Minnie with one of those tight, unfriendly smiles which proves she never has any fun or sex. You can always tell that about people, I find.
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ I say politely. ‘That’s a problem. So we’ll just have to think of a solution.’ I think hard for a moment, then turn to Minnie.
‘Darling, here’s your second important lesson in financial planning. Sometimes, when we see an amazing, one-off ­ bargain, we can make an exception to the saving-up rule. It’s called “Seizing the Opportunity”.’
‘You’re just going to buy it?’ says the woman in tones of ­ disbelief.
What business is it of hers? God, I hate other mothers. They always have to butt in. The minute you have a child it’s as if you’ve turned into a box on an internet site, saying ‘Please add all your rude and offensive comments here.’
‘Of course I’m not going to buy it,’ I say, a little stonily. ‘She’ll have to get it out of her own pocket money. Darling,’ I crouch down to get Minnie’s attention, ‘if you pay for the other pony out of your pocket money at 50p a week, it’ll take about . . . sixty weeks. You’ll have to have an advance. Like an ­ “overdraft”.’ I enunciate clearly. ‘So you’ll basically have spent all your pocket money till you’re three and a half. All right?’
Minnie looks a bit bewildered. But then, I expect I looked a bit bewildered when I took out my first overdraft. It goes with the territory.
‘All sorted.’ I beam at the assistant and hand over my Visa card. ‘We’ll take both ponies, thank you. You see, darling?’ I add to Minnie. ‘The lesson we’ve learned today is: never give up on something you really want. However impossible things seem, there’s always a way.’
I can’t help feeling proud of myself, imparting this nugget of wisdom. That’s what parenting’s all about. Teaching your child the ways of the world.
‘You know, I once found the most amazing opportunity,’ I add as I punch in my PIN. ‘It was a pair of Dolce & Gabbana boots at 90 per cent off! Only my credit card was up to my limit. But did I give up? No! Of course I didn’t!’
Minnie is listening as avidly as though I’m recounting The Three Bears.
‘I went round my flat, and searched in all my pockets and bags, and I collected up all my little coins . . . and guess what?’ I pause for effect. ‘I had enough money! I could get the boots! Hooray!’
Minnie claps her hands, and to my delight, the toddler boys start cheering raucously.
‘Do you want to hear another story?’ I beam at them. ‘Do you want to hear about the sample sale in Milan? I was walking along the street one day, when I saw this mysterious sign.’ I open my eyes wide. ‘And what do you think it said?’
‘Ridiculous.’ The pebble-eyed woman turns her buggy with an abrupt gesture. ‘Come on, it’s time to go home.’
‘Story!’ wails one of the boys.
‘We’re not hearing the story,’ she snaps. ‘You’re insane,’ she adds over her shoulder as she strides off. ‘No wonder your child’s so spoiled. What are those little shoes of hers then, Gucci?’
Spoiled?
Blood zings to my face and I stare at her in speechless shock. Where did that come from? Minnie is not spoiled!
And Gucci don’t even make shoes like that.
‘She’s not spoiled!’ I manage at last.
But the woman has already disappeared behind the Postman Pat display. Well, I’m certainly not going to run after her and yell, ‘At least my child doesn’t just loll in her buggy sucking her thumb all day, and by the way, have you ever thought about wiping your children’s noses?’
Because that wouldn’t be a good example to Minnie.
‘Come on, Minnie.’ I try to compose myself. ‘Let’s go and see Father Christmas. Then we’ll feel better.’

source: sophiekinsella.co.uk

ONE
OK. Don’t panic. I’m in charge. I, Rebecca Brandon (née Bloomwood), am the adult. Not my two-year-old daughter.
Only I’m not sure she realizes this.
‘Minnie, darling, give me the pony.’ I try to sound calm and assured, like Nanny Sue off the telly.
‘Poneeee.’ Minnie grips the toy pony more tightly.
‘No pony.’
‘Mine!’ she cries hysterically. ‘Miiiine poneee!’
Aargh. I’m holding about a million shopping bags, my face is sweating, and I could really do without this.
It was all going so well. I’ve been round the whole shopping mall and bought all the last little things on my Christmas list. Minnie and I were heading towards Santa’s Grotto, and I only stopped for a moment to look at a dolls’ house. Whereupon Minnie grabbed a toy pony off the display and refused to put it back. And now I’m in the middle of Pony-gate.
A mother in J Brand skinny jeans with an impeccably dressed daughter walks past, giving me the Mummy Once-over, and I flinch. Since I had Minnie, I’ve learned that the Mummy Once-over is even more savage than the Manhattan Once-over. In the Mummy Once-over, they don’t just assess and price your clothes to the nearest penny in one sweeping glance. Oh no. They also take in your child’s clothes, pram brand, nappy bag, snack choice and whether your child is ­ smiling, snotty or screaming.
Which I know is a lot to take in, in a one-second glance, but believe me, mothers are multi-taskers.
Minnie definitely scores top marks for her outfit. (Dress: one-off Danny Kovitz; coat: Rachel Riley; shoes: Baby Dior.) And I’ve got her safely strapped into her toddler reins (Bill Amberg leather, really cool, they were in Vogue). But instead of smiling angelically like the little girl in the photoshoot, she’s straining against them like a bull waiting to dash into the ring. Her eyebrows are knitted in fury, her cheeks are bright pink and she’s drawing breath to shriek again.
‘Minnie.’ I let go of the reins and put my arms round her so that she feels safe and secure, just like Nanny Sue recommends in her book, Taming Your Tricky Toddler. I bought it the other day, to have a flick through. Just out of idle interest. I mean, it’s not that I’m having problems with Minnie or anything. It’s not that she’s difficult. Or ‘out of control and wilful’, like that ­ stupid teacher at the toddler music group said. (What does she know? She can’t even play the triangle properly.)
The thing about Minnie is, she’s . . . spirited. She has firm opinions about things. Like jeans (she won’t wear them), or carrots (she won’t eat them). And right now her firm opinion is that she should have a toy pony.
‘Minnie darling, I love you very much,’ I say in a gentle, crooning voice, ‘and it would make me very happy if you gave me the pony. That’s right, give it to Mummy . . .’ I’ve nearly done it. My fingers are closing around the pony’s head . . .
Ha. Skills. I’ve got it. I can’t help looking around to see if anyone’s observed my expert parenting.
‘Miiiine!’ Minnie wrenches the pony out of my arms and makes a run for it across the shop floor. Shit.
‘Minnie! MINNIE!’ I yell.
I grab my carrier bags and leg it furiously after Minnie, who has already disappeared into the Action Man section. God, I don’t know why we bother training up all these athletes for the Olympics. We should just field a team of toddlers.
As I catch up with her, I’m panting. I really have to start my post-natal exercises sometime.
‘Give me the pony!’ I try to take it, but she’s gripping it like a limpet.
‘Mine poneee!’ Her dark eyes flash at me with a resolute glint. Sometimes I look at Minnie and she’s so like her father it gives me a jolt.
Speaking of which, where is Luke? We were supposed to be doing Christmas shopping together. As a family. But he dis­ appeared an hour ago, muttering something about a call he had to make, and I haven’t seen him since. He’s probably ­ sitting somewhere having a civilized cappuccino over the newspaper. Typical.
‘Minnie, we’re not buying it,’ I say in my best firm manner. ‘You’ve got lots of toys already and you don’t need a pony.’
A woman with straggly dark hair, grey eyes and toddlers in a twin-buggy shoots me an approving nod. I can’t help giving her the Mummy Once-over myself, and she’s one of those mothers who wears Crocs over nubbly home-made socks. (Why would you do that? Why?)
‘It’s monstrous, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘Those ponies are forty pounds! My kids know better than to even ask,’ she adds, shooting a glance at her two boys, who are slumped silently, thumbs in mouths. ‘Once you give in to them, that’s the ­ beginning of the end. I’ve got mine well trained.’
Show off.
‘Absolutely,’ I say in dignified tones. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’
‘Some parents would just buy their kid that pony for a quiet life. No discipline. It’s disgusting.’
‘Terrible,’ I agree, and make a surreptitious swipe for the pony, which Minnie adeptly dodges. Damn.
‘The biggest mistake is giving in to them.’ The woman is regarding Minnie with a pebble-like gaze. ‘That’s what starts the rot.’
‘Well, I never give in to my daughter,’ I say briskly. ‘You’re not getting the pony, Minnie, and that’s final.’
‘Poneeee!’ Minnie’s wails turn to heart-rending sobs. She is such a drama queen. (She gets it from my mum.)
‘Good luck, then.’ The woman moves off. ‘Happy Christmas.’
‘Minnie, stop it!’ I hiss furiously as soon as she’s dis­ appeared. ‘You’re embarrassing both of us! What do you want a stupid pony for, anyway?’
‘Poneeee!’ She’s cuddling the pony to her as though it’s her long-lost faithful pet that was sold at market five hundred miles away and has just stumbled back to the farm, footsore and whickering for her.
‘It’s just a silly toy,’ I say impatiently. ‘What’s so special about it, anyway?’
And for the first time I look properly at the pony.
Wow. Actually . . . it is pretty fab. It’s made of painted white wood with little glittery stars all over, and has the sweetest hand-painted face. And it has little red trundly wheels.
‘You really don’t need a pony, Minnie,’ I say – but with slightly less conviction than before. I’ve just noticed the saddle. Is that genuine leather? And it has a proper bridle with ­ buckles and the mane is made of real horse hair. And it comes with a grooming set!
For forty quid this isn’t bad value at all. I push one of the ­ little red wheels, and it spins round perfectly. And now I think about it, Minnie doesn’t actually have a toy pony. It’s quite an obvious gap in her toy cupboard.
I mean, not that I’m going to give in.
‘It winds up, too,’ comes a voice behind me, and I turn to see an elderly sales assistant approaching us. ‘There’s a key in the base. Look!’
She winds the key, and both Minnie and I watch, mesmerized, as the pony starts rising and falling in a carousel motion, while tinkly music plays.
Oh my God, I love this pony.
‘It’s on special Christmas offer at forty pounds,’ the assistant adds. ‘Normally, this would retail for seventy. They’re hand-made in Sweden.’
Nearly 50 per cent off. I knew it was good value. Didn’t I say it was good value?
‘You like it, don’t you, dear?’ The assistant smiles at Minnie, who beams back, her stroppiness vanished. In fact, I don’t want to boast, but she looks pretty adorable with her red coat and dark pigtails and dimpled cheeks. ‘So, would you like to buy one?’
‘I . . . um . . .’ I clear my throat.
Come on, Becky. Say no. Be a good parent. Walk away.
My hand steals out and strokes the mane again.
But it’s so gorgeous. Look at its dear little face. And a pony isn’t like some stupid craze, is it? You’d never get tired of a pony. It’s a classic. It’s, like, the Chanel jacket of toys.
And it’s Christmas. And it’s on special offer. And who knows, Minnie might turn out to have a gift for riding, it ­ suddenly occurs to me. A toy pony might be just the spur she needs. I have a sudden vision of her aged twenty, wearing a red jacket, standing by a gorgeous horse at the Olympics, saying to the TV cameras, ‘It all began one Christmas, when I received the gift that changed my life . . .’
My mind is going round and round like a computer ­ processing DNA results, trying to find a match. There has to be a way in which I can simultaneously: 1. Not give in to Minnie’s tantrum, 2. Be a good parent and 3. Buy the pony. I need some clever blue-sky ­ solution like Luke is always paying business consultants scads of money to come up with . . .
And then the answer comes to me. A totally genius idea which I can’t believe I’ve never had before. I haul out my phone and text Luke:

Luke! Have just had a really good thought. I think Minnie should get pocket money.

Immediately a reply pings back: Wtf? Why?
So she can buy things, of course! I start to type – then think again. I delete the text and carefully type instead:

Children need to learn about finance from early age. Read it in article. Empowers them and gives responsibility.

A moment later Luke texts: Can’t we just buy her the FT?
Shut up, I type. We’ll say two pounds a week shall we?
R u mad? comes zipping back. 10p a week is plenty.
I stare at the phone indignantly. 10p? He’s such an old ­ skinflint. What’s she supposed to buy with that?
And we’ll never afford the pony on 10p a week.
50p a week, I type firmly, is national average. (He’ll never check.) Where r u anyway? Nearly time for Father Christmas!!
OK, whatever. I’ll be there, comes the reply.
Result! As I put away my phone, I’m doing a quick mental calculation. 50p a week for two years makes A352. Easily enough. God, why on earth have I never thought of pocket money before? It’s perfect! It’s going to add a whole new dimension to our shopping trips.
I turn to Minnie, feeling rather proud of myself.
‘Now listen, darling,’ I announce. ‘I’m not going to buy this pony for you, because I’ve already said no. But as a special treat, you can buy it for yourself out of your own pocket money. Isn’t that exciting?’
Minnie eyes me uncertainly. I’ll take that as a yes.
‘As you’ve never spent any of your pocket money, you’ve got two years’ worth, which is plenty. You see how great ­ saving is?’ I add brightly. ‘You see how fun it is?’
As we walk to the check-out I feel totally smug. Talk about responsible parenting. I’m introducing my child to the principles of financial planning at an early age. I could be a guru on TV myself! Super Becky’s Guide to Fiscally Responsible Parenting. I could wear different boots in each episode—
‘Wagon.’
I’m jolted out of my daydream to see that Minnie has dropped the pony and is now clutching a pink plastic ­ monstrosity. Where did she get that? It’s Winnie’s Wagon, from that cartoon show.
‘Wagon?’ She raises her eyes hopefully.
What?
‘We’re not getting the wagon, darling,’ I say patiently. ‘You wanted the pony. The lovely pony, remember?’
Minnie surveys the pony with total indifference. ‘Wagon.’
‘Pony!’ I grab the pony off the floor.
This is so frustrating. How can she be so fickle? She ­ definitely gets that trait from Mum.
‘Wagon!’
‘Pony!’ I cry, more loudly than I meant to, and brandish the pony at her. ‘I want the poneee—’
Suddenly I get a prickly-neck feeling. I look round to see the woman with toddler boys, standing a few yards away, staring at me with her pebble-like eyes.
‘I mean . . .’ I hastily lower the pony, my cheeks burning. ‘Yes, you may buy the pony out of your pocket money. Basic financial planning,’ I add briskly to the pebble-eyed woman. ‘What we learned today is that you have to save up before you can buy things, didn’t we, darling? Minnie’s spent all her pocket money on the pony, and it was a very good choice . . .’
‘I’ve found the other pony!’ The assistant suddenly appears again, breathless and carrying a dusty box. ‘I knew we had one left in the stock room. They were originally a pair, you see . . .’
There’s another pony?
I can’t help gasping as she draws it out. It’s midnight blue with a raven mane, speckled with stars, and with golden wheels. It’s absolutely stunning. It complements the other one perfectly. Oh God, we have to have them both. We have to.
Rather annoyingly, the pebble-eyed woman is still standing there with her buggy, watching us.
‘Shame you’ve spent all your pocket money, isn’t it?’ she says to Minnie with one of those tight, unfriendly smiles which proves she never has any fun or sex. You can always tell that about people, I find.
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ I say politely. ‘That’s a problem. So we’ll just have to think of a solution.’ I think hard for a moment, then turn to Minnie.
‘Darling, here’s your second important lesson in financial planning. Sometimes, when we see an amazing, one-off ­ bargain, we can make an exception to the saving-up rule. It’s called “Seizing the Opportunity”.’
‘You’re just going to buy it?’ says the woman in tones of ­ disbelief.
What business is it of hers? God, I hate other mothers. They always have to butt in. The minute you have a child it’s as if you’ve turned into a box on an internet site, saying ‘Please add all your rude and offensive comments here.’
‘Of course I’m not going to buy it,’ I say, a little stonily. ‘She’ll have to get it out of her own pocket money. Darling,’ I crouch down to get Minnie’s attention, ‘if you pay for the other pony out of your pocket money at 50p a week, it’ll take about . . . sixty weeks. You’ll have to have an advance. Like an ­ “overdraft”.’ I enunciate clearly. ‘So you’ll basically have spent all your pocket money till you’re three and a half. All right?’
Minnie looks a bit bewildered. But then, I expect I looked a bit bewildered when I took out my first overdraft. It goes with the territory.
‘All sorted.’ I beam at the assistant and hand over my Visa card. ‘We’ll take both ponies, thank you. You see, darling?’ I add to Minnie. ‘The lesson we’ve learned today is: never give up on something you really want. However impossible things seem, there’s always a way.’
I can’t help feeling proud of myself, imparting this nugget of wisdom. That’s what parenting’s all about. Teaching your child the ways of the world.
‘You know, I once found the most amazing opportunity,’ I add as I punch in my PIN. ‘It was a pair of Dolce & Gabbana boots at 90 per cent off! Only my credit card was up to my limit. But did I give up? No! Of course I didn’t!’
Minnie is listening as avidly as though I’m recounting The Three Bears.
‘I went round my flat, and searched in all my pockets and bags, and I collected up all my little coins . . . and guess what?’ I pause for effect. ‘I had enough money! I could get the boots! Hooray!’
Minnie claps her hands, and to my delight, the toddler boys start cheering raucously.
‘Do you want to hear another story?’ I beam at them. ‘Do you want to hear about the sample sale in Milan? I was walking along the street one day, when I saw this mysterious sign.’ I open my eyes wide. ‘And what do you think it said?’
‘Ridiculous.’ The pebble-eyed woman turns her buggy with an abrupt gesture. ‘Come on, it’s time to go home.’
‘Story!’ wails one of the boys.
‘We’re not hearing the story,’ she snaps. ‘You’re insane,’ she adds over her shoulder as she strides off. ‘No wonder your child’s so spoiled. What are those little shoes of hers then, Gucci?’
Spoiled?
Blood zings to my face and I stare at her in speechless shock. Where did that come from? Minnie is not spoiled!
And Gucci don’t even make shoes like that.
‘She’s not spoiled!’ I manage at last.
But the woman has already disappeared behind the Postman Pat display. Well, I’m certainly not going to run after her and yell, ‘At least my child doesn’t just loll in her buggy sucking her thumb all day, and by the way, have you ever thought about wiping your children’s noses?’
Because that wouldn’t be a good example to Minnie.
‘Come on, Minnie.’ I try to compose myself. ‘Let’s go and see Father Christmas. Then we’ll feel better.’

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