Katie Hopkins Blog

http://timesonline.typepad.com/alphamummy/2008/07/5-tips-for-a-st.html

Katie writes in with an essential list for every multi-tasking parent:

The key to operating as an Alpha Mum is to make your life as streamlined as possible. Here are five top tips for achieving this that restore calm to chaos.

1) Never admit to being a mother
Admitting to motherhood is like being a member of HR – everyone will think you care about their problems. Your world has enough challenges of its own without taking on those of others

2) Write job lists
Use your free time to write job lists for all your helpers. My nanny arrives every morning to two children under four and a lovely long list of jobs. There is nothing as satisfying as the magic of knowing that whilst you work others are working too.

3) Accumulate thank you cards
Never leave John Lewis without an armful of thank you cards. It doesn’t matter to whom you write them, just make sure you use up your allotted quote every month. There is nothing like a bit of gratitude to multiply the future help you receive.

4) Take advantage of economies of scale
As an economist, the wisdom of scale was apparent to me early in my career. All things should be replicated quickly and efficiently to benefit from the free time this throws up. Gift purchasing in triplicate, dinner parties for 16 and births in rapid succession all make perfect sense to the true Alpha.

5) Understand husband types
Do not fall into the trap of asking your husband to do anything to help. Only you understand your family empire and only you hold the key to the efficient husbandry of it. Beware of diversions – requesting support which is not forthcoming is a diversion. Husbands also fall into this category.

This week a woman has earned herself a tidy £120,000 through the courts asserting that her employers ‘left her out in the cold’ after she had maternity leave.
Sarah Vince-Cain describes herself as a child of the Eighties, brought up in the age of “hard work, power suits and Margaret Thatcher”, and told the Times that she felt guilty about taking time off to start a family.
She didn’t feel too guilty taking home her wages every day. She didn’t feel too bad about her employers paying for all the inconvenient absences for scans / midwifes / other pregnancy related nonsense. She felt quite OK that on arriving back to work after her first child, she promptly buggered off to have another.
But did she feel guilty about taking her employers to court and taking £120,000 from them for the ‘unfair’ treatment she had received? Not so much as a blush.
Women like Sarah grew up as horrid spoilt children wailing ‘it’s not fair’ when they didn’t get their own way. And here is the big news Sarah. You are not fair. You and your sort raise the hurdle for every woman looking for a job. You and your litigious lovelies are making women unemployable. You are unreasonable, ungrateful and unfit for work.
The other big news for you is that employers also have rights. They have the right to employ on talent, to select on merit and to consider the long term future of their business when they assess you as a candidate for a role. Women that are looking to absent themselves through motherhood do not even come close.
If you want to have a child and swan about for the next x number of months in floral’s pureeing vegetables and being a human udder, that is your choice. Your employer probably part funded your little vacation and probably paid for the flowers your office sent you when you were congratulating yourself in hospital.
Your employer never chose to have a baby. You did. And if you disappear off the face of the commercial planet for more than two weeks, expect that things will have moved on without you. If other employees are prepared to stick around, arrive early and leave late, turn up every day without complaint, morning sickness or unsightly bumps, then they have made their decision – to focus on their career.
You made your decision. You chose to have a family. If you want to take time off to commit yourself to that family – marvelous. Give yourself a motherhood medal and sign up with mumsnet. But don’t expect to be in the same league as the women who are grafting their way to the top. Do not expect to have the same pay scale. Do not expect part time to equal full time rights. And do not be surprised if you feel the chill wind of indifference on your return.
Your employers made you feel out in the cold? I bet they wished they had shoved you in a freezer and locked the bloody door.

This week was Jane Austen week in Bath. A lovely TV producer with a wicked streak decided it would be a novel and amusing idea for me to become an 18-century lady for the day and learn how it would have been to live as a woman in Jane Austen’s time.
Fortuitously, intrusive media does equip you with a sense of resilience and I was happy to parade around the lovely spa town of Bath dressed in what can only be described as Grandma’s nightie and a peculiar bonnet in the interests of research.
Whilst the conformity and restrictions of Regency life for the fairer sex were all too apparent, such as the horror of having a chaperone in the form of ones mother on a first date, it strikes me that 18-century women had quite a fun old time of it and were blessed with a considerable number of freedoms that modern women are not fortunate to enjoy today.

‘Freedom to’ is one thing. Ultimately, Jane Austen and her crew of nighty-clad lovelies had a great deal of ‘freedom from.’ For example;
Freedom from expectation.
Women were not expected to do anything. Short of looking coy and innocent, trapping a mate and popping out a few babies, Regency women were free from obligation. When nothing is expected of you it is fundamentally hard to disappoint. Their total view of the universe seems incredibly simplistic, uncomplicated by the modern pressures of city careers, pension funds or whether the 8.49 from Exeter will ever get to London.
Freedom from pressure.
These days society exerts enormous pressure on us and we put pressure on ourselves to look a certain way or aspire to a certain size or shape. I know a great deal of women who actively look forward to the dull days of winter in order to hide their more rounded figures behind layers of chunky knit and merino wool.  For Regency women it was ’winter’ every day. Their billowing dresses and layers of underwear, coats, bonnets and bloomers happily concealed the odd lump or bump and a few extra pounds in metres of floral print and ribbon.
Despite all this freedom from, women have aggressively pursued freedom through the ages. Freedom to be allowed to vote, freedom to be considered equal, freedom to love who they chose, the freedom to conceive using science when nature gets in the way and conversely the freedom to remain childless.  We have fought for increasing our freedoms. We now an unimaginable amount of ‘freedom to.’ In contrast to Jane Austen’s ‘freedom from’ we have:
Freedom to be an equal partner
As a thirty something, society still exerts pressure on us to find a man and settle down. It is still expected that we will achieve ‘coupledom’ and lose the Bridget Jones badge that single status infers. However, this pressure comes as a direct result of our considerable freedoms. We have the freedom to love the person we are with. No longer do we have to marry for money, or for status, or for family pride. We have the freedom to live with our partner to see if we are compatible. We have the freedom to choose whom we marry. And if like me, you chose badly, there is always the freedom to divorce.
For Jane Austen and the regency ladies, marriage meant your husband owned you and the entire dowry that your family provided. He owned the house you lived in, the home you created and the children you produced. Quite simply, you were his.  If a marriage broke down, the woman would be cast out, without a penny and without her children, destitute and demeaned.
Frankly, Mr Darcy can stick that where the 18 century sun don’t shine.
Freedom to be outrageous.
Nowadays we have the freedom to break to rules.  We have the freedom to speak our mind and be honest. Freedom to stand in a public place dressed as a chicken and dance, without being institutionalised.  We have the freedom to run naked across football pitches with ‘up the city’ tattooed across our arse. Freedom to drive fast cars and freedom to wear tiny bikini’s on big beaches. Freedom to wear pyjamas to get the Sunday paper.  Manhattan is the ultimate city of freedom. A friend of mine once said ‘you can be as mad as you like in Manhattan and no one will notice, because there is always someone more mad around the corner’.
It strikes me that despite this vast contrast in time and circumstance, women have not changed.  We just broke free. We broke free from conformity, broke free from bloomers, corsets, petticoats and ankle length gowns and ran through every door that was pushed open for us by braver women, to become what we are today. Imagine Regency woman and a modern woman were sisters, born exactly the same. One raised in a culture of oppressiveness and etiquette, where men ruled the roost. Contrastingly, we are fortunate to be nurtured by a society of openness, of equality and of opportunity that makes women more amazing, more capable and more fabulous every day.
I resent the backlash against women having it all. I resent the women that decry the woman who has a career, a family and has a life. Women that have chosen to hang up their heels and go all domesticated are doing a disservice to the women that went before them and paved the way. Sitting at home with your toddlers, your Jamie Oliver in hardback and the latest Dyson that you were bought as a birthday present is your choice. But it is not taking us forward. As women, it is our responsibility to make sure we keep on pushing the door open for the next generation. We need to keep on trail blazing the way forward. Perhaps one day we will all be equal, but I believe it is inevitable that some women will be more equal than others.

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I hear that Gordon Brown is waiting for a spot of inclement weather to come along before he asks the nation to switch off their televisions and get out and vote. Evidently, strapping Conservative voters will brave rain, hail and storms to get out and do their civic duty, but Labour party supporters will only come out with the sun.
Having been predicted a scorcher and certain drought this summer only to have suffered worst weather I can remember and for half the country to be deluged by flood, Gordon Brown would do well to sack the public weather service paid for by the tax payer, and invest in some private sector assistance.
I believe the conservatives recognised privatisation delivered most efficiently quite a long time ago.

Dropping my car off for a service is not something I enjoy doing. It is a complete bore and if my delightful partner were not otherwise engaged it would be one of those things that fall into his domain.

For some reason, whilst the 55yr old grey haired gentleman to my right was able to drop his car off with nothing more than a signature and exchange of keys, I had to withstand a barrage of questions. I had no answers to any of them. It is almost like that darned ‘who wants to be a millionaire’ nonsense… because I was not able to answer even the simplest warm up question (my own vehicle plate) I was subject to ridicule and more questions to emphasize my folly.

‘I am not here to ask for forgiveness, I just want my car serviced’ I said and as punishment I am not allowed to collect my vehicle until tomorrow.

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Bedroom furniture is something you should only buy once. With this view I like to buy items that are solid looking and have the air of robustness one might hope to achieve away from cheap hotels, student accommodation or darned Ikea.

My problem is that my furniture of choice is called Louis Philippe. I ask you? As the last King to rule France, he was a dapper enough looking chap in fine military wear and great swathe of black hair. As a name for bedroom furniture I feel frankly ridiculous even saying it down the phone. Does it make me feel ‘regal’? Does it make me feel I am purchasing something ‘superior’? No it does not. It makes me feel like a pillock and I wish these furniture chaps would get on with building great pieces of bedroom kit and just call it what it is.

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I would like to start a campaign against public conveniences requiring any other part of the anatomy that the foot to operate any piece of equipment in the bathroom itself. I include doors, flushes, taps, locks, hand driers, and any other thing that might have been touched by someone who chooses not to have my standards of personal hygiene. Other countries do this brilliantly. Why does the UK think the bringing everyone down to the lowest common denominator of cleanliness is a good idea?

My partner has just emailed me to say that at 8.30am tomorrow he is going to come down with a nasty case of man flu.

This is rich coming from the man who physically and literally dislocated my arm on the tennis court yesterday with a nasty return of serve that I subsequently over hit. I stood there with my arm all a-dangling and thought only of all the things that would be tricky to do without my left arm.

I wondered how I was going to pick up my children, who would clean the bathrooms and how I would type. And I wondered who would be able to honour my weeklong commitment to take my daughters to Paultons Family Fun Park.

And so he tries this little trick. Man flu is an old idea accepted by men and woman alike as part of the fabric of a relationship. Man needs bit of a break. Man gets man flu. Simple. My partner has added a modern new twist to this by emailing me in advance of his impending condition. Like an ‘out of office’ setting, placed there before you actually vacate your desk.

What could possibly be so bad about a day at a Family Fun Park with a 2 and 3 year old on one of the busiest days of the year? What’s not to like?

Could it be that my partner – blissfully child free, and therefore a connoisseur of the Sunday morning lie in, recognises that before the civilised hour of nine am there will be mania in the house. The whole brigade will need to be up, dressed, fed, dressed again and blackmailed into car seats before realising that they all actually need to pee, desperately.

I have a sense it could be that he does not relish the employ of the question ‘why?’ as a retort to anything and everything he says. I have started a tennis scoring system for this. The request from the adult kicks off the game 0-15, followed by ‘why’ from my daughter bringing us to a level 15-15, followed by a response; 30-15 and so on. Match point is the moment you silence them. Either through sheer resilience, intellectual agility, or a blow to the back of the head.

And all this before we actually arrive. I have a notion that parking difficulties, relentless queuing, and a further 2,000 individual bathroom visits pre 10.30am could be the ending of him, or in extremis, the end of us.

I haven’t told him yet that I have promised the children he will go on the Tweenies fun ride with them if they are scared. The picture of my 6-foot lovely all snugged up between a Milo and Bella and two tearful and yelling kids is almost too much for my stomach muscles to handle.

By the time the cheese sandwiches have sweated themselves into a cling filmed horror story, the chocolate biscuits melted into his clean jumper and the drink bottles leaked into the dry nappies, we should be just about ready for lunch. And that is only half time!

The fact of the matter is that you need to dig deep on these days. These are days of dedication to the family and to the children. They are selfless acts from which you should not look to derive pleasure, but be grateful if you find it. Unaccompanied by the nanny, the grandparents or by paid childcare you will earn parenting points. But these days need patience and tolerance and good humour in the sort of quantities usually reserved for Christmas at the in-laws.

I recommend keeping them to a minimum. And if all else fails, I recommend a nasty case of flu.

The number of British people leaving this blessed isle of ours has risen to 385,000 the highest level for a generation. This includes 200,000 of what the Daily Mail readership might call ‘true Brits’, born and bred in this country.

However, we received 580,000 immigrants last year, so we are on a net gain.

If we take off a few noughts, we get 58 in, 38 leave and 20 of those are real Brits, so we are left with 20 non-Brits. So for ever 20 Brits leaving we get 20 non-Brits.

On this basis, how long will it take before Britain needs to be called something else?

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Finally old ‘Queenie in waiting’ (the Duchess of Cornwall or whatever she calls herself), has put her foot down and said she will not attend the memorial service of Princess Diana.

And I should think not. Whatever possessed the palace to think it was a jolly fine idea that the woman Diana hated more than any other should be there in attendance is beyond me.

The old bat stole her husband, stole her happiness and stole her pride. She hardly needs to go to the memorial service to remind people of that fact. No amount of over blown hair and matching coat and hat combo’s is going to fool anyone that she is anything more than the mistress.

I think the woman has done well to stand up to the Palace and refuse to attend. I think Charles is a fool to imagine it would be a good idea for her to be there. And I think it is time the whole Diana obsession was put to bed; stop lamenting over a tragedy in the past and get on with living in the present.

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Why am I continually embarrassed by my sex?

I was walking along by the river the other day when a coxed four rowed powerfully past. Cutting through the water like a hot knife through butter they were all shouting and blowing and covered in sweat and Lycra. Among other things, I marvelled at how dynamic and strong our species can be.

Shortly thereafter a crew of female rowers came into view. ‘Splendid’ I thought. Good strong women, out there, giving it some for the girls. Then one of them yawned. Another of them yelped and flung aside her oar and clutched at her fingernail in angst and finally the Cox got the giggles.

And my boyfriend fell about laughing.

The ‘sisterhood’ (formerly including Kate Middleton, future princess to the nation) are attempting to be the first all female crew to row across Channel in traditional Chinese dragon boat. ‘Great’ I thought. Good strong women, out there, giving it some for the girls.

And what do they do? Body paint their none-to-delicate frames and hit the tabloids.

And I fell about laughing.

With curves in all the wrong places I would suggest that they use something more than a G-string to cover their modesty next time. A windbreak perhaps? Nude calendars are best left to the busty beautiful or the W.I.

On Croyde beach at the weekend, we were walking the girls towards the sea when we stopped to let a girl return a ball to her friends playing beach cricket. She ran with it, released it from her clammy grasp with all the aplomb of an armless maggot and then watched it trickle lamely three feet away.

And my boyfriend and I fell about laughing.

The thing that really gets me is that we are capable of strength. We have the ability to be able to compete on an equal footing. Take little Ellen MaCarther; she is not a man in a woman’s body, she is a woman in a girls body, blowing the rich mans world of sailing wide open.

JK Rowling, our very own Exeter graduate, is currently #40 on Forbes top 100 Most Powerful Women. I may not be her most loyal fan from the point of view that I have never read any of her books. I may be correct in my opinion that she is about as charming as the German language. But, I admire her rapid ascendance to power. She has risen like a phoenix from the depths of single motherdom and come out all strong and brave (but with a terrible line in hair, makeup and party frocks).

For some reason women just chose to play the pathetic card. We play the weak card. And we play the ‘less’ card. Less intelligent, less capable, less motivated, less ambitious, less able, and less bothered that we look utterly ridiculous. So for goodness sake women, get a grip. Stop worrying about your nails, stop tramping about in nothing more than your pants and stop throwing like a girl.

In LA a transplant surgeon has been charged with giving a disabled man too many drugs in order to speed up his death and harvest his organs. Many argue that this will have doctors shying away from the retrieval of organs before a patient is brain dead.

Personally I feel that if in my dying days I can be snuffed out just a little early in order for someone else to live more fully, that stands as a good deal. I love the feeling of handing over a car parking ticket that has a good few hours left on it and I can only assume it will be the same with my internal matters. And were I looking like I was headed for the final curtain of life’s great play, then a few extra drugs wouldn’t go amiss either.

In response to my column, I was delighted to see a number of readers compelled to pick up pen and join the debate. Unfortunately as it turns out, all they actually wanted to do was have a good old moan about me – as a person – as opposed to my opinion or points of view. It leads me to wonder, in this personality driven culture, what does our democracy really stands for?

If these individuals are exercising their right to vote (and not sitting on their arse in front of eastenders) are they voting for principles, policies and a positive demonstration of their commitment to a political vision. Or when choosing between Cameron and Brown is it more about their accent, their personal lives and the colour of their tie?

From what I have seen of a number of readers (who miraculously can also write – well done you) it will be the latter.

The Energy Saving Trust has called for a ban on patio heaters on the premise that
‘People should just wear sweaters’. That is all very well in the land of knit your own leg hair, but we live in the civilised world. A world of progress and advancement.

People don’t wear sweaters because they are ugly and unsightly. They morph us into shapeless woolly blobs on legs – why do you think sheep look the way they do?’

I want patio heaters and all that goes with them – flimsy fabrics, clingy vest tops and fabulous dresses with super high heels. And I will save energy under mine by sitting down.

Ten fundmental truths about ‘telling it like it is’

1) Not everyone will like what you have to say

2) It is always easier to say the things people want to hear, this does not make it right

3) American love hard work and success. British love other peoples downfall and the underdog

4) Women outside the M25 are bitter and filled with venom. They only like fat women with issues.

5) Women in business are typically a pain in the arse

6) Women need to make a choice. Are they a mother or are they a career woman.

7) Employers also have rights. The right to hire and the right to fire as they please. Maternity leave is a luxury not a divine right.

8) Women have legislated themselves out of the game. Stop yabbering on for more rights and get on with it.

9) Whilst no one else may have the balls to say what you say, they will come up to you quietly afterwards an admit they totally agree with you.

10) People love to be loved by everyone. Whats the fun in being Little Miss Magnolia?

Sat at my lovely Southernhay solicitors this week, I overheard a conversation between two W.I. types. The more portly looking old bean was ‘consoling’ her friend over the death of her father with such classics as ‘he had a good innings’ and ‘gangrene is never nice’ and culminating with the tactless; ‘Did he leave his affairs in order?’

Bluntly, this translates as ‘did he have a will and were the family happy with what they got?’

My father, never of an entirely sunny disposition, says that there are two things that split families apart: marriage and death. And for once, reluctantly, I am inclined to agree.

But if we have ‘our affairs in order’ does this ensure our family remains united when we kick the bucket? Are a predictable will, a tidy loft and a garage free from clutter enough to placate the next of kin?

Apparently not.

With any family there is a certain level of expectation over ‘who gets what’ when you trot off to meet your maker. Our Britishness prevents us talking about these things openly and directly, but these conversations take place all over the country. I heard a couple openly discussing ‘mothers fortune’ in the pub last Sunday over lunch. Many of you see your parents as your pension plan.

For grown children nursing elderly parents, there is an expectation they will inherit their parents estate. There is often an expectation they will inherit the family home. I would argue that these parents are often usurped from their space into nursing homes ahead of time to make way for the next generation.

For two siblings with elderly parents, there is an expectation that equality will prevail. Each side inheriting 50% of the total share and no favouritism indicated through the less than judicial allocation of Great Aunt Betsy’s collection of oils or the dad’s Bentley in the garage.

However, the family landscape is changing and not all of us now have two parents or 2.4 children. Increasingly as family’s fracture, regroup and rebuild, the clear ‘lines’ of inheritance become blurred.

A friend of mine recently had an awkward discussion with her brother regarding ‘mothers tea set’ currently in his possession. She has her own children. He now has stepchildren from his new wife. Where should the ‘tea set’ go when he pops off? To the stepchildren and therefore ‘out of the family’? Or to the sisters children thereby following the family bloodline?

I suspect that ‘mothers tea set’ is actually a pseudonym for his total wealth and that until the stepchildren arrived on the scene the sister had assumed this estate would rightfully be hers.

But do we really have a right to assume where someone’s money will be left when they die? The irony is that whilst we hide behind all this wide-eyed propriety we cause hurt to the people we love. To defend our ‘rightful inheritance’ we hurt our siblings by pretending their stepchildren ‘don’t exist’ and never sending birthday cards. Because you don’t want your fathers new partner getting her hands on the family silver she is not welcome at the family Christmas.

We are all going to die. If we have cash it is going to go somewhere. If your inheritance is worrying you, then get a grip and have the balls to talk about it.

When I pop off, I hope that I have sat my family down and told them all who is getting what and why. I hope that my loft is tidy and I hope my garage will be free from clutter. And I hope that those pious tight lipped types, who think about their ‘rightful inheritance’ but don’t mention it, don’t do the right thing by their parents, and can’t see beyond genetic family lines, find that it has all been left to the Donkey Sanctuary up the road.

I am not known for strolling about. I like to dash. And dashing as I was from shop to shop in Exeter High Street my days were nearly cut short by the bloody H bus at full pelt. Whilst my early demise would undoubtedly come as welcome news to many, my aversion to inheritance tax would leave me grimacing in my final moments as I perished under the front wheel.

Far from being pedestrian friendly, Exeter High Street has become for buses what Monaco is for squat red cars. Why is it that people have to be dropped right outside the shop of their choice? Why does it take that many buses to achieve this feat of human idleness? Why is it in Exeter we think going ‘pedestrian’ is a pseudonym for clearing a space for buses?

Before you bus riding masses go flapping your arms about and chirping on about ‘going green’, ‘transport for the elderly’ and ‘accessibility for all’ and me being too much of a snob to understand, I promise you I am a paid up member of the inconvenience of public transport and commend those that take it. My girls and I were on trains and buses this weekend and the only thing my father could be more proud of than his bus pass would be a sit on mower (or perhaps a son).

My problem is with buses in the pedestrian zone itself. Contrastingly, the train lets you off at the station, car parks are in designated areas of town and taxi firms have designated ranks. The thing all of these have in common is that they all respect the pedestrian zone and we expect to walk the last few paces to our final destination. I do not see why a bus should plough straight through it like some marauding woman at a Masons meeting.

There are a number of conclusions one can draw:

One: The typical population of a bus are lazier that the average public transport user. Certainly the H bus that nearly ended my time on earth was sparsely populated by a driver who could do with sticking to a few salads and a bunch of the half dead who would benefit from a brisk walk and a cold shower. Or any shower. But I am not sure this was representative.

Two: That our Exeter bus drivers are actually sponsored my McClaren and the future young British Grand Prix talent depends on the sacrifices the humble pedestrian in Exeter City Centre should be prepared to make.

Three: that given the opportunity to be lazy, we will be.

I am taken by option three. And the solution is simple. Stop the buses at each end of the High Street and make the City Centre a place where mothers with strollers, carefree couples and retired gentlefolk can shop without being gunned down by the ‘Park and Ride’. The ‘new’ Princess Hay development and the beautiful Cathedral Green shows what happens if you truly pedestrianise. People sit out in the street, drink coffee, talk with friends, relax, share, socialise. We enjoy our public spaces. Public transport is there to facilitate this enjoyment, not detract from it. So get those bus stops out from the High Street, get tables and chairs and some outdoor heaters where there are currently plastic shelters and lets enjoy the beautiful city we are fortunate enough to live in. And get that ‘H’ bus driver off the road.