Category Archives: blog

Faux Fashion

Not for one minute do I consider Victoria Beckham to be a fashion designer. No, she is a PR guru. Brand Beckham is the Tesco and Asda of the fashion world. The front row is staged with her husband looking loyally on, need we forget Rebecca Loose, and Anna Wintour, who is competing with her own trout pouting, following in tow.

The models are beautiful, the cut of the cloth exquisite, and the star of the show “VB” is performing her act as the fashion designer dressed in black, as only fashion designers do. It’s about the clothes, the lines, the cuts of the cloth…”Oh, please!”
I’m a Spice Girl, I’m a fashionista, I’m a Mother, and a lover.

No, you are a PR girl. And I’m not buying it. Literally, not buying it because it is far too expensive and I don’t care what the front row says. You are a well oiled machine.

So, this PR girl thought she’d take a stab at fashion. If Vicky can do it, I can do it too.

Act one, find a fashionista outfit in black that does not distract. In other words, there is nothing new here, copy Audrey Hepburn. Take one Christian Dior Wool Jacket, £126 from Fab UK and I’ve got it, team with black jeans and you’ve one fashionista outfit.

Act 2, find a footballer husband and position him in the front row. Sorry, I checked all over Fab and other outlets and there were all out of stock. Anyway, rumour is that Wags have gone bust lately and they’ve had to find themselves all sorts of jobs, i.e paid employment.

Act 3, find Anna Wintour. I actually couldn’t believe anyone could look as miserable as Victoria Beckham, until I saw a picture of Anna. They’re like twins.

Finale, you must find lots of money to do all of the above. But I’d like to know who oils the machine? No pun intended.

Fab UK – here you go for a sneak peak.



In my head, I’m in Paris

In my head, I’m in ParisWe'll always have Paris

Can you have it all?

I have a lot but then that depends on who you’re comparing me with.  I love what I have. I admit though, that I’m forever peering over my shoulder, looking for what’s out there. This is a very hard thing to do in my country because at this time of year, it’s heads down and hoods up. It’s freezing and to paraphrase a great Scottish saying, it would freeze the balls off a brass monkey. That sums up the weather for me.

Keeping a positive outlook when you’re shivering head to toe is difficult. But that is not my reality. In my head, I’m in Paris. Even when I’m dragged to my local McDonalds, I’m imagining a chic Paris cafe, ignoring the reality of the fabricated Legoland around me.

I just picture Facebook or Bragbook. And I do like a bit of bragging. I’ve cubs, I can’t help it. They are my greatest success stories. You don’t even need to travel these days. Facebook has a plethora of adventures and I’m relying on these on a wet and windy day in my homeland to get me through the drudgery.

I don’t have it all, but I’m certainly doing it all. It struck me today as I did the first school run; then ran, actually drove, but it felt like running, to university to sit through two hours of employment law, bla bla bla, hurry up! I have another pick up at one. Dash to pick up number two son, before number one son needs collecting; write copy for client; make orders for Felicity Fox; do complex primary one homework; go to McDonalds (it’s healthier than my cooking, don’t judge me); read a chapter, words on a page; write a blog about it all.

Whilst I was mid-moan, Mr Fox interjected to tell me I wasn’t the only one with a frantic schedule. And it got me thinking. I’m not, I know this. But I was the only female in a leading consultancy, in a predominately female workforce, to have children, apart from the boss. She had a child and that never stopped her rising to the top of her profession. But notably, there were no rising mothers behind her.

There are a few of us at law school with children, I think. But it’s not the ideal place to have children. I mean, do you ever see them on Campus or in the Library? It may be a leading University but in this place children are neither seen nor heard.

It’s not about having it all, it’s about doing it all and “we’ll always have Paris.”


She is a Woman by Felicity Fox

She was his wife, he was her husband.
She was a mother, they were her children.
She was a fighter, he a worker.
She lives on, now he’s gone.
Her friends, her brothers and sisters too, all her world.
Brave is she,
Strong is she,
She is a woman to me.

Original Musings by Felicity Fox

Talk of inspirational women, my grandmother never makes the list but she’s my heroine every day. x

I was There

My Son,

How was I to know you’d leave my arms?
Five years on, where’s time gone?

I was there at first sight,
Time stood still in awe of you.

I was there from the start,
To count your toes and fingers too.

Walking hand in hand

I was there to wind your back,
To ease your pain and understand.

I was there to pick you up,
To hold your hand, and dust you down.

Schoolbag on back

I was there through the night,
To hear your cries and comfort you.

I was there when first you spoke,
and kicked a ball and met your brother at the door.

How proud I am of you.

I was there to watch you grow,
From eight pounds to the boy I know.

I was there to love you,
More than words could ever show.

I’ll be there to hear your tales at the end of every day,

Run on now, I’ll be there at three o’clock.

Turning round and letting go,
I was there.


Beatitudes by Felicity Fox

Beatitudes by Felicity Fox

Blessed are the Tories, theirs is The United Kingdom.
Blessed are the Bankers, for theirs is a big fat bonus.
Blessed are the Rich, for theirs is no longer 50p in the Pound.
Blessed are the Super Rich, theirs is called tax avoidance.
Blessed are the Frontbenchers, there lies the problem.
Blessed are the Lords, for there will be no reforms.
Blessed are the Rockstars, they will have titles bestowed upon them.
Blessed are the Royals, theirs is the Civil List.
Blessed are the Media, for in their hands the truth lies.

By Felicity Fox


See Saw Margery Daw by Felicity Fox

Felicity Fox
The Vixen

Not content with conquering the business world. Done with the dinner   parties and wine bars, avoiding questions of marriage and notions of babies. Until now.

Striding past me in their beige perfect pram occupied by one.

I, a few years down the line, stagger past with my buggy weighed down with jackets, plastic bags and anything I’ve managed to pick up along the way.

Passed the brasseries and quaint little pubs, I prefer to picnic in large open spaces where people are few.

Off to the park for some respite and to gather with equally stressed, sleep deprived and irate parents. There’s a reason for stereotypes and cliches. And if you don’t fit this bill, then you have a nanny or hired help of some kind. We’re all watching over our precious offsprings and glaring at one another, it’s territorial.

Stepping across the boundary and into the playpark, the babes are off in hot pursuit of a swing or a sea-saw, stamping their authority among their kind. Darwin’s theory played out.

Princes and princesses, one or two precocious parents and we’re all fenced in. We’re in one of Nappy Valley’s favourite haunts. There’s lots of oohing and ahhing and niceties. It’s very child focused. Well, it is a park. I’m eyeing up the coffee stand, ready to get a caffeine hit to get me through.

Hot on the heels of my little cubs, ready to diffuse potential situations, and it isn’t long before there is a situation at the sea-saw. A coveted apparatus. There’s a child parked on one side and my five-year old is tipping the balance to the other side, as one might expect.

It’s a tandem made for two. Not in these parts. Speaking through the medium of her child, the mother is purporting that there’s a big boy on the other side.

Hello, I’m right here.

“Just wait a moment until the big boy gets off and you can have your shot.” But sea-saws require two in our parts.

Rising above my patronising and selfish opponent, I too embrace the medium of my child to strike back.

“He’s just a little boy, be gentle. He’ll be off in a minute. Just give him a little shot.”

Parks are precarious places, if it’s not dogs it’s kids.

We each place our hands on the opposing sides of the sea-saw, without making eye contact and the games begin.

“That’s it, up and down, each waiting for the other to crack.”

Total glee as my opponent’s offspring throws the first tantrum. Ha ha, your brat’s not sharing. I’m quite simply delighted and I think I’m smirking.

It could have gone either way, it was touch and go for a moment as I thought my five-year old was about to start. But he didn’t let the side down. Ice-cream all round.

The shrieking continues as the boy is scraped off the sea-saw, howling as he goes. He’s not for budging as I watch on in total amusement.

His hands are being pried off by his mother who’s obviously annoyed about the architectural concept of a sea-saw and the notion that it requires two.

Ready in the wings is my three year old, rubbing salt in the wounds by hopping on.

The dad’s back and they are both pleading for calm. It’s a spectacle. Arms flying and legs kicking, I’ve been on the receiving end but today I’m the spectator.

And it feels naughty, even childish, but oh so good.

By Felicity Fox ©

Love – to my friends by Felicity Fox

I’m not going to give you wise words,
I know none.
Great loves aren’t fairytales, they’re battles.
Love is jealous, sometimes cruel and unforgiving.
Patience and kindness, words by St. Paul held up as the pinnacle, spoken at marriage.
Love – a little word, it means so much.
Find it, keep it, and work at it – it will be your life’s work and your greatest success story.
Love one another, this is my message of hope.



The Instruction Manual by Felicity Fox

The Instruction Manual

Please give the baby a 7oz bottle every four hours

There was I going to give Precious a little tipple to help with the teething.

@8:00; 12:00; 16:00 & 20:00

This child has a 24 hour clock. Either that or it’s the traffic report.

And add an extra half ounce to the bedtime bottle

Awwh ..wishful thinking that baby will sleep, bless.

In the morning, after baby has had its bottle, baby will have an hour playtime with nappy off…

Air their derrière, like I want a human sprinkler to shower my carpets.

Apply cream all over body before dressing

Whose body? This is exhausting and it’s only 9am. This rigmarole sounds like a nightmare episode from Supernanny, who by the way doesn’t have children and can close the door loudly behind her.

When do I put my makeup on, paint my nails and when will life stop orbiting round this eight pounder?

Baby will normally nap about 10ish. If crying, give baby its dummy and baby should sleep for an hour and no longer.

Well, you should have thought of that. Really, not my problem. Let sleeping dogs lie, the same goes for babies. If you want me to put a pretend nipple in baby’s mouth, disgusting as this idea is, I’ll happily stop your baby screeching, sorry communicating.

Change nappy every 3 or 4 hours roughly…

Not that I’m correcting you, but roughly, shouldn’t I be gentle with your bundle of joy, my nightmare.

Wettest half hour after feed

Isn’t that something to look forward to.

Bathtime 7pm: Lie with nappy off for half an hour

Shouldn’t I wait till baby is down? Oh, baby…

Cream to be applied all over again.

For the love of God, not again.

After last bottle, zip up in sleeping bag and cuddle for 10 minutes

Cuddle who? Time for a quickie?

Only took 5, never one to waste time.

Back to baby.

Zipped up, check.

Cuddle, check.

Rock a bye baby…dummy firmly stuck in mouth, restrained in straight jacket, GB Experience on, lights off, and put down, check.

Yes, that’s exactly how the day went. Perfect. To manual. Had a great day, thanks for asking. Precious has just been so precious.

“Did you enjoy your cocktails?”

No problem. Anytime. All you need to do is ask.

That’s nice, catching up with the girls were you?”

Great baby.

“Good for you.”

Baby’s had a good sleep…


Like Clockwork…I’m sure baby will be fine, well, if you’re not on GMT.