On the rare occasion that I venture out footloose and baby-free, my destination has to offer the kind of sensory experience that could become a stimulating talking point at future events. This is so I don’t become pigeon-holed as that woman who only talks about the colour of poo (as opposed to my thoughts on The Color Purple for example). Mexican bar and eaterie, – Wahaca – located at the heart of London’s Fitzrovia – offers just such a destination. With giant swinging bird cages for seats, décor by way of pops of colour and benches punctuated with a hole in the centre serving as toilets, the atmosphere is eclectic and cool.
This is not to say of course that when in yummy mummy mode I stay home in front of reruns of The Biggest Loser; on the contrary, trading vintage tote for nappy bag and pram I head to the peak of Primrose Hill. It’s a place far removed from the chaos of city life, where 10 minutes lasts as long as is needed and solitude is mine for the taking though company is never far from reach. With London’s panorama stretching out around me, it’s the perfect place to breathe, celeb-watch (case-in-point Sacha Baron Cohen – “no pictures please”) and literally feel on top of the world.
Delving back down into reality – sort of – I weave my wheels in between the kooky, the kinky and the downright crazy of Camden Market, searching for buried treasure. In amongst the goth-cum-dominatrix couture and scent of street food and incense, I am transported back to an era of punk-fuelled controversy, when Vivienne Westwood ruled and rock festivals filled British summertime with more than just precipitation. From cute cartoon animals to a fabric-woven wonderland straight out of a Moroccan souk, every turn offers something exciting and new.
So when I’m being subjected to flying green gunk (a.k.a. lunch) and the diva-demands of my one year old, I can spirit myself away to the plane that exists outside of the baby bubble I mostly reside in and consider myself one of the Free People.