It’s hard enough in this town trying to be a Yummy Mummy without having to contend with the emergence of a new and direct threat to our status, a threat even more pernicious than rampant cellulite and stretch marks. Our arch rivals are none other than the Poncy Pappas and make no mistake, they are taking over the joint.
When I first arrived in Stockholm, just over three years ago, there were two distinct and acceptable types of dads on pappaledighet. The first was the emasculated, gimpy, wimpy type and the second was the bored and sulking type who spent his days at the park reading the paper whilst his offspring ate the contents of the sandpit.
But now this third type has emerged and frankly, it’s bad news for us ladies who lunch. Suddenly, Stockholm in the summertime has been overrun by over buffed, designer clad metrosexual daddies. They sit in all our favourite cafes for hours and hours, just chatting aimlessly with each other and into their little black Prada phones while their retro bedecked babies hog the available high chairs.
I witnessed an absolute prize Poncy Pappa down at Långholmen beach the other day. Small children were busy paddling and splashing in the water when I heard a plaintive male voice urging his little girl to come away from the water. Why wasn’t this daddy rolling his trousers up and building sand castles, I wondered. What possible reason could this daddy in his skin tight, pristine white, two thousand kronor J Lindberg jeans have for not joining in? I felt an evil, almost overwhelming urge to give his child a bit of a surreptitious push into Lake Malären.
Anyway, in an effort not to be outdone by these foppish usurpers, I booked myself into the Centralbadet for a day of advanced maintenance. The clientele of this splendid Art Nouveau spa bath consisted of the usual smattering of elderly people in unsuitable swimming costumes and us Yummy Mummy types, lounging around in white fluffy bathrobes like plumptious baby seals. I noticed with smug satisfaction that we had beaten the Poncy Pappas to the sun loungers.
Top on my list of treatments was the deluxe pedicure. The rest of me is in fairly reasonable condition, all things considered, but my feet do rather let the side down. Whilst I wouldn’t put it past those fathers to start painting their nails and wearing wedge heels, I just wanted to make sure that I got there first. Likewise my eyebrows were plucked and dyed to resemble those of a 1940s Hollywood starlet, albeit a slightly fading starlet, just to ensure that I could glower glamorously, should the need arise.
Thanks to my day at Centralbadet I am now absolute Queen Mother of all Yummy Mummies and ready to implement my dirty tricks campaign. Who knows what accident could happen when a chesty woman in precarious heels carrying a scalding latte inadvertently trips over a Bugaboo pram, sending said volcanic beverage flying in the general direction of a man in a Paul Smith shirt who appears to be sitting in her seat? Whoops.
Centralbadet, Drottninggatan 88 ö.g. 111 36 Stockholm
Telephone: 08-545 213 00
Foppish Father Free Zone: 10/10
Sagging Haunches in Speedos: 10/10
Murderous Mothers Union Meeting: 10/10