Survival guide for London parents

You find out you're pregnant and you are swinging from the rafters. You just can't wait to parade Squidgy Cheeks through the park in your aluminium three-wheeler, kicking your kitten heels with joy as you go. Here come the best days of your life.

And the most testing. Reality kicks in before your baby has even uttered his first squeal, bringing a stream of seemingly insurmountable practical needs in its wake. And I am not talking about whether to travel to the Portland by limo or ambulance.

No, I'm talking about the practicalities that can induce blind panic in a first-time mother, especially if she likes being in control, retail therapy and looking hotter than Madonna.

Let's talk maternity clothing first. Now, as the new Harden's London Baby Book by Kate Calvert, the Captain Corelli's Mandolin of required reading for the up the duff, will tell you, you can look belly beautiful. It's just that girlfriends neglect to mention Pleats Please or Ghost when passing on their mother's kaftan and a Mothercare catalogue.

It's as if there's a conspiracy among the previously pregnant, or the PP, who seem determined not to share their survival techniques. It's a bit like those hirsute feminists of the Seventies who say: "We didn't have those in our day, so why should you?" Any stylish mother knows that Harrods does a great little black dress for pregnant women, that Hennes does blue jeans that have neither nerdy pouch nor elasticated waist and that it is possible to buy breast-feeding bras that don't look like something Hattie Jacques would wear in Carry On Mother - but they are not going to let you in on the secret.

Then your baby's born. And nothing's ready. Husbands are invariably deranged with panic. No one will have told the poor man that Nappy Express delivers the supplies he promised to buy eight weeks ago or that there's an all-night chemist at Marble Arch for paracetamol to cure your wife's mastitis. They won't tell you not to bother with maternity knickers (don't ask) or breast pumps (they vibrate like a sexual aid but make you feel like farmer Giles's prize cow). Nor will they tell you what you must buy: baby clothes from Sasti in west London and ready-mixed cartons of formula milk from Safeway. This way, husbands can give mewling infants the occasional bottle feed, enabling mum to stop being Mrs Mammal for a few hours and actually get some sleep.

Ah, yes, sleep, that's a good one. Little Jack slept "through the night from day one", your best friend will say smugly. Firstly, don't believe her - she's lying. Secondly, look up maternity nurses in Harden's (listed under childcare). Then hire one. When my first son was born three years ago I thought a maternity nurse was a wench who got her breasts out for strangers, then realised I was thinking of a wet nurse. I couldn't find one of those and by the time my eight-month-old son was born two and a half years later I knew exactly what a maternity nurse was, knew Sadie Frost and Davina McCall had them and hellfire! I wanted one too.

There's one thing the mealy-mouthed PP lot do tell you and that's that children change your life forever. You'll never go out again, they say triumphantly. Well, staying in may be the new going out, but with babies around you need something to talk about and I don't mean density of dribble or excretory habits. No, I mean going to the movies, to the gym, out to a restaurant that isn't Smollensky's on the Strand (think American burgers and a peculiar-looking man doing a noisy puppet show right next to you) or the Rainforest Cafè (think hell and turn up the heat).

Kate Calvert, God bless her, suggests The Ivy or the Ritz, so that's got Liz Hurley and Zoe Ball sorted. For the rest of us, I'd suggest Julie's Wine Bar in Holland Park (it has a crëche on Sundays) or Lemonia, the child-friendly Greek restaurant in Primrose Hill. As for movies, there's no need to smuggle your newborn up your jumper, as I did with my son, Reuben, when he was three weeks old. The Ritzy in Brixton and the Clapham Picture House both offer screenings where babies are welcome.

There's something else I want to save you from. Soft play. Don't know what I'm talking about? Good, with Harden's in your Fendi-tooled leather handbag you might keep it that way. Soft play means lots of coloured balls and outsize plastic cushions in godforsaken leisure centres with vending machines masquerading as cafès. Get down to Tate Modern. Testosterone toddlers can charge about in the Turbine Hall and then draw pictures, in my case, of bogey pies (afraid so) on the tablecloth (paper) in the cafè while you quaff Pinot Grigio. Or the Science Museum. I only discovered its inspirational garden play area for toddlers when the mother of Lord Snowdon's lovechild mentioned it to me on an aeroplane.

It's as if experienced parents think you should be suffering at home, making fairy cakes and pretending you're Nigella I-don't know-what-you-mean-about-domestic-drudgery Lawson. Enough. Its time to live a little.

Harden's London Baby Book 2002/3 by Kate Calvert, £12.99. Available from all good bookshops, or if you order directly from Hardens (0207 839 4763), Evening Standard readers will receive a copy for just £10.99 inc. p&p - £2 off the RRP. Please quote Evening Standard offer when ordering. This offer is available until 11 March 2002.