Bah humbug

God I am a misery.

Blame it on my hormones. Or maybe I am just a miserable bastard at heart. I shouldn't read women's magazines - fashiony ones - as we all know the statistics - that reading them makes you feel worse about yourself by about a million per cent or whatever.

But I needed a smidgen of glamour in my life. My life that today started at 3am when Sproglet came in to say he was scared - of what? Who knows - but he duly went back to bed. I curled up and.... stayed awake. Joy. Add in a few bathroom trips and when I awoke this morning from a bizarre dream I looked like someone had punched me in the eyes. I felt shattered. Husband had stayed at work so I had to sort out the laundry, take out the re-cycling (and slip on the icy decking, bashing my knee and causing tears before 8:15am). Then I couldn't get the fucking re-cycling tubs past the bins what with my bump and all. The TV stopped working. The dish washer packed up - and cos Husband hadn't paid BT on time - no calls allowed from the home phone either. Happy days.

So I popped out of the office today for a decaf and bought myself some mags - all festive and full of what to wear! How to decorate your home! Xmas gifts for everyone! Evening make-up! Tis the season to discover your inner fox! Etc etc. God it made me depressed. I so want to buy a foxy dress and A. fit into it. B. Have a fucking reason to wear it in the first place. C. Afford said foxy dress. But I have none of the above. All those towering Louboutins - I'm thinking, I interviewed Christian - twice! Including at his offices in Paris before Stella McCartney's first ever show for Chloe - and now, now the closest I get to a killer heel is stroking a glossy magazine with misty eyes.

At the moment my wardrobe is - one pair of maternity jeans that fit and a pair of grim leggings. A few tops that try and hold in my chest and bras that are like swaddling a newborn. I have no idea on earth on how any woman feels at her best at this time - all glowing and sexy. I couldn't feel less myself if I tried.

I'm biting the bullet - or anything I can get my teeth upon - and having a bikini wax on Fri. Gawd help the woman who has to do it - she'll probably charge me double. I have a feeling she may weep with the stress of it all. Meanwhile a friend who has just become a Mum at 40 has booked us in for pedicures next Thurs. I have only had 2 in my life. It is a big treat. My roots are being blonded on Monday. I need some pampering goddammit.

I keep thinking of Xmas past - when I kissed boys in unisex toilets and made booty calls to unsuitables; fell down private member's club's stairs into the tree after one too many; of TV parties filled with vodka luges - my tongue getting stuck to one in the shape of a naked Adonis; of mistletoe in my hair and a spring in my step - as I gatecrashed one Xmas bash in Soho after another.

Now - now the highlight of my week is fucking X factor and a mince pie. Where did it all go wrong? The mags telling me what sparkly dress or leather trousers to don with my smokey eyes and glossy lips - ha! If only... imagine trying to shove my dimply thighs post birth into leather strides... oh the horror.

Sorry - I am Scrooge I know....