I was lookin' back over my blog and all the various comments you guys have so kindly left on it and I thought to myself - this has been a very one-sided friendship - with me doin' all the talking. Which I know, is the point of a blog. But it got me thinking - who reads this blog? Why bother to check in with my dreary non glam existence? Do you check in weekly, monthly, every blue moon? Some folk have really helped me through difficult times with their kind words and cheery well meant suggestions - for example, the fabulous 8 who commented when I was at an all time low...
I'm genuinely curious about the folk that read this - as I honestly started this blog way back in 2008 - purely for myself, as a way to vent and in the hope that someone out there might identify with it and somehow feel less alone. I wanted to dispel the myths of motherhood and to lay some honest opinions on the line - possibly because becoming a mother was the loneliest thing I ever did (at the time) and I wanted to scream from the rooftops 'no one ever told me it would be like this!!!'
Some of my friends read the blog rather than calling (Caroline... *wags stern finger at her*); The Girl Who has championed it on various sites (Gawd bless Monica - she inspired me to blog to begin with as her own is just so brilliant) and apart from that some names keep reappearing on the commenters - Keenie Beenie, Chaos, Liz (Can I be invited to read your blog by the way?) Daycare Lady... But in general I have no idea who is clicking on here, or what they get from it. Noe maybe you'd rather be a silent viewer - and that's cool - but I fancy a bit of chat. Or what we in Ireland call banter, so here goes:
So - do you live in somewhere much more exciting than Hertfordshire, England? I bet you do.
Do you ever give your kids cough medicine just to get them to sleep?
Have you got a crush on anyone young enough to be your kid? Or secretly your hot new neighbour?
If you had to read only one book for the rest of your life - what would it be?
Why do you read this here blog?
And finally... Salted or sweet?
Go on - come out to play? Pleeeaaassse..... It isn't even a school night.
Sunday, 6 February 2011
I shouldn't have done it. I know, it was wrong. Why enter a domain that you have no business going into?
It was a busy Saturday - yesterday - when I trained it into London to change lots of my daughter's baby gifts. Not, I hasten to add because they aren't lovely (I am grateful for every pretty one of them) - but because some of them she will never get her increasingly chunky frame into in the next month, or we got duplicates of the same thing etc. So, waste not, want not and all - I braved Oxford Circus and dashed here and there picking various outfits etc in replacement. The shops were packed, I was hot and sweaty inside them and freezing my ass off outside - and wishing that I was spending the time cooing over clothes that I no longer fit these days.
A really dear mate was meeting me, to then come back and stay over. I texted to find out where she was as she'd arrived in London a bit earlier and she replied 'In Selfridges - the shoe dept - HELP!'
Now Selfridges is amazing - a luxurious store in the centre of London for all those USA readers. Think Macy's... Recently they devoted half a floor to an all new shoe department called simply 'The shoe collection.' Heaven on a stick. Rows and rows and concession after concession of exquisite teetering shiny polished shoes screaming 'buy me even though you can't actually shove your trotter into me and will never be able to walk more than a metre in me without calling a taxi.'
When I huffed my way there I called her to find out where she was - it is a BIG department. She sounded apologetic: 'I'm in Christian Louboutins.' Oh dear. The king of shoes. The man clever enough to put a red sole on all his shoes - a trademark that ensures everyone who wears them can show off their status - as only Louboutins flash that deep red wink with every step you take. I've met the man and he is terribly nice in a sexy french doe-eyed camp but humble way. He wouldn't know me from a bar of soap - but my god I love his babies.
Now this buddy of mine is someone I lived with in my gay old days gadding about London dating the wrong sort of guys, losing my wallet on a weekly basis and frequently falling out of a taxi after a shot too many. Heady expensive live-for-the-moment times. Long gone days. Trying on shoes with her felt like - well, stepping into a comfy old slipper - we'd done this routine many times and many moons before.
The minute I entered the shop area, I saw them.
They cried out to me with their delicate features and strong silhouette.
"Ohhh helllooooo." I oozed, sounding like a dodgy Italian waiter trying his luck with a blousy drunken girl on her fourth cocktail.
"Try them on," Claire urged.
No. Inside my head was screaming: "No - don't do it. Step away from the sexy shoes Step AWAY."
My heart was falling in love with an object - something I haven't done since Adam and the Ants released their 'Prince Charming' album in 1983...
Seriously. It has been so so long since I coveted something that wasn't 'we need it for the house' or 'wouldn't Sproglet love it.' I cannot remember a time when I desired something - just for me.
The twenty five year old buried inside me skipped to the fore and as I held those peep toed wonders in my hand, I felt, well, like ME again. Gone was the dreary Mother covered in vomit and baked beans, with a lardy post baby middle and a permanently tired expression. With one quick flick of a discarded sweaty sock and a twist of ankle and hey presto! I was a giddy foot loose and fancy free TV presenter of old. It conjured up memories of years ago - buying things that we know we shouldn't and wondering how we'll pay the rent that month (not that I ever actually did that - I was far too worried about bills and money to ever throw caution to the wind and make the leap to silly debt for a fabulous wardrobe).
If they looked amazing in my hand (well, once I had summoned the courage to ask for a size 6, convinced the shop assistant would be wondering why on earth this dowdy woman was daring to covet a Louboutin) and popped on my foot they burst into life. I could even walk in them! I was smitten. They were a work of art - timeless, stylish, dainty, sexy and a statement in themselves. I wanted them. I wanted them more than a date with Brad Pitt with a bottle of baby oil. I wanted them more than anything - just to be that girl once more. To dance in heels and feel no responsibility; to swish round town in heels that made me feel a million dollars.
But of course I didn't buy them.
I don't have that kind of money - who am I trying to kid? No amount of justification: 'what if I saved for like six months? What if I sold, I dunno, my TV? What if I begged Husband as he owes me for birthing a daughter for him?' would allow me to part with the extortionate amount of money required to own these beauties. Because I don't have it and because deep down it would be wrong. I am not working at the mo, gawd knows how I will ever work in TV again with 2 kids, the bills keep a comin' and my life does not require fancy pants shoes in it - school run in these spike heels? I think not.
But yet, I wanted them. So much. For a wedding I have to go to. For the one night a year that I will go somewhere with Husband for a meal and we'll pretend to talk about something other than the kids. For myself. For the girl I used to be - in my dim and distant past. I can't stop thinking about them - like a stupid teenage crush. They are simply perfection. Ahhh.
Oh well, a girl can dream.