We are off on holiday next Monday, first to Turkey then to Greece. It will be too hot, and I fear we will die. Hopefully not though, because we have a new bed getting delivered while we are gone and I totally want to sleep on a memory mattress which is super-king-sized and will fit us all without elbows getting shoved into eyesockets and surreptitious pinching. I wish to sleep on a bed that seems to have only me on it. I want to stay in bed after all the children have crept in and not even notice their bickering, or their damp nappies, or sniff their dribbly patches of wettish hair and not be forced out from the sheer annoyingness of it all. Before I die, that is my wish.
So, I am busy preparing for our holiday by buying hats and shaving off the dead old lady skin from my heels and applying self-tan. I have been reading like a good Disciple Of The Woman’s Magazine all of the tips relating to packing lightly, and yet STYLISHLY. For this, you must co-ordinate your holiday wardrobe. First, pick a theme – any theme – as long as it is either:
1. Boho and maxi and sheer and printed, with cowboy hats and embellished sandals and bracelets and long disheveled beach hair, or
2. Chanel-at-the-seaside breton stripey, denimy, red, blue and white.
I am not clever enough to do either theme and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, dear Magazine Editors, it is the same every year! Why not suggest I wear polyester vintage frocks and mid-season jackets and evening gowns (because, er, that is what I find on a cursory wardrobe inspection). It would make things so much easier.
The problem is that I have the wardrobe of someone who is not me. I have the wardrobe of someone who goes to work. Not someone who deals in spitty biscuits and sand and facepaint and Sudocrem. And thus, I am forever caught in two sartorially-divergent worlds. And it shows.
Today, I have worn and discarded a blue puffball Marni skirt because it was unironed and covered in baby rusk, then I gave up on a Kate Sylvester silk skirt because you could see the baby tum popping out over the edge, and am now poured into an old, second-hand Marni 50’s skirt with tumble weed printed all over it, in the mistaken belief that the tightness has tamed the excess bits and I am channelling Louis Vuitton in a most fashion-forward way. The effect was all very ruined though when we got to Waitrose and Custard started his Supermarket Shriek. By the by, I thank you, cranky old ladies and old men who tut and cluck and frown and tell me that the best thing I could do for Custard when he makes a noise like that is a sharp slap across the face. All of that TOTALLY helps the situation, and calms me down, and shuts Custard up.
Anyway, I think I was trying to say that I am off on holiday soon. I hope all you Northern Hemisphere-dwellers are off somewhere nice too. x