Woo hoo. Saturday. The baby has begun to sleep through the night and I am getting thinner. Could be the two hour school run. Whatever. It means I may just investigate further my mother’s startling claim that I look better in trousers than dresses. Aside from the fact that my entire sartorial life’s work has been based around the 50’s frock and its permutations, this is difficult news logistically. I actually have no trousers. Ah well.

In school run-related news, I have worked out a new system to get me (us) all to school on time, and it works like this:

I prepare.

I know. It has taken me a year, but I get it now.

So, I do stuff like think about getting the boys to do their homework before breakfast. Say, for example, the afternoon before. I get Claudia the Cleaner to iron those pesky M&S “non-iron” white shirts which inexplicably exit the washing machine like an old crumpled tissue with grey cuffs all at once on Saturday and most importantly, I sort out my clothes the night before. Which works, mostly, as long as:

1. I have not been latterly suffering from body dysmorphia whereby I fancy I can wear cut off denim shorts and a midrif top, forgetting the British climate, the cultural climate at school and that whole four-pregnancies-since-2005 thing; and

2. the washing has been done every day, thereby avoiding those mildewing spotty stains which appear on lots of my clothes (but why? how?); and

3. that I am not pregnant or just had a baby and therefore cannot fit ONE SINGLE ITEM in my inappropriate wardrobe kitted out for an imaginary office.

But sometimes, alas, it all goes wrong anyway. Take yesterday, for instance. The night before I had somehow told myself as I drifted off to have a dream (about India Knight being my wickedly witty and well-connected BBF, no less) that wearing grey tights, pirate boots, boob-revealing breton stripes and a green cropped army jacket would look stylish and stun the other mothers into appreciative murmurs.

But the next morning, as I sauntered along, still cranky from the discovery that Custard had tipped my Benefit Benetint liquid blush all over the flat walls and carpet, I was suddenly struck by the odd but undeniable fact that I had dressed myself as an unintentional homage to Puck. I was a 32 year old Shakespearean woodland creature hauling my blue and grey mini-elves to school.  It was very panto, and so very wrong for a frosty Friday 8:15am morning.

So I skipped and danced my way home in manner of a giant mummy elf and redressed myself. Like you have to do with toddlers who get into the dressing-up box.

Style FAIL.

And it looks as though there will be a birthday present iPad FAIL as well. And I only have myself to blame. In a nutshell, as it were, I happened upon a big charity sale at Joseph on Westbourne Grove last Saturday on the way to Portobello Road. I was with the entire brood, and so asked Mark to keep them all on the other side of the road while I joined the unholy scrum. I found a Stella McCartney blush see-through lace blouse and the Joseph man said “That is the star piece” and I knew I needed it. Because a transparent pinkish lace blouse with Edwardian leg’o’mutton sleeves is EXACTLY what someone with vomity babies who hangs out in the sandpit needs. It was reduced from £1000 to £120 and seemed such a bargain, and had I been sans family I would have grabbed it and brought it home and not said a word. But I was being WATCHED. So I had to Discuss Said Purchase With Husband. And what did I do? I said

“It could be my birthday present.”

IDIOT. He says “Why, YES!” and I think “Oh no!” and now I cannot play my iPad mindgames.

He won.

Here are some pics that I found on Mark’s iPhone. Take note of the 3 day old reddish Ned, and spookily-thin-looking one of me. It is not real, but I like it.