I am writing this post on Friday night, with an IKEA pencil, in the back of my book, on the Eastbound District Line. At South Kensington, if you want to know.
Silly Mummy, as Ziggler would say.
I (rather stroppily) made Trulove come home early tonight because I was going out. I have put on a dress and make up. After a day wiping bottoms, noses, tables and faces and discussing the finer points of Peppa Pig, I should be at a swanky booklaunch drinking booze and having intelligent adult conversation. And probably delectable canapés. I should be skilfully networking and laughing tinklingly. But, having crossed London in the freezing cold, got lost the other end, walked up and down the same stretch of road twice and then resorted to a six quid taxi for what would’ve been a 30 second walk if I wasn’t such a Silly Mummy, I finally arrived at the party.
A day late.
If I were still youngish and thinnish and prettyish I might’ve flirted with the barman and he might’ve bought me a commiseratory drink. If I were a man I would’ve ordered a pint anyway. But being instead a middle-aged, gone-to-fat lady (at least I still have pretty eyes), I’ve appeared incredibly rude to one of my nicest friends and proved myself to be a Very Silly Mummy Indeed. Not sure what a Silly Mummy would chat about to intelligent adults, anyway.