Mum About Town

The timing couldn’t be more selfish with only a matter of weeks before everyone in my life is expecting a gift. Besides all of this frantic googling could have been avoided. Whatever it was which made me look, enquire, stare (and then WANT)… might never have happened? Only, it did and, from then on in, the rest of the world was on shut down. Mute. I literally couldn’t hear their voices. Face-to-face with some perfect leather and the empty, inviting space inside it, I was spellbound.

If you’re desperately trying to work out what my problem is, it’s that I’ve fallen head over heels in love with a bag. But not any old bag. No, it’s a perfect one. Oh and it’s perfectly stunning too.

Let me try and describe it to you: smooth, soft buttery leather with minimal, elegant gold uppercase branding, in the shape of a seamless bucket tote. That’s all there is to it. But that’s the whole point.

But it was her’s and not mine. Apparently her reward for staying up all night, drooling over a laptop. She had swooped in to click while the homeless buckets were momentarily In Stock and BOOM they were gone again.

Sold out worldwide in seconds. Totally and utterly inexplicably untrappable.

But I will NOT give up; committed to the hunt. In fact, every website which spits out a dead-end, only makes me all the more hungry for my prey. However, the harsh reality is that I’m not alone in my desires, this item is coveted by international fashionistas who can only be viewed as the enemy.

So my chances of success are low, I might need to speed dial Santa.

It’s nothing to do with the fact that Lady Y makes the best EVER marmalade.  Nor that Peru is high up my bucket list.  Or that I have a (secret) thing for brown fluffy bears… But I’m just so over excited that Paddington comes to town this weekend.

Yes, in case you’re been hiding in his little brown suitcase, Michael Bond’s character – aka Peru’s furriest export - will hit the big screen this Friday all duffle-coated up and wearing his floppy red hat.  And I’m sitting here remembering what I most love about London’s favourite bear.

-  First and foremost, his hilarious mishaps.  And of the long list, the overflowing bath accident will always remind me of when exactly the same happened to my brother.  (Except worse, his escapade brought down the whole bathroom ceiling.)

-  The rather specific instructions to look after this bear fill me with affection.  Reading the tales to my Smalls when they were younger, reminded me just how much we should take care of those who are lost, misplaced or just alone in a foreign train station.

-  Those infamous ‘hard stares’ taught to him by his Aunt Lucy.  I use mine regularly, with much effect.

Essentially, Paddington is an outsider trying to make sense of the world.  Keen to do everything correctly (and yet he’s a bear so therefore doesn’t know how), his adventures are amusing and reassuring in equal measure.  Either way, my memories are fond, so I’ll just polish off one more marmalade sandwich, and I’m off to see my labeled bear.

We’re all muttering the same thing.  Like a broken Mummy record.

“Such a long term this is!” “If only they weren’t so exhausted!” “these short dark days are getting to us” “… just got to keep going…”

Except that Mini and I decided to call a stop to it all today.  There she was dressed and ready to head out of the front door when I decided to take a closer look at her pale face, watery eyes and red, sore nose.  And there I saw the light: keeping the show on the road isn’t always the way forward.  Because sometimes the horse can simply refuse to jump.

Before I could say ‘pass me the Calpol’, she had run upstairs, whipped off her uniform and was lying on the sofa in a onesie.  And she has hardly moved since.  Only to write a few Christmas cards, sketch a little in her scrapbook and squeeze some prescribed juicy oranges.  

In my book, these days are called Duvet Days.  Staying at home and doing a little nothing, recharges those running-low batteries and  (hopefully) avoids any lurking sickness.  And it’s forced me to stay put too.  The two of us have caught up on her school stories (with no one to interrupt), sorted out the mess which was her bedroom and even done a little festive online shopping too.  So break the record and give someone you love a Duvet Day this week.

The school gates are buzzing with news of the latest parenting course.  Most of those talking about last night’s session are feeling ‘empowered’, ‘relieved’ and ‘calmer, definitely calmer’ about how to deal with their rebellious offspring.  And, as I jumped back into my car to hide from those with sparklingly new superhuman parenting powers, I wondered why such a course would be MY world’s biggest nightmare?

Now, just to be clear… we’ve all waxed lyrical about hard parenthood is but saying NO and obedient bedtimes I honestly do feel I have now nailed.  I’m kind when I need to be and fierce in between…so, why do I need any further instructions to get these small people to function?

It’s not that I’m as arrogant as I sound nor that I think that I couldn’t learn how to raise my Smalls better. But I’m puzzled as to why we can’t simply learn on the job.

My own mother and grandmother certainly never took a course in child rearing.  And yet they were dab hands.  So is today’s society suggesting we need to excel at parenting, on top of the ever-increasing list of hoops to jump?  Isn’t it fine to just be OK at this skill? Or at least to work out a way which works best for us? Besides, what in god’s name is ‘real parenting’? Are some people actually getting away with faking it?

It seems that this particular Halloween, Renée Zellweger felt the need to go the whole hog by ordering herself a brand new face for the occasion. I say Renée Zellweger as that’s who I can only presume is behind that recently revealed stretched, pulled face of intense shock. But to be honest, it could be anyone… simply terrifying the ghouls, vampires and anyone who might ever be tempted by the horrors of plastic surgery.

But, fear not, oh taut ones, I’m not about to wax lyrical in this week’s post about the idiocy of Botox. No, right now, I’m more interested in Renée’s bid to reconstruct herself. With a career twisting uncomfortably between success and failure, here is an actress who has never made a comeback since the days of Jerry Maguire. Bridget Jones was, of course, a heart-winning performance but in such a desperately pitifully way. Perhaps even you and I wouldn’t have bounced back from those needy binges and single awkwardness.

So Renée, it appears, has turned to her face to exercise some sort of control over her image and has seemingly hidden her issues behind an ever-tightening mask. And, readers, I suppose I do understand this. Many of us feel the need to evolve and alter our external image and sometimes this desire can be overwhelming. So I suppose I see Renée’s reconstruction as just one step further than this. That said, I’d opt for a purple rinse any day rather than ever go under that knife.