…is that they precede a Saturday morning.
Usually, this should be a cause for joy, signalling a lie-in and a leisurely cup of tea. But, recently, Saturday mornings (and Sundays come to think of it) have meant something altogether different.
You see, from Monday to Friday, I am long gone by the time Frog wakes up. I leave the house at 4.15am for work, which means the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine plays the role of Gok Wan in the morning, dressing our 20 month old non-toddling toddler and negotiating all the relevant tantrums. Continue reading
It’s been on my mind for a while now, this whole nudist thing. I mean, do we really need clothes? Really?
Ever since becoming a mum I’ve been veering more and more towards the No Clothes Camp. First of all, my favourite jeans refused to stretch with my newly wobbly belly. Then my tops refused to shrink with my newly shrivelled mammary glands. Then Every. Single. Pair of socks I owned got up and did a disappearing act.
So I’ve been spending my days since June 2010 dressed in a mixture of clothes borrowed from my sister and my husband, with the odd Primarni purchase thrown in for good measure. And no socks. Continue reading
It’s funny how something as simple as an item of clothing can bring back so many memories.
There’s the first tutu my mum made for me when I was four. I can still hear it tear as my friend attempted to lift me in a less-than-graceful balletic manouvre. Then there’s the white dress I bought in Camden on a trip with my mum and sister and later wore on the first night I ever met the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine.
And there’s the little red shirt. Continue reading