Seems like Tuesday was a bad hair, bad body and bad clothes day, all wrapped up in one. A single tweet triggered a chain of events which led to me being compared to a soap star...and not the fit type.
The tweet in question referred to recent research which said that "looking in the mirror does make people anxious".
Who knew? http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2097717/Looking-mirror-DOES-make-anxious-looks.html
38 times a day?? Tell me who. Seriously, who would look in the mirror every 40 minutes on average? I do a quick toothpaste check, then I'm outta there.
So this research got me thinking. On a good day, I don't think I'm too shabby. No need to respond, Reader. Trouble is, there's been a few situations lately that are making me think a little more effort is required.
Situation one. Picture it in your head. School run whilst wearing my "slouching" trousers aka "nocturnal" trousers aka pyjamas. You'll be relieved to know I didn't get out of the car. Lou was.
A modicum of self-respect forced me to change clothes and go to my Tuesday club. We all know what a Tuesday club is, don't we.... Walked in, and they asked me if I'd just got out of bed. Err, no... Made up some crap about not feeling well, but I'd got the message, loud and clear.
Situation two took us to my bestie's house. The townies were off for a brisk walk in the countryside. Lovely. The Sandringham forest was delightful, the snow-covered landscape picturesque and then there was me. Me and my borrowed wardrobe. A pair of trainers from my sister, a coat of my brother's, and a scarf we'd found on a Tube once. Hugo Boss scarf, mind. But still Stig of the Dump.
Now, a thrown-together outfit can look great on some people. But the clothes need to be clean. Ideally ironed. And with a semblance of colour co-ordination. Not some hotpotch of items chosen on the basis of whether is it too horribly stained and if it fits or not. I'd ended up looking like a sack of spuds. The bestie doesn't judge, I know....but still. Not a good look.
These thoughts were playing in my mind, when the ritualistic viewing of EastEnders started. My son, knowing the way to Mummy's heart, gave me his version of a compliment. "Mummy, you are more beautiful than Heather Trott." You know Hev, but for non-'Enders fans, here she is http://eastenders.wikia.com/wiki/Heather_Trott
Really Lou? Really? Don't you see me as a Jane, a Tanya? Hell, even a Zainab. But not Heather. Purlease.
But actually, my boy may have a point here. I have more things in common with Hev than I initially realised.
We both love Wham and Mr George Michael
I had a cat called Pepsi; she's got a mate called Shirley
Us two like our grub
And we both live with a man called Andrew.
Meet my sister from another mister, Miss Heather Trott!
*This post is in no way meant to be critical of Cheryl Fergison, just my dress sense!
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