I have days when I just need to live in my fleece. Good days, because I am comfortable in my comfort. Bad days, because I need the feeling of a hot shower all all all all day. I have tried giving it up, but I just can’t. Even though I know it makes me look far too roomy, and I can pack a wodgeful of tissues in the pocket just knowing they are all hoping to jump out and attack the floor, the children or some tissue-phobic stalker, I have a feeling that my fleece and I have a great future together.
So today, I took Lily to the theatre. All middle class, us. Except when I looked around the hall and saw this:
Yes. I am not really The Right Sort of Mum when it comes to attending Oliver Jeffers’ latest offering. But when you have the kind of child who can tell you how the play differed from the book in precise detail, and which years and in which order each of the books were published because she spends time researching it herself, I think perhaps my daughter does not really need a bodenmummy. I am not even sure a Fleecemummy is all that much better. But at least I have enough tissues on me either way.