Is your life like The White Company catalogue? Mine is. Definitely. Like one long, demented lifestyle shoot where the Art Director is on glue, and someone forgot to book in the retouching.
Tonight, myself and the two small ones all piled into our bed for a bedtime story, crisp white sheets gently rustling as the early evening light slants through the window. So far, so Jo Malone. We read a brilliant book, Owl Babies. It’s so lovely, we read it twice. I am a brilliant parent, I think to myself, cuddled up with my two delicious children.
It becomes apparent that what started as cuddling from the the boy has become a gentle, rhythmic jabbing of his tiny hands into my stomach. He is softly chanting to himself, in time with his jabs. Rictus grin, giant blue eyes, halo of curly blond hair. The jabbing grows in vigour, as does the volume of the chant:
“Piss… OFF! Piss… OFF! Piss… OFF!”
This child. Dear Lord.
“PISS OFF!!! PISS OFF!!! PISS OFFFFFFF!!!!”
There is an outside chance he was simply shouting for the pleasure of hearing his own voice (this happens) however once he got wise to the fact I was in equal measure horrified and fascinated, it was a good five minutes before I could get him to stop. Luckily, Rose then tripped herself over with her own pants, which was an amusing distraction. Put that in the bloody catalogue.
Incidentally, if you’re wondering why The White Company is so expensive, consider that they need some way to recoup the print costs of the twenty catalogues a month they send to my house. In a fit of jubilant pre-natal nesting, I once went nuts and bought ALL THE CUSHIONS and am now probably on some high value idiot-list. More fool them. As any parent knows, once the child is actually in the Pinterest-planned nursery, any spare cash you have goes on giant quantities of nappies (for them, for you, for fun), and alcohol. Also, husband has officially barred me from buying any more cushions.*
So my bedsheets are the finest thread count, but look closely and you’ll see the fake tan marks (indelible, apparently); we have wildly expensive scented candles in smashed jars (thanks kids), a garden pickled with fairy lights which intermittently strobe like a terrifying school disco since I accidentally strimmed through the wires whilst cutting the lawn (‘I wonder if I can just strim around the…oh. No. Shit.) and more sick-stained gingham cushions than any idiot could ever need. But we’re getting there. All I need is a few more heavily retouched shots on my Instagram and surely it’s only a matter of time before my lifestyle empire is complete and Vogue come knocking? No? Back to Lidl tomorrow it is then.
(*So I have moved on to browsing NetAPorter.com instead. More expensive, more fun. More of a real problem if you accidentally buy something whilst breastfeeding at 3am thinking FML I deserve it.)
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Dicking about on Twitter here
Pictures of my breakfast on Instagram here.