Don't speak...

Now I have recovered from fighting for the Free World on Saturday night (well, the part of it which dyes its roots, wears varifocals and likes a sensible shoe) I have had to admit to the children what I was doing.  Reactions varied from 'Oh.  Dear.  God', to, 'Mumpty, you're a legend'.  (My personal favourite).  Will I do it again?  Well of course I will, just as soon as the corns on my left foot have subsided and I can walk to the car without wincing.  

The husband is still loitering around the house waiting for his next job to start.  It's a bit like an actor, turning down the advert work because it's beneath him.  The husband hasn't got to the stage where he's saying to Mrs Clutterbuck down the road, 'A blocked sink Mrs C?  But darling, I am an artiste', but should he, then there will be hell to pay....

As he was around yesterday, and only having to put up with the usual verbal castigation from his eternally patient bookkeeper, Mrs B-T, he offered to do all of the dog walking so that I could have a bit of an afternoon off after work.  This was great news, as I have been wanting to go into Reading and look for some clothes to fit my more streamlined figure.  Not loads of stuff, you understand, but just a couple of 'bits'. ('Bits' is a  phrase which implies that the items bought are small, insignificant and cheap, whereas we ladies know that 'bits' normally means having to buy more hangers and hiding the bags for several weeks.  'Bits' are always about timing, as we all know).

So my bits were three pairs of shorts, one pair of work trousers and a pair of yoga pants (the ones I am wearing at the moment are very baggy, and as they are grey, they make my legs look like they belong to a wrinkled old elephant.  So pretty meagre really.  I suppose I'm being cautious as there is still a little way to go, but I erred on the side of snug (ever the optimist) and parted with my hard earned pennies.

Getting back into the lift, there was a lady already in there.  As the doors closed, she started pressing all of the buttons, tutting, and then starting over again.  This is just what you need after three hours in H&M, someone with OCD in charge of the lift buttons.  The lift finally stopped and the doors opened and I leapt out like a Thomson's Gazelle, shouting 'thank you' behind me.

So I was back to where I had started, on the ground floor and no nearer to my car languishing on the second. The other lift turned up, and I got into this one with a man and two boys.  They were incredibly badly behaved (and I quote, 'I'm going to s**t on your head when you do your laces up next), and the dad told one of them off for sticking his feet in the gap between door and floor, 'They are Burberry for Christ' sake Eric, so just stop it.  This lady doesn't want to see you ruin your best shoes'.

How I stopped myself from saying that I would have loved to have seen Eric with his head stuck between the doors, the two of them repeatedly banging against his daft upper class ears is anyone's guess.

There is a risk that I might be growing up I suppose...