The French Connection

I have probably mentioned that I'm the only person in my immediate family who doesn't speak French fairly fluently - my stepfather is French, and my mother and brother can both hold their own. I can read simple things like magazines and Agatha Christie novels (don't laugh), and I can understand much of the dialogue in French movies, but I certainly don't ever try to speak.

Sod's law, then, that two weeks ago a little French boy turned up at school. Mum is here on a student visa, and speaks passable English. I don't know about Dad. M, who is six, could count 1-10 in English and that's all. It's my job to teach him.

The lovely thing is that he is just dying to learn. He regards me as his own personal dictionary and likes to rapid fire French words at me to get the English equivalent. It is amazing how much vocab - verbs even - I am managing to trawl up, decades since I last studied French. Of course, I'm not sure being able to discuss dinosaurs, crocodiles and pirate hats will be particularly useful to me in the future ...

The Wrong Trousers

I have a friend who has been trying to make me wear slouchy jersey pants for ages. She wears them and looks great. But she is over 6 foot tall, and most of her height is legs. I, on the other hand, am short, with short legs.

Finally, bored with my various skinny jeans and pants, I thought I'd dip a toe in by buying this very cheap pair from ASOS. 

Things that make your hips look wider are unpopular with many women, I know, but if your body type is straight up and down (I believe the official name for my figure is Sausage), creating wider hips could possibly create the illusion of a waist, right?

Anyway, the pants arrived. I wore this with a blazer. I don't take photos of myself as a rule, but I wanted to see whether they actually looked ok. Obviously the photo is appalling. My left thigh has not benefited from the addition of a chair leg to its silhouette ... And excuse my hair, which hasn't been cut in months and seems to be growing directly outwards.

Kid 2 got home from school and said 'I love your pants, can I try them on?'

Kid 1 got home from school and said 'Mum, are you wearing trackies with heels?'

Hmmm.

Flying High

If only I were literally flying. I have itchy feet. But not much chance of that at the moment, unless Spouse lands himself an overseas trip for work - better yet, an overseas posting. I can dream.

But while I'm wishing myself elsewhere, I'm also - and yes, it's entirely contradictory - trying to make the most of here and now.

Part of that is going back to yoga classes. I was supposed to have my first one last week, but it was also Kid 2's first day of high school and I'm glad I made that my priority. So my first yoga class in 6 months was this morning.


I was really, ridiculously, nervous. My temperamental lower back makes backbends rather awful for me. I hate being upside down. I cannot for the life of me balance in Half Moon pose. I have hypermobile joints that make me look like a freak in certain positions. I felt like I was going to be exposed for the dreadful, hopeless, uncoordinated creature that I am.

It was fine. Of course. I told the teacher it had taken me months of practice for me to kick up into a handstand and that I've probably regressed. She looked at me like I had rocks in my head. 'Some people never do it', she said. 'Just do what you can, when  you want.'

My ex-yoga teacher used to tell me I wasn't trying hard enough. I thought I needed someone to bully me into doing scary things. Time will tell, I suppose ...

Either way, I'm SO happy to be back in yogaland.

High Heels

Last Friday night, we had to go to birthday drinks for a family member. I was planning to wear my favourite mustard suede shoes, but it was pouring with rain and I didn't want them ruined. I pulled out another pair of heels - strappy black suede numbers that I've had (and worn) for years. I put them on. I tottered up the stairs to look in the mirror. Well, they looked just fabulous. But I realised as I stood there that I could no longer contemplate the thought of standing (not even walking) in them for the durations of 'drinks'. Once upon a time I could attend a wedding in them, right through to the dancing bit ...

I'm not ready to give up heels entirely. I just can't wear 4 inch stilettos anymore, it seems.

But that's OK, because I'm eyeing these Fluevogs as my new pair of boots for winter ...


Sexy? Nup. Elegant? I don't think so. Comfy? I'm betting so. 

Working Girl

I've been mulling over whether to post about a conversation I had yesterday that left me entirely gobsmacked. And I've decided that I will, because it's a way of getting it out of my system.

Here goes:

Me (to parent I'm sitting next to at the school assembly): Do you know what time this will go to as I ought to be back at work by about 10am?
Her: I think about 9.30. Do you work in the city?
Me: No, I'm a freelancer, so I mostly work from home.
Her: Doing what?
Me: Financial copywriting, generally, for banks and stockbrokers.
Her (pulling face to indicate distaste): I bet that's not the glamourous idea you had in mind when you started copywriting.
Me: (contemplating possible responses, including that most of my work has just happened organiclly and glamour was never a factor): ... Um ... I don't really mind it. [Trying to think of something to say to move the conversation away from my offensively unglamourous job] I'm also a primary school teacher - I do that for fun.
Her (pulling face as above): Except that it's not fun.
Me: (totally speechless for at least five seconds) Actually, I really enjoy it, although it is often quite hard work. [Trying to get away from my work altogether] What about you?
Her (expression of complete disdain): I don't participate in the paid workforce.

Silence.

I have known many women who have had the luxury of not participating in the paid workforce, but I have never before had someone respond so negatively to my work. It really threw me.