Cocktail

Sometimes I struggle to work out what to wear. Not when I'm teaching or writing (in which case I could wear my yoga gear all day - but I don't), but when I have to go to a function. Last night there was a welcome dinner for new parents at Kid 2's school. The invitation said 'Business' attire, I assume because a lot of the parents would be coming straight from work. Well, I was also coming straight from work, but what I was wearing to work in definitely wasn't going to cut it.

I thought about wearing the sort of thing I'd wear to a client meeting - a dress, a blazer and heels. I even pulled such an outfit out of the wardrobe. But I just wasn't comfortable with it. So I grabbed my favourite ever jeans - black velvet skinnies - and my No 6 boots and a burgundy silk shirt. Possibly a little bit more rock n roll than 'business' but I felt like myself. Although I wouldn't say the evening was fun, exactly, the fact that I was comfortable in what I was wearing actually made me feel less socially awkward.

The next sartorial challenge is a cocktail party. I don't think jeans will do. Suggestions?

Clueless

I have been watching Kid 2's first few weeks in high school with interest. She's gone from a tiny, co-ed primary school, 5 minutes walk from our front door, to an inner city girls' school with 100 girls in her year (there were 9 in her last year of primary).

So far, it's been pretty good. She's loving it, she's made lots of friends, and the school has worked very hard to make us, as a family, feel like part of a community.

A friend asked me the other day whether I'd thought twice about sending Kid 2 to an all girls' school. I said that no, honestly, I hadn't. 'But what about the bitchiness?' the friend asked. Well, that got me thinking.

Yes, there have been moments. One day a couple of weeks ago she came home and said, 'Mum, J told me she 'got' [a bit like getting a puppy?] a boyfriend over the weekend and then she that I'll never get a boyfriend.' 'Oh', I said. 'That's a rather silly thing to say - what did you say back?'. 'I told her that wasn't very nice and then I didn't speak to her until lunch', said Miss, apparently unfazed.

When I recounted this story to a friend, she laughed and said 'Oh, I'm glad I've only got boys, girls are so horrible'. I was about to agree, but then I stopped myself. I'm pretty sure that my high school experience was a fairly standard one - I had friends, sometimes we fell out, sometimes people said nasty things, and sometimes feelings got hurt. But I honestly can't remember any seriously awful behaviour.

So why do we say this? Once I started thinking about this, I kept seeing it everywhere - the idea that teenage girls are unkind, even cruel, and that it's simply innate and we should just shrug and let them get on with it. I don't buy it. Yes, adolescence is a rough time for everyone, male or female, and working yourself out as a person - especially in relation to other people - can be tricky. No one is kind all the time. But casual accepting or assuming that teenage girls are necessarily 'bitchy' just normalises behaviour that is pretty much unacceptable in any other context. It's also a cop-out as a parent to say 'oh, they're just like that'.

Well, that's what I think, anyway ... Ask me again in a few years, I guess.

Love, Actually

Very little has been happening. And most of that which has been happening has not been good. I'll leave it there, shall I?

A bright spot on the horizon is the engagement party we are hosting this weekend. It's not a formal party at all, just a lunch in the garden. The happy couple got engaged when they were in Europe late last year, and I knew they wouldn't throw themselves a party, since they live in a tiny apartment (tinier even than our house). So I made the offer and they accepted. We don't know many of their other friends, but that's fine, since that way no one will mind if I'm in the kitchen much of the time!

We will be eating Bloody Mary sorbet, chilli crab and pannacotta with lychees. Now all I have to do is the shopping, cooking, cleaning and decorating ...

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.