The Womens Room

Middleagedmum.com: dress wars

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So the Obamas have left town after four days of grand dinners, politics and ping pong. And weren't they fabulous. Intelligent, ambitious, inclusive and inspirational in a way David and Samcam can only dream of.

I say they, as listening to Michelles speech at Oxford brought a tear to my eye and highlighted how intelligent she clearly is.

I often encounter the the girls from Elizabeth Garrett Anderson School on the bus in the morning and as I Tweeted on Wednesday ' I wish I was on the school bus to Oxford, but I hope they behave better than they do on the no 73!'. Not that they are that bad, they are normal - make that loud - teenage girls, from an inner city comprehensive, not disimilar to my own kids schools.

Her inspirational words of encouragement can't have failed to reach the girls chosen because 'they are interested in Science but not reaching their full potential'. Who better to talk to them than someone who thinks  "success is not about the background you are from, it is about the confidence that you have and the effort you are willing to invest."  Apparently since since visiting EGA in 2009, she has kept in touch with the school, writing letters and encouraging the girls in their studies. What an amazing role model for young girls (particularly black girls) in a celebrity obsessed world where lots of teenagers would list Kim Kardashian and Beyonce as their heroines.

So it's agreed, we all love the Obamas and see Michelle as an intelligent, inspiring and very cool, first lady. So can someone please explain to me the medias obsession with what she was wearing?

Don't get me wrong, I have already fessed up to my side column of shame addiction, and I love celebrity gossip as much as anyone, but I simply can't understand why, from the minute the Obamas arrived in London, some of the media relentlessly listed the labels she was wearing, with not a word about what she was saying or doing! WTH, haven't we established we like her because she is clever. We don't want to look like her or BE her, in a Single White Female type way!

The obsession reached ridiculous proportions when the Obamas met the Cambridges and and the media reported the dress Kate was wearing was from Reiss, causing an online shopping meltdown. The company Tweeted later in the day ''Due to unprecedented demand, Shola mania has crashed our website! We are endeavouring to bring the Reiss brand back to you ASAP!''

Who are these women who want to dress like Kate Middleton and why does a meeting between a member of the Royal family and Americas first lady, have to turn into a battle of the frocks, with Liz Jones proclaiming 'The tanned Duchess of Cambridge blew Michelle Obama out of the water.' Does anyone actually care and why do the media feel the need to resort to point scoring over an outfit? I didn't notice anyone commenting on how David got his suit from Austin Reed, but Barack looked slimmer and more stylish in Ralph Lauren. Oh no, they were busy doing 'important mens work'!!

Call me old fashioned, but what happened to simply admiring someone, why do we also have to look like them? When I think of the women I am inspired by, it's for what they represent, what they think and the work they do, not what label they wear. Well ok, sometimes I like the way they dress too, but I would never go and buy a dress just because they've worn it!

Anyway must dash, I have to get to Lipsy and get the dress Amy from TOWIE was wearing in Marbella last week! Remember ladies 'No carbs before Marbs.'

Middleagedmum.com: the side column of shame

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Ok I admit it, I have a problem, a serious addiction and try as I might, I can't give it up.

Every morning I say 'today I am not going to do it, I won't be sucked in, I WILL be strong', and before I know it, I have done it, I have clicked on the home page and there I am, scrolling down the side column of shame. If you haven't already guessed (and I'm sure lots of you have!) I am of course referring to *whispers it* the Daily Mail website. 

I am a Hackney dwelling, labour voting liberal who reads the Guardian, a proud feminist and supporter of women's rights, I am accepting of other cultures and sexuality and would never ever buy a right wing newspaper. Yet every day despite their hideous underlying (and often very obvious) racist, sexist and xenophobic (and other kind of 'ist' and 'phobic' you care to mention) I just cant resist logging on to read the celebrity gossip side column - sometimes more than once - as it updates several times a day.

I know its wrong and I don't like myself for it, and I have even got the rest of the family doing it. Good God, even MAD and teen son can wax lyrical at the dinner table, about how the cast of TOWIE were hanging out with Peter Andre and Nicola McLean at the Mayfair Hotel last night. Now that is wrong!

Often it's difficult in conversation not to let slip where you got your latest tit bit of sleb gossip from without coming clean about your addiction. But more often that not, unless the person you are talking to is either very very high brow, or has had a celebrity gossip/nosiness gene bypass (therefore is a tiny bit dull), they will know exactly what you are talking about. It seems this is not just my addiction, it's becoming a national epidemic, with the whole country logging on over a sandwich at lunchtime  - and don't pretend you're not, cos I've seen you!

Of course once you have logged on and scrolled down, comes the next stage in the addiction, the rage. Usually, I am straight onto Twitter to rant about how many women they have called 'curvy', or the latest outrageous thing Liz Jones has said. The comments on the posts are very indicative of the way the readers have changed over time. When I first began reading, a couple of years ago (yes, thanks Mark!) the comments were very obviously from DM readers agreeing with the 'How come a scrounging obese, single mother of five, gets a council house and £2000 a week in benefits', type features. Now they are all from people like me, who have logged on to wind themselves up and feel compelled to put the right wingers of Britain straight. Personally, I find there is no better cure for PMT than a rant in the comments section of a particularly controversial topic.

This week Jane Fonda has been winding me up - not personally - as she lives in LA - but the posts about how fabulous she looks. Not that she doesn't look great, of course she does, but she is unnaturally thin for a woman her age and has admitted to a life long struggle with eating disorders, and quite frankly no-one wants their grandma to look better than them. As for Marie Helvins distorted face, don't even get me started. 

The worst thing is no one makes me read it,  I know I can step away at any time and get on with my otherwise mostly productive life, but I just can't. In years to come I think rehab is going to be full of people with modern day addictions such as online shopping, Facebook, Twitter, Call of Duty etc etc. But imagine the shame in group therapy, when I have to stand up and say, 'Hello, my names Jane and I'm addicted to the Daily Mail, side column!

Middleagedmum.com: what did you just say?

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You know what its like, you are having a perfectly normal conversation with someone you may only have met a couple of times. They may be a potential friend or someone you will have to come into contact with quite often in the future. Maybe a hairdresser, your children's teacher or a new work colleague. Then they do it, they slip it into a sentence and at first you think you have misheard. Then they say it again and you know you were right. They did that word thing, the thing that renders any further conversation impossible, because you simply can't get past the fact they have just made up their very own pronunciation of a very ordinary word. The rest of the conversation goes by in a blur, with you answering but not really listening, as you are still fixated on the word.

The next time you meet, you wait for it, perhaps it was one off, perhaps they won't do it again. Then they say it and you know - this is it - for ever. If you are going to be their friend/colleague/client you are going to have to live with it or move on, as no sane person has ever fallen out with a friend or changed their hairdresser just because they created their very own version of a word!

Perhaps its just me that feels like this, as MAD Dad says I have zero tolerance when it comes to strange or irritating habits and obsessions. Men on public transport (why are they always men?) who crack their knuckles, jog one leg manically or constantly sniff/cough/pick/chew gum drive me insane and I deal with them by staring pointedly at the thing they are doing, looking them in the eyes and sighing heavily. That usually sorts them out, and if it doesn't, I do it again, but with more emphasis!

But there is no way round the word thing, as it's in no way anti social and could never be considered offensive. In fact it could even be seen as comical, but where did it come from and who told these people it was ok to do this?

My first weird word experience started at an early age, as my mum has two of her very own words. 'Mortgage' (pronounced morTgage, with a heavy emphasis on the T -  the T is not silent in my mums world) and 'margarine' (pronounced marGarine, again heavy emphasis on the G, as in G for gold). When I first realised this was so hideously wrong, I was a teenager and keen to challenge my parents on any subject, but despite my protests, she has continued to emphasis the usually silent T and G and I have had to learn to live with it. 

When I moved to Hull as a teenager, I realised a whole city had somehow come up with new ways to pronounce 'trousers' and 'mirror'. The first few times I heard someone say 'trousies' and 'mirroe', I wondered if I had misheard and that perhaps there were some foxes in soxes hiding somewhere with a Candid type camera. But oh no, it seemed the people of Hull had decided to re-invent two otherwise inoffensive words, all on their own.

One wonders where these adaptations of words first started, who was the first to decide 'I know I'm going to  make up my very own version of that word and throw it into the conversation and see if anyone notices'. 

Well I'll tell you something I notice and it worries me, a lot, and I am passing on my concern to my daughter. Recently we visited one of my oldest friends. She is one of the most genuinely lovely people I have ever met, except, she says siSSors (heavy emphasis on the SS like SSsssnake) and it gets me every time. Its surprising how many times you can says scissors in a conversation!  But on our recent visit, I was ready for her and I had warned the teen, in fact I even challenged her to get my friend to say it. Then out of the blue, without warning, in the middle of a BBQ, over a bank holiday weekend, she said it. The teen snorted loudly and I spat out my mouthful of Proseco! We had to quickly make up a story about why we were laughing!

It seems I am not the only one concerned by this phenomenon. A few weeks ago the Guardian's hilarious Tim Dowling wrote about how his dentist says 'tuth' instead of 'tooth'. Personally, I would have to change dentists. And this week I had great sympathy for food writer Tim Hayward when he Tweeted.

'Yesterday's speed awareness trainer, Justin, pronounced 'specific' as 'pacific' 18 times in 4 hrs. I left the body near jct. 4 on the A505'.

I'll leave the last word to MAD's now deceased grandmother. 'Does anyone want some piTza'?

Middleagedmum.com: the one where Carine Rotfield and I have a lot in common!

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So it seems French fashion icon and ex Vogue editor, Carine Rotfield and I seem to have rather a lot in common! She likes a flat shoe (note the fashion singular there!) doesn't buy a new 'it' bag every season, thinks some designer clothes are over priced, and that fashion is a matter of taste not money. Hear hear Carine, and there was I thinking she was one of those fashion eds who looks good simply because she gets lots of free designer clothes. Actually if I'm honest, I like her dress sense, but always feel I want to run a comb through her hair, but thats just me!

In a recent interview with Speigal online, Roitfeld talked about how after ten years as the editor of French Vogue, she felt businessmen had squeezed the fun out of the fashion industry. 'Creativity needs space and a willingness to take risks, but businessmen don't like risk. What's more, designers are coming under more and more pressure. Today, a dress can't just please the women in Paris; it also has to please those in Beijing, Tokyo, Moscow and New York.'

Oh Carine I could agree more, greed and the corporate world have hijacked fashion and turned it into a commodity and sadly some of the people running it, could be producing anything   - nuts, bolts, houses, gold, whatever - for them its all about the bottom line and not the product. The seasons have become closer together with an almost never ending round of cruise, pre- fall and seasonal collections being presented in an attempt to persuade people to 'buy more stuff'. 

What happened to fashion being fun? I am a huge lover of street fashion and have always found the odd underground looks created by music fans, art students and sports enthusiasts more inspiring than anything I could ever find in a shop. But the relentless quest for the 'next big thing' sees catwalk and street trends copied and mass produced by the high street before you can say streetstyle blog!!

The sooner the High Street stops being obsessed with trends and the catwalk collections, the better for everyone. Most of all the customer. How about making a nice collection of clothes that real people actually want to wear, because at the end of the day, most women (lets exclude those who work in the fashion industry here) just want to look nice, a little bit sexy, and fashionable without standing out too much.

Isn't the secret to creating a good brand, to know your customer, understand their lifestyle needs and create unique, appropriate product? If your customer is young and fashion forward, create young fashion forward product which taps into the trends, but still manages to have it's own identity. If you customer is older, apply the trends that are appropriate and ignore the rest. But above all be yourself, create a brand with a story and an identity.

Last week I went to the private view of the St Martins Foundation course and spent a lot of the evening chatting to teen son and his friends about the 'weird' outfits some of the students were wearing. It took me back to my own days as an art student and my experimental (that's putting it kindly) outfits. 'It's all about being creative and trying new things, in your work and in yourself' I explained to them. 'You can be anyone you want to be through your clothes,' and it seems Carine  agrees with me on this too. I'll leave the last word to her.

'Today's fashions don't let people dream as much as they used to. Twenty years ago, fashion was a promise -- something that was part of your life and perhaps enriched it, something that reflected a particular era. If you look at advertisements these days, all you see are handbags. They aren't about dreams anymore; customers are buying objects now, not dreams.'

Middleagedmum.com: this season I won't be wearing.............

Image from jakandjil.com

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It's Saturday afternoon and I am walking the dog on London Fields, making friends with trendy young boys with long ginger beards and whippets in coats, and I get a text from a friend.
'I am in Top Shop and there appears to be some hideous conspiracy to make us all wear a horrible shade of mustard this spring. Is this your doing?'  I text her back, 'I'm afraid it might be, sorry'. To which she replies 'I thought so, well there's another trend I'm going to dip out of.' 

Said friend and I and a group of other women have been meeting on Friday mornings for coffee/dogwalks since our children were tiny, to discuss our kids, husbands, politics, local gossip and of course fashion. My friend marks the beginning of a new fashion season, by listing what trends/colours/shapes she 'won't be wearing this season'. Which usually means she will be sticking to her trademark black with touches of monochrome and animal prints. Don't get me wrong, she is a very stylish women, but has quite simply has got to the age where she refuses to buy into trends that she knows won't suit her. From time to time, when she asks for fashion advice, I try to persuade her that she would look great in a pair of coloured tights or shocking pink, but while she makes small adaptations to update her wardrobe each season, she sensibly steers clear of anything that screams 'high fashion' or 'on trend'.

I wish I could say the same!!! Since I was old enough to buy my own clothes, I have been in relentless pursuit of the 'next big thing'. Often managing to track it down before it becomes mainstream, meaning I was wearing trucker boots/puffball skirts/flares/council workers jackets etc etc before everyone else. This of course opened me up to much ridicule on the streets of the Northern towns where I grew up. But undeterred I paraded around looking strange, secure in the knowledge that I was 'in the know', 'on trend' or 'swagger on point' (as the teens would say).

I have calmed down as I've got older and try to incorporate my passion for the latest thing with what actually suits me and try to mix fashion pieces with more subtle basics (gosh that sounded quite grown up!), but it's not always that easy.

Where I (and many other women I know) struggle most is shoe shopping. I have been looking for a pair of new shoes for over a year now. The last pair I bought were my beloved Churches black patent brogues, which believe it or not, turned out to be somewhat of a bargain, as I haven't bought a pair of shoes since.

It seems I have been reduced to a very small capsule wardrobe of footwear, consisting of brogues, Birkentstocks and Converse. And to be honest the Converse have seen better days and are in danger of looking a bit middleaged women trying to be 'down wid da kids', except the kids don't actually wear them anymore!

I have tried and tried to find a pair of fashionable shoes that A. I can walk in and B. don't look like I have had some kind of orthopedic problem and am wearing specially built up shoes, which I understand are fashionable if you are 20, but simply wrong for the over 40's!

The thing is, I want to be able to walk - very quickly, run for a bus, stomp off angrily if need be, and look nice (can't believe I just said that!!). Plus I hate high shoes, they make me walk like Dick Emery! (See below)!! 
I have always favoured masculine styles and was frankly never happier than in the 80's, when Doc Martins, huge crepe soled creepers from Robot, or army boots were my preferred footwear of choice. Consequently, I find shoe shopping quite hard, when all I can currently find is super high heels, or the kind of wedges I wore to school in 1978. 

So when I recently spotted a pair of flat mens style ox blood lace ups behind the counter in COS, I think I slightly scared the shop assistant. ' Are they new', I bark, ' yes' she says nervously. 'I'll have them' I say slightly hysterically. 'Dont you want to know how much they are'? 'No I don't care, I'll have them' I almost shout, feeling slightly unhinged, and shove my credit card into her hand!

At last I have found a pair of shoes I actually like, they are not 'on trend', or even slightly feminine and I don't care. They look a little bit Comme Des Garcons 1985/Margaret Howell any time in the last ten years, but in a good way, and they are very very me, which quite frankly at my age is all that matters!

Fast forward to 2.07.

Middleagedmum.com: It's for me

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When I was young the phone lived in the hall, on it's own table. The only other items on the 'telephone table' as we officially called it, were the phone directories and perhaps an ashtray, as it was the 70's and everyone smoked - everywhere. The table was high and imposing and the hall was cold. The phone was answered formally, stating only the phone number. Conversations were brief and often interrupted by the party line. When I grew older I often listened to the party line, inventing fantastical stories about the lives of the 'other family', but sadly, I never heard anything remotely thrilling!

I had friends with low level phone tables with built in cushioned seats, implying that one could possibly relax and even enjoy being on the phone, but they also had net curtains and mums with big, back combed hair, who made you take your shoes off in order to walk on their deep shag pile carpets! They were different.

When I became a teenager the phone became a vital life line to the outside world. I would rush back from school and be straight on the phone to my best friend to discuss the dramas of the day. I say straight onto the phone, but obviously I had to wait until after 6 o'clock, as no-one used the phone until then. If the phone rang at 2 o clock in the afternoon, someone was either dead, drunk or clearly insane! 

I waited till after 'tea' and Crossroads and settled down - well stood, uncomfortably, in the cold hall - to talk about who had fallen out with who, what we would be wearing to Thursdays Youth Club and most importantly, boys. Well I tried to talk about boys, but my parents would be back and forward to the kitchen with trays of tea, and my brother would be playing football (listening) with the dog, right next to me.

After what was considered an outrageous amount of time (five maybe ten minutes) my Dad would start pointing at his watch and making pip noises, to get me off the phone, as it was costing money! Don't get me wrong my parents weren't hideously tight (although they are Scottish) it was just the way it was.

Eventually they went mad and got an phone extension in their bedroom which allowed me a little more privacy, but when the boys my BF and I had discussed at length actually started ringing me, there was much running upstairs at break neck speed screaming "I'll get it', as inevitably another family member had picked the phone up downstairs at exactly the same time, so I could never be quite sure they hadn't just pretended to put it down again and were secretly listening to the stimulating things Wayne/Carl/Kev had to tell me about re-building their motorbike or re-wiring their cassette payer!

Even when I left home the phone was still an issue, as in my house share of six fashion students. the phone could only take incoming calls, meaning only our mums ever rang us. But somehow we still managed to have friends and a social life. I don't know how we did it, but we did. Maybe we had to be more organised, less spontaneous and heaven forbid, talk to one another more. But I still managed to be out every night and have a huge circle of friends.

When I came to London, got my first job and had no money, I would spend whole evenings on the phone with friends, gossiping, drinking wine, smoking Silk Cut and planning my social life, with no-one to disturb me. Bliss!

Personal phone calls at work however, used to be quite a big deal, with regular memos (memos, what's that about?) sent round about phone usage and bosses giving you the evil eye if your phone rang one too many times, with friends asking 'whats the plan' for that nights social event. It was big brother/parent syndrome all over again.

These days one need not utter a single word to arrange 'the plan'. It can all be done completely silently, over email, text or on Facebook, whilst giving the impression that one is a diligent and hard working employee! 

My daughter is a little (make that a lot) like me and 'the plan' seems to centre on her rather a lot. Her phone is a constant source of disagreement between us, as I think her phone use is excessive and she thinks it is normal. Which it probably is, for an almost 15 year old girl in 2011.

One recent argument resulted in me threatening to (whisper it)  'take away her Blackberry'.  I might as well have told her I had booked her in for an operation to remove her right hand, the reaction I got. Actually, I am convinced in the future, teenagers wont have right hands, they will simply have Blackberries morphed onto the end of their arms, with just a giant thumb!

This will only apply to teenage girls obviously, as boys and phones are a whole new post. Lets just say teenage boys (well the ones I know anyway) are somewhat minimal in their communication techniques. My son loves a chat, but his texts and phone calls are purely functional.

While I yearned for a little (make that a lot) more privacy and communication as a teenager, I worry that todays teenage girls communicate a bit too much. The dramas of teenage life are difficult enough to negotiate, without sharing them with 750 friends on Facebook or pinging 25 of your closest girlfriends, day and night.

The teen says I am old fashioned and don't understand. Perhaps I don't! I love texting and emailing on my iPhone, Twitter more than is probably healthy (especially when on a deadline) and check my Facebook at least once a day, but when it comes to making phone calls, somewhere in the back of my mind, I am back in that cold hall with my dad tapping his watch!

 

Middleagedmum.com: My 70's style crush

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There is a girl in my daughters year at school, who is the year 10 style crush. She has all the latest clothes and accessories and knows how to work a look. She is very pretty and has a glamorous mum, so I can see her appeal, but as I have pointed out to my teen, sometimes the girls you want to look like when you are 15, don't always go onto to become style icons when they are older. There is such a thing as a fashion peak or Nirvana (I have talked about this before) and there is nothing more dissapointing than seeing your teenage fashion crush, 20 years later, looking almost exactly the same.

My teenage style crush, Angela Davidson, knew how to wear a 70's mac, high waisted skirt and Farah Fawcett flicks like no-one else in the whole of North Humberside and she dated the school heart throb, Kevin Cousins (now theres a 70's name). They were the it couple, the Brad and Angelina/ TomKat of Wolfreton Upper School and we all wanted to be her. My best friend and I would walk behind them on our way home from school, trying to breathe their air, in an effort to inhale a little piece of their innate sartorial elegance.

Fast forward a few years to the 80's, on a trip back to my old home town (looking like an extra from a Bananrama video) and who should I spot in the local shopping parade (oh the glamour) but my 70's style icon. My heart skipped a beat, but I couldn't possibly talk to her, she had no idea who I was, as I had admired her from afar - if only there had been Facebook in those days, I could have FB stalked her. But OH NO, she looked the same, the same flicked hair, the same slightly 70's style and horror of all horrors, she looked normal.

She had peaked at 16. I was devastated, I had imagined she would go onto great things, moving from trend to trend, becoming more fashionable and even more fabulous as the years progressed. How could she have turned into an ordinary person!!

I know, I know - she is probably very happy and living a rich and fulfilled life, blissfully unaware she has destroyed my fantasy, but you get my drift?

The opposite theory applies to male teenage crushes. No-one wants them to move on and change, ever. We need them to stay exactly as they are, frozen in time, preserved and perfect, to be brought out from time to time - when going through the attic - in the form of old Jackie or Pink magazines.

My heart can still skip a beat when confronted with an image of David Cassidy in a V neck, brown and beige tank top, or David Essex resplendent in a blanket check bomber jacket, with perfect permed hair, that risky little earring and those gorgeous twinkly eyes. 

Seeing them as they are now, is merely a reminder that not only have they got older and greyer, so have we. In our hearts we are still those 15 year old girls in Van Allen A line midi skirts, high waisted flares (precisely why I won't be wearing that particular trend this season) and fitted jersey shirts with ridiculous pointed collars and turn back cuffs. And maybe we also secretly hope there may still be a chance to 'get off' with Jim MacLaine (David Essex) from the coming of age 70's film, That'll Be The Day. 

David Essex appearing in Eastenders as Alfie Moon's uncle will mean nothing to many people, certainly not anyone under the age of 40, but for me it is too much to bear. Ok, he is still quite a handsome man, but he's no Jim MacLaine, and now I know for sure, there is definitely no chance of me joining the fair and running off with him.

Middleagedmum.com: New Years resolutions for all at Middleaged Towers

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In the run up to New Year, I thought it might be helpful for all here at Middleaged Towers if instead of me gently suggesting things that may make our lives more pleasant/ me nag less in 2011, I might simply write out everyones New Years Resolutions for them. That way we all know where we are from January 1st and can start as we mean to go STS (so to speak).

TBH ( to be honest') I really CBA (oh please keep up - can't be arsed!) because I must have been saying the same things for a good ten years now, but somehow if they are written down, it makes it seem more official. Although it's unlikely any of them will read them, as no one at M.A.T ever reads this blog (occasionally teen daughter might, if she thinks 'it's about her') but M.A.D and son never do. In fact they never read anything I write. I can leave features I have written (some have even have my picture on them, just to help them work it out) open on the kitchen table for days, to get covered in baked bean and chocolate spread, before I eventually say, 'have your seen this, I wrote it, do you want to read it?' to which they will all grunt over their cornflakes, ' nah, you're all right.'
I could write and star in a Hollywood blockbuster, and they would still expect me home to make dinner. 'Why are you all dressed up and holding an Oscar mum, BTW what's for dinner'?

It's the simple things that make me happy, I don't want or expect much (which is lucky) but there are a few things that would make my life feel less 1960's housewife and more like the mother in Cheaper by the Dozen (who has 12 children and a job and never seems to shout - (WTF!!!).

So family (and any other families who wind their long suffering mother up) if you do happen to stumble across this post on route to Facebook/Hypebeast/RouteOne/YouTube, have a little read and make the mum/wife in your life happy, at least for a couple of days.

• Please, please, please, pick up you towels when you have a had a bath/shower, this is not The Ace Hotel, we do not have a laundry service.

• Ditto, breakfast, lunch/constant snacking plates, we do not have a maid either......................

• Or short order cook and I have never had aspirations to be one. Make your own pasta/ beans on toast/chocolate spread on white bread. They will take a good five minutes longer to prepare than a Pot Noodle, but the results will be worth it, trust me.

• Putting clean clothes in your dirty washing basket is not tidying your bedroom. 

• Do not steal things from my bedroom/bathroom (Powdergate continues), they are MINE- end of!

• This also applies to M.A.D, do not MOVE my things in the name of 'tidying' and forget where you have put them. Also please do not 'tidy' the teens things either, causing them to accuse me of moving them.

• Do not speak in slang when relatives are visiting, your grandparents do not understand that 'BMX's are bare sick' and get confused when you talk about someone being 'buff' or 'butters'.

• LOOK when you can't find something, do not ask me first, then feebly attempt to look, flop pathetically on a chair and moan 'I just can't find it'.

• Do not eat all the food on the day of the supermarket delivery and then spend the rest of the week staring into the empty fridge, saying 'why is there never any food in this house?'

• Do not invite most of year 10/12 around for 'a jam', when I have a deadline/hangover/PMT/new book to read/ Eastenders is on - so that'll be never then! 

• Try not to text me at work with information from home I can do nothing about, eg 'the cat has been sick and the dog is eating it'.

• Never criticise my cooking, even if it is hideous. Your life will be much, much easier and you will have more chance of extracting money from me, if you lie - always!

• Ditto homework/revision/coursework, even if you are lying on your bed reading Keith Richards autobiography, it'll make me feel better if I think you are working.

• Finally try to remember, its not always 'all about you', but in my eyes it actually is, most of the time!

Happy New Year to all our readers, we hope 2011 brings you and your families, happiness, good health and a tidy house.

Lots of love Jane and Amanda xx

Middleagemum.com: The Middle Age Sigh

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This year, I have noticed that middleagedad and I have increasingly been doing something that can only be described as a Middle Age Sigh. An exasperated expulsion of stress/frustration/disbelief/annoyance that is often -but not always- related to teenagesons' activities. 

The sigh comes from deep within, a sort of well-what-do-you-expect feeling where age and experience combine to produce a physical manifestation of middleagegrumpiness. It's the sort of sigh you could imagine Charlie Brown doing after Lucy had given him a good kicking. Middleagedad seems to sigh a lot more than he used to, often when confronted with yet another IT issue he thought he's sorted. Computers, electrical equipment and piles of dumped shoes/sports kits/coats start him off. I find myself sighing when I can't find kitchen equipment because it hasn't been put away in its CORRECT PLACE or someone has put an empty jar of Marmite/jam/mayonnaise back in the fridge or  my earphones have been nicked again.

We both sigh when confronted with long, slow moving queues, when asked if we have a Nectar/Boots/Tesco card EVERY TIME we go to the till (stop this, please, if we have one we will hand it over) and when we discover the car parking space we have just found is 'pay by phone' (could this be more complicated?).

The sigh shouldn't be confused with out-right crossness, which involves shouting and stomping and banging of doors. No, the sigh is more a mid way house between mild annoyance and real fury. it's more of an acceptance that this is the way it is in a world that can't keep up with how we want it to be and STAY. We love iTunes and our iPhones, for example, but find ourselves doing The Sigh when having upgraded to yet another new version (is it us or do they come out every week now?) we lose all our contacts/lists/other stuff due to an overlooked glitch.

Although it makes us feel a tiny bit better (it is actually good for you)  the Middle Age Sigh is definitely ageing. It marks us out as miserable and disappointed with the modern world and there's nothing more ageing than constant grumpiness. So we're trying VERY HARD to give up the Middle Age Sigh as part of our New Year's Resolutions, I reckon we'll make it to January 2nd if we're lucky...#sighs.

Middleagedmum.com: Party time

DJ Ruth Flowers www.mamyrock.com

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The run up to Christmas is in full swing here at Middleaged Towers. The teens are lying in bed till noon, lounging on the sofa watching terrible tv most of the day and occasionally demanding food. They are usually ready to hold a normal conversation right around the time when I have had my first glass of red, and they are raring to go just as M.A.D and I are retiring to bed. Thank God for attic bedrooms, I imagine a scene from Skins/National Lampoon goes wild in N16, takes place in our kitchen some nights, but as long as they don't wake me up, they can 'party on down' as much as they like.

I have had a reasonably quiet run to Christmas and M.A.D and I have decided that its something to do with our age. It's not that we don't still like to party, it's just that we more comfortable partying with people our own age. Generally we are, if not the oldest, one of the oldest, at any kind of work party (the creative industries are full of young people) and much as we love the energy and enthusiasm of the young people we work with, there comes a point in the evening when you've got to leave to the young ones.

Those who know me in real life, will be gasping in disbelief, as I have always been known as a, first to arrive/last to leave/dancing on the table kind of a girl. But oh yes, dear friends, this party season, I have actually not had one for the road and staggered home in the wee small hours, but have sensibly thought, maybe I should hop in a cab and go home, cos after all I've got to walk the dog/do some work/make some mince pies etc etc,in the morning!
Plus, there is really nothing sadder than a tipsy fortysomething woman/man trying to dance to Rhianna with a bunch of twentysomethings in deepest Soho at 3am. I mean I'm old enough to be their mother and who wants to party with their mum - no offence mum!

So my highlights this festive season have been of a more age appropriate, gentle nature. There's been the park dog Christmas party (who knew such things existed?), late night Christmas shopping on Columbia Road followed by mulled wine, a few grown up drinks parties and the London Gay Men's Christmas Singalong. Dogs, shopping and gay men, that just about sums up my life!

But the best bit is, I have been springing out of bed in the morning, ready to face the day and as I have 10 people staying over Christmas, its probably just as well.

Maybe this party animal has finally changed her spots (althought polka dots are very S/S 2011), or maybe I just don't want to be seen as the oldest swinger in town. Mind you, there is always New Years Eve, when I will be the youngest there!!! Now where are my gold sequin hot pants?

Middleagemum.com: the return of the student

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Regular readers will remember that Amanda's middleteenageson went off to university earlier this term, with all the strange emotions that incurred for both parents (sadness) and son (mostly total joy).

Well, term has ended and middleteenageson has returned A DIFFERENT BOY. The same, but with a set of new, much appreciated skills. These skills have nothing to do with academia either.

When he went, he could hardly cook and was the world's worst at clearing up after him (when he left for uni we noticed the kitchen was a much tidier place). After arriving home on Saturday he bolted down some food and then WASHED UP THE BOWL. Middleagedad and I were momentarily speechless. He explained that he was given a hard time by the girls in his flat in his halls of residence for his appalling lack of domestic skills and so learnt to wash up like a demon, "I'm old school mum, I wash up by hand, no dish washer for me!" he gleefully explained as he put clingfilm over the bowl of cous-cous and put it back in the fridge.....

He is also pathetically happy to see a full fridge that he hasn't had to pay for. Before leaving us in September, he was a tiny bit picky with food, refusing vegetables and anything that wasn't meat. Now he gratefully eats anything (the bowl of vegetable-heavy cous-cous was a revelation) and nearly wept with joy when he saw the smoked salmon ( 'I can't afford that!")

He has also micro managed his meagre budget with obsessional concern. Middleagdad frequently gets mid week texts explaining how much money is left for the week ( "£9.40 left until friday, can't go out") and he is at last in touch with how much things cost. One thing that seems to outrage him is just how frequently he has to buy food, as if paying for it once was bad enough, then he has to do it all again in a few days! He also wasn't too impressed with having to carry it home on the bus. A designer boy as far as clothes were concerned before he went off (Fred Perry, Ralph Lauren), now he thinks Topman is the best place on earth because he gets student discount.....

Of course all of this makes MAD and I feel like terrible parents, he should have learnt all of this BEFORE he went away, where did we go wrong? Although the fact that he has picked up these new skills so swiftly makes us feel very proud of his ability to cope, so I guess that was good. But sometimes I think your kids have to go away from you to learn stuff, middleteenageson stopped listen to my nagging about loading the dishwasher at around the age of 14 years.Clearly I needed to be a gorgeous teenage female flatmate in order for him to listen.

He texted me about three quarters of the way through term to ask me if his stripy sheets should be washed in a whites or a coloureds wash, so I know he washed his bedlinen at least once in 3 months....And he has had to learn how to be a Hard Northern Lad when it comes to braving a night out without a coat ("Mum, they go out in the snow with only a T shirt on!") Really, he has done amazingly well and we love the fact he is so appreciative of home now he's been away for a while. How long it lasts, of course, is another thing.....anyone else loving their newly educated student offspring? Do tell us your stories.... . 

 

Middleagedmum.com: why I love London

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Growing up in the suburbs of big cities, I was never happier than when I was 'in town'. Hanging out in the local shopping centre, hunting down weird bargains in Chelsea Girl and Miss Selfridge that no normal people wanted to wear, or clubbing with the other strange creatures of the night, who also loved Killing Joke and The Slits and got abused by the Townies for backcombing their hair and wearing clothes from second hand shops.

There was a small shop in one of the back streets in the centre of the Northern town I lived in as a teenager, that sold hippie and punk clothes. The local art students hung out there and my suburban 6th form friends thought it was weird, but I so wanted to enter that strange world of arty alternative folk, who didn't fit in. I desperately felt the need to escape the confines of small mindedness and people who's ambitions were to get a job in the local bank or 'ger engaged'. Living in the suburbs just didn't do it for me, I knew there was a big wide world out there waiting for me.

Moving to London as 22 year old fashion designer, I would get goose bumps wandering around the city on one of my many trips to the belt manufacturers or zip suppliers. I couldn't believe my luck, I was finally where I felt I belonged and I still to this day, 26 years later, get a thrill when I cross the river at sunset, wander round Brick lane on a summer Sunday, or find myself watching a dance performance in a car park in Kings Cross!

But what I really love about London is my local community. Diverse and unconventional, arty and alternative, yet as friendly as any village, but without the boring conversations about what day the bin men come (although we do have them sometimes!). Apologies to those readers who live in villages, I love the countryside, it's just not for me!

I love that I can step out of my door and there are eight Indian restaurants, one Mexican, two Thai, too many Turkish to count, one Japanese, numerous pubs, parks, interesting shops and people from every corner of the world. It stimulates and inspires me on a daily basis. At weekends I never have time to do all the things I write about on this blog, but there are always options; from shopping in Knightsbridge, to dog walking on Hackney Downs. Take that away from me and I am instantly transported back to those teenage years, stuck in the suburbs, thinking it was all going on somewhere else, without me. 

I worry that my kids have it all too soon and see anywhere else (apart from New York) as boring and 'why would you live there'. Perhaps they need to have the desire to escape to succeed. Or maybe they will just have that innate confidence that born and bred Londoners seem to have, because they know, it's quite simply the best city in the world!

Middleagedmum.com: Fight the good fight

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After the first protests about the education cuts, I question teen son about why all his friends went and he didn't. 'I had media studies and I thought you would be annoyed if I skipped school'. Clearly I have done my job so so well and so so badly. Cue long talk about the right to protest, the Tories, cost of education, etc etc.

'I didn't realise you were so radical mum' he says, ' Son' I say, 'We had striking miners living in our house for months when I was at Poly (insert explanation of a poly!). Actually, I was more worried about what I was going to wear to see Culture Club at the poly disco, but credit where credits due, I had radical friends and cooked the miners a lot of brown rice and vegetables!!

So on Wednesday when he tells me he's going to Trafalgar Square to protest, I warn him of the dangers but wish him well. I wish I had been more political when I was younger and am glad that he cares, even if, for some, it's a good excuse to skip school for the day.

I had watched the new education secretary Micheal Gove on breakfast TV that morning and was incensed by his inability to see how far state education has come in the last ten years. My children attend inner city comprehensives, one of which which has recently had millions of pounds spent on it. It is a great school with committed teachers and more than its fair share of children from under privileged backgrounds, ethnic minorities and special needs. Every penny spent on that school and others like it, is an investment in the future of our society and money well spent. As is the EMA money that they are also about to cut. This enables so many children to continue into higher education that may not otherwise. So I am proud that my son and his friends are at last getting off their PS 3's and making a stand. 

The great thing about this generation is they have the ability to create groups, stage protests and talk to thousands of people, without even leaving their bedroom. They are the Facebook generation and are going prove difficult for the government and police to control. Instead of making online groups like "I hope I live to see the end of the DFS sale' and gathering flash mobs to rave at Liverpool Street station, they will be able to spread the word, create chaos and make themselves heard, with the click of a mouse. 

I text him at 2pm. 'Everything ok?'. An hour later he texts back. 'They wont let us out.' He is a boy of few words when it comes to texting. He once went to a four day festival and the only text I got all weekend, after repeatedly asking if he was alright, was, 'K'!!!

It is freezing cold and as we had the 'that coats not warm enough conversation that morning', I start to worry in a 'mum' way. But I tell myself he's doing the right thing and it's a great experience.

Four hours later, they are still there and I am on the point of stomping down to Whitehall, waving my brolly, shouting 'excuse me officer, you've held them here for 6 hours, its freezing cold, they haven't eaten and he has homework'. But decide this may not be such a good idea. I've been obsessed with Twitter all day, as its been my only way of knowing what's going on, and it seems there are lots of other mums feeling the same way too. They are children after all and its freezing.

He eventually gets home around 9pm, cold and and tired and wants to watch the news!! We spot people we know and discuss the day. It has been an experience for all of us and I'm not sure he wants to go again (the kettling tactic clearly works - bore and scare them into submission!!) but I will encourage him all the way. It's his generation that can make a difference and there's a big part of me that wishes I'd taken more notice of those miners. But sadly, I was too busy crimping my hair!!

Middleagedmum.com: Walking the dog

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After three weeks of enforced indoor activity it is finally time to take the puppy out. We are both a little nervous, him whimpering nervously, reluctant to leave the safety of the house, me, feeling like a new parent exposing her new born to the outside world.

We head off down the High St, the dog walking beautifully by my side, like he's trying out for Crufts, except he doesn't so much as walk, as prance in a bouncy kind of way.

We are stopped many many times and I reply, 'yes, he's 8 weeks, a labradoodle, a boy and yes isn't he cute.' I don't mind, I am proud as only a mother can be, although teen daughter insists I am in fact 'Grandma' as she is mum, but I'm not sure I'm quite ready for that one.

We arrive at the park and the first person we meet is a completely insane Italian woman who lies down on the grass, hugs and kisses the dog and positively gushes about how gorgeous he is. He, of course loves it, and I try my hardest to stick to the, introduce yourself first, then the dog', rules I learnt at puppy training. It doesn't work and we move on, with the dog thinking this is the reception he's going to get from everyone. He bounds up to some teenage girls, who scream, 'aah hes attacking me, he's biting me, innit Lateeeesha'. This isnt going to be as easy as I imagined! 

We spot a couple of big dogs heading towards us and I try to assess if they look scary. One of them is a Staff and looks fierce, but I don't want to be 'doggist', besides I have friends with lovely Staffs. Suddenly, we are surrounded by dogs and people in wax jackets and wellies (remember we are in Hackney!), who all know each other. Once again I am saying, 'yes, he's 8 weeks'.........etc, etc. 

I feel like a new mum at toddler group, where everyone knows everyone else and I don't know where the tea is!! They all start to walk, with the dogs tussling and playing, they move as one and I'm not sure if I should join them. But, as is the way with small children, the dog decides he is one of the gang and has already made new friends, so off we go.

Later that week I am out at a local restaurant and on the next table are some of the dog walkers. One of my friends is more established than me in the local canine community, and chats to them. They turn out to be hilarious, with the most interesting ones sneaking out for a crafty fag and staying on well past closing time.

When I first had children I remember feeling nervous about new situations and unsure about meeting new people. As I grew into motherhood, I relished the opportunities to meet some amazing women and great children. It took me out of my comfort zone, opened my eyes to many different worlds and over the years I've made some great friends. I've learn not to judge on appearances and become more tolerant and accepting than I had been in my shallow 'fashion' world!

So, I think I'm going to like this dog walking lark, but obviously I'm going to need a wax jacket and some Hunter wellies!

Middleagedmum.com: Powdergate

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In the last few years I have decided that my skin is no longer youthful enough to stand just any old skin care and cosmetics. Throughout my 20's and 30's I was happy to wash and go with any old bit of soap that was hanging around the bathroom and my moisturisers ranged from posh and expensive when I was feeling flush, to good old Nivea, when I had spent all my money on clubbing.

These days my skin requires a little more TLC to avoid looking like a mad old boot who breeds horses (no offence to any horse breeding readers, but you know what I mean). So recently, I've been treating myself to some decent beauty products to stop myself from screaming in a Catherine Tate type way, when I look in the mirror - 'Aaah who the Hell is that old woman? 

Don't get me wrong I'm not spending ridiculous amounts of money on La Prairie or Sisley, I am simply doing a little more research (thanks Amanda for your recent beauty posts) and taking a little more time cleansing and moisturising and applying a bit more foundation. Which quite frankly isn't difficult, as I have never, ever, been very high maintenance.

Teen daughter of course is my polar opposite (isn't that always the way) and spends hours and hours, cleansing, moisturising and watching American girls called Blair and Elle on YouTube, tell her how to apply far too much make up. Consequently, she is far more polished and groomed than I could ever hope to be!

Last week when I had spent my lunch hour buying a new skin care products, I came home feeling a little guilty, but also quite excited!! I planned to go to Yoga, drink lots of water and have an early night, in order to do new products maximum justice.

After an invigorating yoga session, I come home to find two of the creams and the 'Flawless' foundation/powder missing. Mmm, so much for my new improved make up routine. I have a vague idea where they might be, I'm pretty sure neither MAD or teen son have them and the puppy can't get up the stairs yet, so there is only one suspect. She is in bed, so I wait till the morning to enquire. When confronted, she accuses me of being ' a little bit sneaky'. 'I can't believe you would buy new products and hide them from me'!

Interesting, I wasn't aware I was hiding them or being 'sneaky'. Naively, I simply thought I had bought myself something and put it in my own bathroom to use later. But obviously that was wrong! I decide not to have a row, ask her to return them, and tell her to ask me, if she wants to borrow them again.

I leave for the day and when I get back she has gone out for the evening. I notice that the creams have been returned but the 'flawless' foundation/powder is till missing. She rings an hour later and asks to stay at a friends and I ask where the powder is. 'Oh it's in my bag, I took it to school and then forgot to take it out". This is wrong, on so many levels, that I am speechless and agree to say no more about it, if it's returned the next day. But by now it's the weekend and I forget all about it, and it remains firmly in her bag and on her face.

Finally on Monday morning I loose it and storm into her bedroom demanding it back. 'I think you are being a bit selfish', she says, 'you only have to ask nicely and I'll let you borrow it.' My rage knows no bounds, I explode and say all the usual mum things involving, work, money, respect, sharing, bedroom tidying, helping in the house, the things I do for you, I wouldn't mind if ....etc etc - oh you've heard them all before!!
I storm out and spend the bus journey sending angry texts, making my point, over and over again. She sends me a text back, saying she didn't realise it was such a big deal and she'll buy me a new one. 

Later, I get home and I explain that I was SO annoyed because I hadn't actually used the powder, not even once. 'That's a shame', she says 'cos no-one can use it now, as it fell out of my bag today in PE and smashed. But don't worry, I'll buy you a new one and we can share it'.

Middleagedmum.com: the new baby

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While Amanda has been letting go of the apron strings as her middle son leaves for university, I have become the proud owner of a new puppy. Perhaps I have been influenced by Amanda's underlying anxiety over the past few weeks and anticipating how I might feel when my gorgeous golden balls (as he is known by his sister) goes to university.

I have dabbled with the thought that perhaps he may never leave me, but know this is selfish and wrong and I should actively encourage him to leave home at some point in the next few years. After all, we all know the odd (literally) 50 something man who lives with 'mummy', and no-one wants that for their sons!

After months of being texted cute pictures of puppies and almost constant badgering by the teens, we finally relent and agree to buy a puppy. After much laying down of rules, agreements to share the walking (signed in blood) and arguments about what breed, we settle on a labradoodle. Teen daughter wanted a chug (Chihuahua/Pug) and son wanted a Boxer, so this seemed like the perfect compromise, cute and fluffy, but big - but hopefully not too big!

We drive back from the farm in Kent, where we have chosen him out of a litter of 8 gorgeous puppies. He cries most of the way home and we feel like new parents all over again. Teen son is already besotted and tells his Dad off for driving too fast!

We arrive home to settle our baby in and introduce him to teen daughter who has no idea we are getting him today. She is beside herself and immediately starts BBMing all her friends. Within half an hour the living room is filled with teenage girls cooing and saying 'I am so getting a dog.' 

We spend the whole evening cuddling him, letting him sit on the sofa and watching him wee on the floor! Everyone is up extra early the next day to make sure he's ok. Teen daughter has had no sleep, as he was in her bed all night and kept waking up!

Within a few days he has already taken over my life and we are now about to embark on toilet training, puppy socialising classes and a strict bed time routine, which is all very time consuming. 

I wonder if I have done the right thing, because inevitably he will end up being my responsibility. But I already adore him and besides, he is always pleased to see me and needs me in a way my children no longer do. Oh and he can't talk - whats not to love?

Middleagedmum.com: letting go....

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Middleagedad and I, having lugged what feels like the whole of Ikea, Waitrose and The White Company combined up a double flight of stairs, start to unpack middle teenageson's stuff in his new room in halls. 'You can go now ' he tells us.

We have driven the best part of a whole day to get to his new university, up the M1 where every other car we passed was jam-packed full of duvets/pillows/potted plants (girls only) and scruffy suitcases, with a teenager squished in the back seat and mum and dad -looking anxious- in the front. There are a lot of university towns up the M1.

MAD and I are exhausted and anxious and in need of a cup of tea, but middleteenageson is keen to get rid of us. We have been at the halls of residence for less than 15 minutes and he's ready to kick us out. I whimper "Shall I just make your bed? or unpack your food?" but he's having none of it, he's spotted a group of his soon-to-be-flatmates introducing themselves to each other and we are in the way. He understands what we are struggling to grasp, that he needs to do this next bit without us. 

'Bye!" he says bravely, and we are out of the building (which is so old it's almost retro chic in a 60s metal windows-and-plastic-covered-stair-bannister kinda way) and heading home.

I have been getting texts from girlfriends all in similar situations for the last two weeks as we prepare our babies for leaving. We all feel the same, sad but happy, anxious but aware this next bit's nothing to do with us, mostly miserable that our maddeningly annoying but still adored teens are not going to be cluttering up the house for a while. 

The weird thing for us is how we all feel like it's only been a short time since we left college, and that we can't quite come to terms with the fact that is was nearly 30 years ago that we were going through this. My friend Clare texted during the week about her son... 'To add insult to injury" she wailed "while he's packing he's playing Supertramp, at full volume!"

Supertramp was OUR soundtrack of choice when we were students- we are still word perfect on all the songs, that and Judie Tzuke, Bread, Steely Dan, Fleetwood Mac and embarrassingly -please don't mention this to anyone- Neil Diamond's The Jazz Singer. Can't they at least stick to their own music and not rub in what we know we are missing?

On the way back down the M1, in a disquietingly empty car, MAD and I go over every inch of middle teenageson's life to date, analysing how fab/clever/stupid/surprising/wonderful he has been and realise that of course he will be ok. It's really just us that have the problem. We are even going to miss the worry they cause, this morning my friend Lindsey texts to say 'Sunday morning and I am not wondering if she made it home OK last night. Am miserable about not being worried'. After 18 years of clucking, it's hard to let go.

Coming home to a house unbalanced by a missing son, MAD and I make a big fuss of remaining teenagesons, who are wary of our attention. We discover that they have wasted no time in going into missing teenagson's room and have raided his wardrobe/Xbox games/furniture. Youngest son is dressed head-to-toe in 'acquired' clothes. 

I sit for a bit on missing teenageson's bed, feeling lost. Then I look around, it is FILTHY in here, I can see crockery and cutlery that's been missing for ages tucked into the wardrobe, and there are piles of old shoes and redundant sports kit that should have been thrown away yonks ago. Reality kicks in, I have absolute access to his room, which hasn't happened in years.... I reach for the pledge and a duster, now, where's my supply of black rubbish bags....

Middleagedmum.com: takes it to the maxi

 

I leave the house feeling 40% Margot Leadbetter, 50% Hattie Jacques and 10% Jo Wiley about to go to a festival. I am wearing a long black maxi dress, Clarks Jesus sandals and a cropped cardigan to cover my fat upper arms. I hate the word fat, but dear reader, I have to admit, that is sadly what they are. I have spent three weeks in America indulging in the biggest breakfasts, best burgers, and marvelous mac n cheese, all washed down with lashing of beer and wine. My maxi dress is covering a multitude of sins and then some.

It's my first day back at work and I'm ready to face the fashion world head on. Latest trends - I know them, hottest colours - I got them, how to re-invent pastel pink and make it look like something the average women on the street has never seen before - I'm your women. Look out British High St, here I come! 

I have been up since 5.30 am but strangely I still seem to be late, so I attempt to run for the bus. Mistake no 1 - do not run for a bus while while wearing low cut maxi dress, as you are in danger of a. giving yourself two black eyes if you have boobs the size of mine ( I am NOT boasting, I HATE having big boobs, they spoil the line of your clothes and make you look matronly) and b. falling over in old lady type way, as your skirt gets caught up in your legs, a bit like your nightie used to when you were a little girl.

I jump on the bus and realise that perhaps the maxi's first outing wasn't quite a real life experience, as I was on holiday and all I did was waft to the car, hop in, waft into a restaurant, sit and eat dinner (did I mention the holiday involved a lot of eating) and waft back to the car and then home. Perhaps in future all new new skirt lengths, shoe heights, major fashion trends should be wearer trialled on a inner London commute, in order to ensure maximum pain, therefore absolute fashionability.

I exit the bus and grab a coffee on my way into design studio of a large High St chain, to take my place as their colour consultant. I notice on the way I am having to hold up my skirt a lot, as the hem keeps getting caught in the buckle of my Jesus sandals. Undaunted, I waft into the office feeling fabulously fashionable, to find my meeting has been brought forward without anyone telling me and I have a whole room full of buyers waiting for me to wow them with my future colour predictions. In my absence (I only work there a couple of days a week), someone has taken all my colours boards and left them in one of the five buying floors dotted around W1, so not only am I late, I am also unprepared. Not a comfortable place to be, when you have just been on holiday for three weeks and would quite like to keep this particular job. I am now running, quite literally, round in circles trying to locate the boards and my dignity. Every time I try to move my hem gets caught in my sandals, causing me to hobble back into the room apologizing and swearing under my breath. 

My (very young) assistant turns up to save me, wearing a stunning animal print boob tube maxi dress, complete with denim jacket, 'it' sandals, perfect makeup and blunt cut fringe. She has the 'look' just right and I feel like a nan in her best outfit at a wedding, who would actually prefer to be at home in her slippers, with a cup of tea and Eastenders.

But hey ho, a girls got to try. I go out for lunch and try to heed to the advice of one of the other young designers 'hold up your dress on the escalator, the head of design is at home with a broken ankle because she tripped over her maxi dress ( I kid you not - it's true). So I wander round John Lewis like someone about to ride side saddle in the 1800's - and not in a good way.

The afternoon goes without a hitch, despite the fact my hem has now completely unraveled and I am trailing threads wherever I go. I leave for the day to find it's pouring with rain and stomp through the puddles with a soggy hem and slippery Jesus sandals. The final straw is attempting to get up and downstairs on the bus, with a wet dress, damp shoes and a paper carrier bag which is about to disintegrate. Oh, and my hair has gone super frizzy! 

I said when I first saw maxi dresses on the catwalk, that they weren't for me, but true to form, ridiculous or not, I just have to be in on a trend. 
But from now on the maxi is strictly for wafting around in at home, or maybe a trip to the farmers Market on a Saturday morning, but never ever again when I am trying my hardest to be a grown up!

 

Middleagedmum.com: Hair do or don't?

The top knot has been on our radar for some time now, because as you know we like to think we are at the cutting edge of fashion and beauty. But if we're honest, we have been watching the young cool girls at work sporting jaunty buns and wondering whether it could potentially be a good look for the over 40's. You know us, we love a new trend but never want to look like we are trying too hard!

Middleagedad often doesn't understand some of the looks I like to try and has been know to make witty, slightly sarcastic (make that very sarcastic) comments when faced with a new trend. He is fond of asking if I will be writing out many parking tickets, when I am wearing all black, with mens brogues, or asking if I have many dental appointments, when wearing a white dress and white shoes. Very droll.

So the other morning, when I emerge sporting a jaunty top knot, he predictably asks me, 'how clean is your house'? Ignoring his hilarious (if you are 9) comments, I set off for the day feeling 60% Aggie Woodburn, 35% our next door neighbour in the late 60's and 5% Chloe Sevigny. But not one to be put off by the opinions of men, (what do they know about fashion?) I carry on regardless.

Half way through the day, I notice that an 'up do' isn't such a great idea, if you need your roots dyed, and I seem to have a rather hideous salt and pepper look going on. Best not to look in the mirror too much, it only makes you vain (or so I tell teen daughter on a regular basis). 

I end my day with a few after work drinks with friends and arrive home, having not looked in the mirror for a couple of hours and find myself faced with Helen Bonham Carter, well actually her mother - in a Tim Burton film -  on a bad day. 

Thats the problem with some fashion looks, they are far too high maintenance and require hours of attention and quite frankly I have a life, job, kids and anyway I am far too intelligent to worry about such trivia - yeh right - till the next time!

Middleagemum.com: 'Can you just make me an origami penguin mum?'

 Yes that is a yellow penguin, yellow is the new black at the South Pole.

Although middle teenageson has finished his long haul A level exam schedule today and has officially finished school 'forever', youngest teenageson is still on the homework band waggon and has a number of projects to complete before term ends. One of which, apparently requires penguins. Not real ones, but something a bit more interesting than pictures cut and pasted from the internet. 

Last night, quite late, he said 'Mum, you're into origami, can you make me a penguin please? Like, now.' it reminded me of all the school projects I have had to 'help' with over the years, often at very short notice and with weirdly surreal briefs thought up by a desperate teacher. Our (my) best grade came from a pretty stunning model of the planets -in the right order- revolving around the sun, which we made in about ten minutes flat very late on Sunday night before science on Monday morning. 

It used to make me mad that my sons were so disorganised in telling me stuff, regularly leaving it until the night before to tell me they had to take in Harvest Festival hampers/a shepherd's costume/ a term's worth of art project/cakes for the cake sale the next day. But secretly I guess I enjoy it, as with only one son now left at school from September, I'm dreading the thought that soon there will be no one wanting my help.

So I made the penguin, which wont win youngest teenageson (or me) any prizes, but keeps this little mum-and-son moment in time alive a little longer.