Slummy Mummy

I admit, I am not the most glamorous thing to have ever graced the streets of London (or any other city for that matter), but I have had my moments, back before most of me headed south. I am, however, normally presentable. The last time I checked I owned a hairbrush, a case of reasonably pricey make-up and a few decent (and indecent) little dresses. I'm not being unrealistic here when I say that when I'm out in public I don't expect to attract much attention but when I do, I labour under the impression that it's normally of a reasonably positive variety. 'She looks like a nice person'. 'I like her shoes', 'Oh look, a mummy'. Worst case scenario here is that nobody notices me at all and they're just thinking 'Oh God, another baby'.

So. Out I went on Monday to pick the spud up from his child-minder. I'd been working inside all day (in my new cell office in the cellar) and since that morning I'd had to rush into the pit office right after changing a poopy nappy to make a conference call, worked straight through and then cut a telephone call short to dash off to meet him, I was pretty much the way God made me that morning. But with a pair of tracky bottoms on.

And lo it was sunny. And I smiled. And, as I was walking, I passed two gay young ladies dressed for summer prancing and dancing and showing off. And I smiled at them. And they laughed... AT me!! The little c...critters. In fact they didn't just laugh, firstly they did that thing where they looked me over, smirked at each other and then they laughed, as they danced away with their skinny legs and their cotton dresses and their poncy little dog.

I looked myself up and down. I was wearing a pair of pink suede winter boots (because I was late, they fell out of the cupboard when I opened it and they don't require laces or zips), grey tracksuit bottoms, a black t-shirt from the day before with puree on one shoulder, baby sick on the other and grey cat hairs all over it and I was carrying a woven shawl (for the spud's legs because it was cold). I looked like something winter had yakked up after an all-nighter with the abominable snowman.

Immediately I was depressed and only the sight of the spud grinning up at me all the way home made me feel good again.

The bad-mother part is that the spud, due to my stellar parenting skills, has had a runny tum for several days. This is because I introduced him to unsweetened, organic fruit juices. Which he loves. Which you dilute 10-1 with water apparently for babies his age. That, my dears is 10 parts WATER to one part JUICE. Not the other way around. Poor little bear. He's pooping out pearl barley that was in a stew I fed him two weeks ago. Organic pineapple juice - reaching the places other juices fear to go.

Anyway, so there we were, walking down the street, me in my gay apparel and the spud with poo leaking out of HIS tracky bottoms (because he's outgrown all his proper trousers and that's all that will fit him at the moment) and I felt as though someone should just issue us an ASBO and have done with it.

The worst part is that today we went to visit some neighbours who have been threatening to invite us around to meet Charlie since the day he was born and I showed up in the same t-shirt. The implication is clear. I have ceased to exist except as a mother. My best hope is to remain invisible, or at least to do enough to perk myself up so that my son doesn't cringe with embarrassment once he's old enough to notice.

Pass me those chocolate digestives... and wipe that look off your face while you're at it.