some people know how to do summer dressing

 

Okay, so some people don’t.

But in town today, I saw so many people who looked warm-weather fabulous. Some somewhat conservative in their style, others more flamboyant. But lots and lots of eye candy; lots of women – mostly women, actually – who made me smile, if not outwardly, then at least on the inside. Just that sense of low-level elation that you get from seeing something that pleaseth the eye.

Now, I’m definitely not laying any claim to being a summer dresser of fabuloso standards but I will say that I was mildly pleased with myself for remembering, and putting into place, one of my Summer Commandments. Which is:

“Always have, in your arsenal of strappy flat sandals, at least one pair with a closed back.”

The reason being, you see, that there is bound to be a day when your feet, notably your heels, just aren’t quite up to scratch. So what, you say? Who’s going to notice, you ask? I’ll tell you who. The person, or people, behind you on the Tube escalators, that’s who. Think of them. Have some consideration for your fellow passengers! It’s surely enough that they’ve had a hot sweaty ride on a crowded, airless Underground train. As they head eagerly, gratefully towards the World Outside, don’t bring ’em down with the sight of your greying, cracked heels.

My own feet are looking less than lovely at the moment: despite the fact that I have the Soap & Glory foot buffer, I just haven’t been using it, I’m afraid. Lots of long runs combined with a lot on my plate and hastily snatched grooming time (in short: husband away working for a month, at a time when the activities and arrangements of our three children seem suddenly to have exploded in pace and volume). But shod in these coral & metallic babies, who was to know??

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for the record - not my feet!

for the record – not my feet!

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I bought a random-brand, low-cost night cream

I mean, who knows whether it will do any good. But if it doesn’t, at least I haven’t had to remortgage the house, or sell my daughter’s long, glossy hair (or soul) to acquire it.

If you’ve read this blog before, you may know that my husband’s track record, when it comes to buying gifts on his way home from overseas work trips, falls rather short of brilliant. So – “Can you get me some Creme de la Mer?” I jokingly texted, as he broke his journey home from New Zealand yesterday.

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I half expected Creme de Menthe, which, to be perfectly honest, after a few weeks of virtual sole-parenting, I’d’ve probably not turned my nose up at. 24% ABV, sure, why not?

But, bless him, he duly went to Duty Free in Dubai, picked up a 250ml pot of the stuff and took it to the register, Visa card in hand.

“I mean you did say Creme de la Mer, didn’t you?”  he asked, looking jet-laggedly incredulous tonight. “Because she said, “That’ll be 3000 and something dirham, and I handed over the card, and then I suddenly thought to ask how much it was in pounds, and it was like, £600!!!! So, you know, sorry and everything, but I put it back.”

It’s fair enough really. Although after the aforementioned weeks of sole parenting (and freezoid temperatures) I do sort of almost think that I need Creme de la Mer, if not reconstructive surgery, to render me halfway presentable again. I’m just not convinced that my budget supermarket buy is going to cut it.

On the other hand, the money I’ve saved on potions can always be put towards a personal trainer. Which is definitely what I’ll need if I so much as get started on the stash of Tim Tams – an Australian icon in the biscuity stakes and my absolute childhood favourite – that he picked up on his stopover in Melbourne. Forget the eggs this Easter – I’m going to teach my children how to do the Tim Tam Slam, which involves biting each end off your biscuit and slurping a hot drink through rapidly-disintegrating chocolatey centre. Good times!

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