Take Mum Out

School breaks up for Easter next day, meaning an early finish for me and the boys. Yet, although we’re all home by three, I’m wishing now that Tom and Patsy were picking up the boys tomorrow so it wasn’t so horribly rushed. As it is, Tom has already called en route to say they’ve passed Carlisle and should be with us by four. That gives me forty-five minutes. Christ.

To explain, I’m not usually a terribly appearance-focused person, as Botox-Anthony would testify. My hair, which is long and dark brown, is usually pulled up into a topknot affair, in the hope that its messiness will be interpreted as ‘artfully undone’ and not a complete state. As for daily beautification, we’re generally talking a speedy lick of brown mascara and tinted lip balm. (Unless we’re visiting my mother, in which case I’ll do my eyes properly – old school, using all three shades of an eye shadow trio, in the hope that it’ll detract from the size of my arse.) And there you have it. Except on the rare occasions when Tom and Patsy are coming, when we’re talking a level of grooming generally enjoyed only by a dressage horse.

So, while the boys gather together the last of their things, I apply a full face of make-up and give my hair a quick spritz and blow-dry. I even dig out a rather glitzy top to wear with my newest jeans. Why go to such lengths? Well, there’s the date with Giles, of course, but that’s hours away (and, to be honest, I’d rather not dress up too much for such a young pup in case it hints at middle-aged desperation). No, I am ashamed to admit that my efforts are entirely for Tom and Patsy’s benefit – to show that, even though my home is unlikely to feature in Stylish Living