This morning I am going to London to the theatre. Andrea is in charge, which is good. I was in charge on Thursday when we went to see The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time with her mother. Sadly, I had tickets for the Wednesday and had written it down wrong.
I am but a weke and feble wuman. And a fule.
Luckily Andrea and I have seen it already, twice, and Andrea’s mum was mostly coming for the jolly and was happy with a glass of Merlot and a brilliant story to dine out on.
I was forgiven. It will not, however, be forgotten, and will sit in the pantheon of stories we tell about Katy and her ‘ways’.
This morning I have rolled out of bed, dishevelled and crazy of hair. I am in dire need of a hair cut and colour but funds, due to birthdays and excess do not allow until next month. As such I will have to live with the giant motorway of badger stripe which is my roots and persistently mental hair. The last few days I have been waking up looking a lot like this:
It is entirely by accident by the way. It seems to be my hair’s preferred shape in these climactic conditions.
Most women, when faced with this dilemma would immediately reach for the styling mousse/gel etc, and the tongs and get to work. Me? I just couldn’t quite be bothered this morning. I have stuck it all into a headscarf and am pretending I look like this:
But the power of imagination is a wonderful, and kind thing.
Yesterday, on my way to pick up Oscar from school I watched one of the mum’s cycle past me and alight at the bike rack, where she dismounted, locked her bike to the stand and then floated off to pick up her child.
I use the word floated advisedly. As she cycled past me I noticed that she had skin the colour of just poured honey. It was all lights and tones and what a fashion editor might call caramel velvety softness.
Her hair was shoulder length. It matched her skin for toasty warmth and mingled blonde glints, brown low lights that looked like freshly sanded wood and spun gold. It waved over the nape of her neck and made charming ringlets by her ears. It was, I believe the term is ‘artfully tousled’. It looked natural, but in that way that also screams: ‘I can pay £1000 a follicle for hair treatments you’ve never even heard of.’
Her clothes were linen. Naturally. Her trousers were palazzo pants, in white, beautifully fitting her teeny, weeny waist, and bottom to rival Kylie’s for pixie-like perfect, and then widening down to give a gentle flare, perfectly capturing the essence of what is this summer’s harking back to the Seventies, but without seeming too slavish or gauche. They were teamed with a contrasting t-shirt of deceptive simplicity and a beautifully cut cardigan that looked like it had been hand woven by goddesses.
She wore ballet flats on her feet, which were scuffed in such a way to say: ‘What? This old thing?’ and yet did not make her look like Amy Winehouse on a bender, or that she had had them from Primark last summer and for God’s sake don’t get too close because they honk like the last trump if you go near them. They just looked chic.
She looked chic.
I watched her appreciatively.
I sighed. This is what I would like to look like some days (not all days). I know, from bitter experience that this will not happen.
Firstly I have no patience with skin, hair, make up routines for longer than about half an hour once every six months. I think I want to spend 45 minutes a day on my hair and then I realise how many biscuits I could eat in that time, or how many chapters of my book I could read.
Even when other people do these things for me, I tend to forget they’re done, and rub my eyes so I look like a panda, or scratch my head with a fork that’s had jam on it, or whatever. It does not last long enough for the commensurate effort that has to be put in to achieve it.
I am clumsy. If I rode that bike I would have fallen off at least twice on the way to school. Once almost certainly into a hedge. Dog shit may be involved somewhere, because I attract such things. My granny said: ‘Shit luck is good luck’. I have yet to be convinced of this and I’ve encountered enough of the stuff.
I would also put money on the fact that when I dismounted from my steed for the final time I would be wrestling with the bike lock only to stand back and find that my white linen palazzo pants were covered in bike oil.
This WOULD happen as sure as eggs is eggs.
I feel that it is not my role in this life to be a serene, goddess of chic. I am instead meant to be more of a comedy foil, and must content myself with practising my Blue Steel gaze, and when that gets too hard I will just tie the knot on my headscarf a bit tighter.