The Shoe Princess's Guide to the Galaxy (23 page)

       
But possibly the most depressing thing is that my hair is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. I’ve been through my entire wardrobe (again with Trinny and Susannah’s help) and concluded that it has, in the space of just one post-baby year, become entirely sexless. (And yes, I hate it when Rachel’s so bloody right!)

       
Little wonder my husband has fallen into the arms of a temptress.

       
I’m busy pondering my future life as a bona fide single parent, when an incoming email takes me by surprise. Oh, great. Just what I need – Aunt Margaret’s joined the twenty-first century:

From        Tim (work)

To                Jane (home)

Subject:        FW: Family News Update

fyi. T

My Dearest Tim, Jane and Emmeline

       
Please forgive this intrusion into your busy lives. (Tim, your parents kindly gave me your work email address.) Now that I have mastered the email and World Wide Web, I am taking the liberty of collating a mid-year update from family members to expedite the writing of my Christmas letter.

       
We’re all most anxious to learn of your news, especially since we didn’t hear from you last year.

       
I have had the pleasure of my niece Penelope and her husband Mike from Norfolk staying this past week. They send their love. (Do you remember playing Knights and Queens with Penelope in my garden when you were six, Tim?) Their baby Libby is almost one, and an absolute treasure – sleeping through the night and walking. Mike has been promoted to partner at work, and Penelope has just completed her Ph.D. – in record time.

       
I hope this small note finds you happy and healthy.

       
Yours in haste

       
Aunt Margaret

Oh, sod off, you nosy old cow.

       
I sit and stare blankly at the computer screen, my head in my hands. Aunt Margaret’s email forces me to think about the year that has been: the most exhilarating, challenging and enlightening year of my life – without doubt. A year that I have a feeling is going to end with a
very
big bang.

       
At that, I also allow myself to think about Tim. Something I’ve been blocking, since the diabolical wellness centre last weekend, where I managed to play the role of insecure, paranoid housewife to a tee. We had an enormous row late on Monday afternoon before I left – probably our worst ever – where Tim got completely frustrated and mortally offended by my absurd and petty (according to him) questions about Alex and Bangalore.

       
He rather annoyingly pointed out that I used to have a male boss and predominantly male work colleagues, whom I spent significant amounts of time with, pre-Millie. But I, of course, reminded him that I didn’t
hide
the fact that they were men from him. To which he said he hadn’t misled me about Alex ‘intentionally’.

       
I found this hard to swallow.

       
And so it went.

       
Mum sensed that all was not right the moment I got out of the car to pick up Dad, Millie and Pierre (on dog good-behaviour bond) for the return to London. My jolly-hockey-sticks demeanour was probably my biggest giveaway. I quickly changed tack, and blamed an allergic reaction to the incense at the wellness centre for my puffy eyes; and my foray on the three-metre springboard for my migraine. No wonder I appeared a little out of sorts.

       
I think she
just
about bought it.

       
This forwarded email of Aunt Margaret’s is the first contact Tim and I have had, so to speak, in a week. And of course we can’t even meet to patch things up, because he’s running away with Alex tonight to Bangalore, for four weeks – returning in time for Millie’s birthday.

       
I feel ill simply thinking about it.

My Home Parent Assistant has been with me for just over a week now, and I can honestly say that the whole experience of living together has been a real eye-opener – for both of us. Possibly it’s the praise Dad lavishly heaps on me (never forthcoming from Tim) that I enjoy the most. His favourite mantra at the moment is: ‘Young mums are the unsung heroines of the world.’ Though I constantly remind him I’m not doing anything that Mum didn’t do. In fact, I think Mum had it a lot harder than me, being without the luxury of disposable nappies, a tumble dryer or even a car. Let alone a computer and the World Wide Web.

       
But most of all, Dad seems to be fascinated by the effects of a baby on domestic life. In particular, how the rhythm of each day (and night) is relentlessly the same, yet with variable notes that can change at any time (and usually without warning) to result in a completely different melody by day’s end. A melody that’s just as likely to be dotted with flourishes of heart-warming joy as it is with dips of pure frustration – and always tempered by vast oceans of patience. He’s even been jotting down little theorems and algorithms to try and map it out. Much to my amusement!

       
Dad truly can’t put a foot wrong at the moment, though. He’s not only done a brilliant job of completely ‘Millie proofing’ the flat for us, but I can almost feel the layers of stress peel away with every precious baby-free snippet of head space he gives me. Speaking of which, he and Millie have just popped out for their regular morning stroll down to the high street to see what’s been left under the council’s ‘No Dumping’ sign overnight. They’ll be at least an hour – rummaging through the lounge suites, cookers and toasters for something to claim. And, of course, chatting to all the homeless people, passing mums and babies, and elderly folk.

       
Dad will only be happy when he finds something to bring back to the garden shed to fix – so that he can give me a lecture on the throwaway nature of today’s society. You see, he sneakily ‘interpreted’ the terms of his HPA contract to allow the use of the garden shed (technically not part of the ‘work premises’ and therefore exempt from restrictions) to house his laptops, physics experiments and repair projects. He’s lucky that the shed’s so big, actually. We bought our flat from a notorious local landlord – and legend has it that he used to house about ten Antipodean backpackers in there for extra income.

       
I take the opportunity to get some chores done while Dad and Millie are out, and am halfway through stuffing a load of clothes into the washing machine (how is it that one tiny scrap of a baby human can produce the same amount of laundry each day as a rugby team after a rain-sodden game?) when the doorbell rings.

       
It’s Florence. She’s popped in to hand me some mail that’s mistakenly made its way into her pile.

       
‘I think it must be from your charming friend Marco,’ she says innocently enough.

       
I look at the postcard emblazoned with Italian stamps, and confirm that it is indeed from Marco – and Fi. They’re on a romantic summer holiday in Sicily. Yet another important milestone for Fi. Mind you, she was so excited and nervous about the trip that she worked herself into a complete twist and broke out in hives the day before they left. Thankfully, the postcard reveals that all is now good and they’re having a magical time together.

       
As for my ‘charming friend Marco’ – I was
so
embarrassed when Florence walked in on me with him a little while back. Not because we were
in flagrante delicto
or anything. (Wouldn’t that have been fun!) No, it was all extremely above board. Marco was dropping off Millie’s pushchair after that shoe-exhibition fiasco (fiascos seem to be a recurring theme in my life of late). The front door was left ajar, because he was literally just dropping the pushchair off, and Florence was coming in for our planned afternoon tea while Millie was asleep.

       
But you see, the thing is, I was in Marco’s embrace – sobbing uncontrollably on his shoulder.

       
I honestly had no intention of blubbering all over him. It’s just that he’s so damn understanding. He asked me how I was coping with being on my own with Millie so much. (His dad died when he was ten, and he helped his mum raise his four younger siblings – he’s really in tune with the demands of childcare.) Just being asked made the tears sort of explode out of me like a geyser.

       
I shocked even myself.

       
Marco kindly stayed and took tea with Florence and me – charming her in his polite, gentlemanly fashion by being completely attentive to both of us. And of course, he made an extra effort to cheer me up by telling Florence all about my commendable shoe-making abilities.

       
Florence is also a bit of a shoe princess (or should that be shoe queen, given her age?) and truly delighted in meeting an artisan like Marco. She has since taken a keen interest in my still-as-yet-to-happen mum shoes project, even offering her services to crochet flowers for embellishments. And provided they’re done with the right coloured and textured thread (like super-fine silver lamé), they could actually go down a treat with the fashionistas in my Funky Mammas SP subgroup – now that foho is the new boho (think funky yet folksy).

       
I finger the curved edge of the postcard and smile warmly at the thought of Marco. I really do like thinking about him ... it certainly helps take the sting from my thoughts of Tim and Alex. But like any drug of dependence, the effect wears off quicker each time. And I’m left to think of Fi. And feel ashamed.

       
Oh, what a muddle I’m in.

www.ShoePrincess.com
 
Shop Like a Princess
 
I’m constantly amazed by the stories from our princesses in the US – where they genuinely seem to understand the art of retail therapy. Many shoe shops have VIP rooms for private viewings; luxurious lounges and spacious seating; onsite shoe repairs; free foot massages and pedicures for multiple purchases of shoes; plus tea, coffee, cake and champagne as part of the shoe-shopping experience. Who wouldn’t want to walk away in a pair of glass slippers after such pampering? One can only hope it catches on this side of the Atlantic.
 
Shoe Moment
 
My 31 2-year-old niece recently asked me to buy her a pair of “black little girls’ shoes with long sticks”.
 
I’m soooo proud! (from SP of São Paulo)
 
As we are too, SP!
 
Footnote
 
I’ve been asked many times why I never use the term ‘shoeaholic’ in my blog. It’s quite simple: far from having an affliction that needs to be cured by a 12 Step Programme, Shoe Princesses are passionate lovers and appreciators of shoes. Footwear connoisseurs!

21. Mind the Step

With Dad and Millie still out, Florence decides to stay and join me for a pot of tea and
Brunch with Britain
(our whole day is practically planned around it).