My five-year-old daughter and I decide to leave the boys to their raucous game of soldiers in the sitting room and head off for a spot of retail therapy.
We arrive in a nearby town and walk hand in hand, with no buggy, and a handbag that is distinctly light and free of any ‘no spill’ cups, nappies or soggy wet wipes. Thankfully, she is as keen as I am to wander around the shops and browse through the new autumn collections. I watch as she floats around the store carefully sizing up each garment, pointing anything out to me that is glittery, velvet or covered in sequins. As I sift through hangers trying to find my size – or remember what size I actually am now, I suddenly spot her reflection in the mirror clipping along in a pair of silver stilletos. I dive towards her, ‘de-shoe’ her and take off the designer beaded necklace and shimmery scarf she has draped around her neck.
We head off into the changing rooms together and as she perches on the stool, I begin the task that reminds me why I rarely visit a clothes shop anymore – the trying on. I put on the first item, which I had spotted on one of the giant posters around the shop. The difference being that the model wearing it was probably a size zero and in her late teens. I twist and turn, looking in the mirror acutely aware of my daughter’s intense gaze. “What do you think?” I ask her, in the absence of my husband or mother’s opinion. “I think it would be better on a younger grown-up,” she says. I can’t resist the urge to laugh out loud at her bluntness in speaking her mind, completely unaware of how it comes across. Annoyingly she is absolutely right and I am kidding myself to think that this designer top could hang on a thirty-something-year-old mother of three!
As we leave the shop empty handed, I mutter something about losing weight under my breath. Hearing this, she looks up at me and says, “Don’t worry Mummy. I think you’re as thin as a sausage.”
