I’m a great believer in offsetting the pernicious influence of airbrushed images of female perfection on my offspring by slapping around the house just as I am.
So when Youngest Child is abroad on the interweb and comes across pea-brained bloggers twittering on about the Thigh Gap, the need to take a flamethrower to any body hair that has the temerity to sprout, or feminine deodorant (what kind of evil self-inflicted misogynistic lunacy is that? Don’t men dream of long-lasting freshness in their intimate areas too? Nah, don’t be silly) she’ll know what the reality is. And that goes for her brothers too. Oh, and the supermarket delivery team. Well, it’s an early morning slot, what can you do? They live in the real world too, it won’t be anything they haven’t seen before.
But I draw the line at venturing out in my pyjamas. Not because I’m a judgemental type who thinks you should only wear joggers if you’re a gym bunny or nightwear as daywear if you’re Courtney Love, but because mine really aren’t fit for public consumption. A bit too Robinson Crusoe.
So one morning this week when there’s no milk for breakfast and I have to nip out to the shop early doors, I’m distinctly overdressed. It’s like a sleepover for grown ups in there, all wall to wall onesies, goonies galore and no-one batting an eyelid as we queue dozily up to the till. There are dogs tied up outside sporting more outerwear.
But one woman does stand out in the crowd, not for her leisurewear, although her penguin onesie does look cosy, but because she’s struck yet another lifestyle blow by bringing her morning coffee too. Not in a trendy cardboard cup served up by a barista in the nearest Costabuck, but straight from her kitchen in a chunky ‘Best Mum in the World’ mug. It rests, steaming, on the counter while she buys a couple of lottery tickets. Respect.
There’s only one thing missing here. A slice or two of toast.