YOUNGEST Child and I are in the John Lewis café. Gazing round, she says, “You know mum, you’re the worst dressed person in here.” I look at my leggings, Middle Child’s hoodie and my Army and Navy Store biker boots.
Hmm. I look at everyone else. Yummy mummies with LV bags and scarves, shiny boots and highlights.
“Look!” says wee Gok Wan. “Bright scarves, nice jackets, high heels, stuff in their hair - nice clips, hair bands. They look like they’re a puzzle, every piece a different colour. And you’re just like a black dot.”
Next day we’re going swimming. Youngest Child styles my “look”. Black trousers? “OK”. Smartish grey jumper? “That’s quite nice.” Necklace gifted by the BoyF? “Really nice. And your hair is nice and neatly placed today.”
Swimsuit? Black, with extra strong tummy panel. “I love that. Black, wee ruffle, again, nice,” she says.
What about body hair? Legs? “Don’t mind.” Armpits? “Depends on length.” Bikini department? (Censored by Youngest.) “The main thing is nose hair. Not OK. And chin hair, again, not OK.”
At the pool, I’m confident I pass muster. Yet Youngest bars the changing room exit.
“Are you wearing a bra?”
“Eh? No. Do I look as if I am? Thanks.”
“Hmmm. It’s just the kind of thing you might do.”
Again, crushed. Fashion? I’m way out of my depth.