Tuesday, 30 August 2011

I Can't Take Me Anywhere

I have frequently left the house with yoghurt / milk stains on my left shoulder. I have been out with dried puree in my hair. I have done an entire Sainsbury's shop with a small, pink Hello Kitty grip in my fringe. But never before have I had a 20 minute chat with our elderly neighbours - outside the front door - forgetting entirely that I am wearing a T-shirt with the words SUGAR TITS across the front.

I am mortified. Our neighbours are in their sixties, kind, gentle, unassuming, fond of the children and - perhaps until now - always complimentary of our approach to parenting. And I should point out, this is not a T-shirt which could be missed or mis-read. It is navy with its SUGAR TITS logo in large, shocking pink capitals.

You see, since I woke up this morning and someone replaced Summer with Autumn, I thought the kids and I would have a lazy day in the house. So on went the slipper boots and some cosy inside-only clothes. Having spent all afternoon safely ensconced indoors, I'd become immune to my non-public-appearance outfit and, since my three year old can't read, no one pointed out to me that even a trip out to the wheelie bin with a dirty nappy could be dangerous. Living in a terrace, we're talking neighbours of close proximity where it would be churlish not to chat when popping out front, and we often do. I did have an inkling during this evening's chat that Mrs Neighbour seemed keener than usual to get back indoors, but just assumed she wanted to get on with the dinner and so I continued chatting to Mr Neighbour for at least another five.

It was only when The Husband arrived home this evening and directed some dirty comment at my chest that the penny dropped. He of course has found the whole thing utterly hilarious. Particularly as the T-shirt was an Anniversary present from him on our second (cotton) year of Marriage. I remember it well - giggling at the gift I went to try it on, only to discover that tragically my tits (10 months into breastfeeding at the time) hung a good 2-3 inches below the logo.

So, this evening I've decided the T-shirt is cursed and I shall re-home it to some pert twenty-something who will wear it somewhere more fabulous. And in the meantime, in a bid to clawback my neighbours' respect, I shall be dressing in entirely age appropriate attire and mostly avoiding the wheelie bin. I just hope they're not down with Da Kids and following me on Twitter or reading this blog.

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