The invisible housewife

I nipped out of the house today to pick up yoghurt as part of my “white” dinner (more on this tomorrow). A trip to the local shop here is about as exciting as waiting for DS to vomit, which is what I’d spent a large part of today doing, so I didn’t bother strapping on the gold Jimmy Choos, as I’m sure you can imagine.

It might have suited me. Even with my brown hair.

But, as I walked out of the shop, a pot of low-fat yoghurt in each hand, I heard a strange rumbling sound, which heralded the arrival in the car park of a most unusual-looking car driven by a rather nice-looking young man. Being something of a secret petrol-head, I had a split-second thought about going over to ask him about his car. Maybe he’d even let me sit in it!

But, then I remembered.

Having popped out from my vigil by DS’s sick bed, I was in no fit state to be seen by handsome young sports-car drivers. I was a 41-year-old housewife on a down-day. I was wearing GAP khaki shorts that only just covered my cellulite (no mean feat given that can extend, on a bad day, to my knees) with an unremarkable white t-shirt and flip-flops that have seen me through two pregnancies in their eight-year lifespan.

To top it all off, I thought, as I moped quietly back to my family four-wheel-drive, I’m not even blonde anymore. Who was I kidding?