Friday night. I'm supposed to be at the Chelsea Flower Show with The Antipodean Beauty. The reasons I'm not are an annoying mish-mash of The Bearded One being away for work, breastfeeding and Flower Show rules forbidding the presence of babies.
The Beauty and I went last year; we've been friends for almost 20 years, having met during the course of my weekly buying raids on the boutique in which she worked. Eventually she took pity on me and gave me a job so that I could get staff discount. With such beginnings, it's no wonder that the fun of going to the Flower Show last year was as much to do with what we wore and what everyone else was wearing as it was about the gardens. I was particularly taken with a woman, dressed head to toe in yellow, taking photo after photo of the daffodils with a concentration I'd usually reserve for a session with the latest Vogue. Which reminds me: my summer wardrobe could do with a burst of sunshine. (I am hankering after a playsuit, legs permitting - I love the DVF Leana but would settle for the Dahlia. In the words of Crowded House - always take the weather with you...)
I had several outfits in mind for tonight, none of which were the skinny jeans, Blondie tee, Isabella Oliver cable cosy and fluffy leopard skin slippers in which I'm currently curled up on the sofa (I've just watched Gok and have now got one eye on Supersize vs Superskinny - the glamour!). The strapless snakeskin, the bodycon Breton, the Hawaiian print halter - oh well, they'll keep. In the meantime, I'm sticking my tongue out at Flower Show organisers with the thought that The Bub may not have been welcome this year, but he was there last year as I proudly displayed my 22-week bump in an American Vintage maxi, Gap denim jacket and flat gold sandals from Primark. And besides, the extra cuddles that we're having because I'm too lazy - or maybe just too soppy - to go upstairs and put my sleeping boy in his cot are definitely worth staying home for.