I can just about cope with the grey/ black/ charcoal/ indigo thing in the colder months although I do rail against the endless drear of winter with the odd burst of turquoise, fuschia or red - admittedly mostly in safe (okay, boring) ways involving scarves and wristwarmers. Spring and summer: different matter altogether. I feel like I've failed, somehow, if I don't dress in proper, shout-it-from-the-rooftops colour - but on mornings when I'm racing to get out the door with all three children fed, clothed and clean, oh, how easy it would be to fall back on fail-safe indigo skinnies and a black tank.
My inner-Tanya Turner/ Amber Gates (oh yes, they are alive and well, although I'll still swear blind that The Princess's name has nothing to do with what Amber called her first-born, nothing, I tell you!!) would love to wear white jeans but I know for a fact that they'd be covered in Marmite-y fingerprints and felt-tip within minutes... so these washed-out grey skinnies (£8 from Primark) have been a welcome step away from the reliably slimming properties of dark denim, now that the bulk added by The Bub's arrival has disappeared. And I'm loving them with orange and coral: a Zara linen tee, a French Connection cami that I picked up for a couple of quid at Traid, and an Orla Kiely top that I was contemplating getting rid of on the grounds of being, well, Orla Kiely.
About to dash out in one of these combinations the other day, I stop. I dither. It's raining and miserable outside; I'm single-parenting for the weekend (The Bearded One is away again, sigh) and, in the absence of time for my second coffee of the day, I probably need the cheering properties of a colour-pop. Nevertheless, something in me says 'no'. I quickly change into indigo skinnies and an oversized Breton.
The drive to the Science Museum - Saturday morning, Bank Holiday, half-term, raining - takes nigh on two hours; the hunt for a parking space almost as long. By the time I unload the kids from the car, I have just about lost the will to live, a state of affairs that's not improved by getting lost in a nightmarish maze of lifts, none of which lead to the basement where we're meeting our friends. When we finally meet up, I'm limp with relief, not least because The Antipodean Beauty is dressed in grey skinnies and coral cardi. Praise the Wardrobe Gods for that sartorial sixth sense: the last thing I need today is some kind of Brenda/ Kelly/ 90210 prom moment (sans the love rivalry, natch). By the time the children have enjoyed the Bubble Show and I've had a (surprisingly decent) coffee, all is right with the world. I'll wear colour tomorrow.