I don't dress for the school run, I dress for my life!!

Thus said a wise (and avid ;-D) friend of mine recently. Let's call her Esher Mummy. These women who bark on about the high-falutin' ways of mothers who dare to look presentable at 9am - what, may I ask, is their problem? Is it that they think you've negelected your child(ren) in the pursuit of early morning fabulousness? Plonked them in front of the telly with a Mars Bar for brekkie while you beautify in the bathroom, agonise over outfits and eventually teeter downstairs with a tinkling "Come on then! You'll be late!" An acquaintance once sagely advised me "Tidy house, bad mother" - implying, you can't possibly be engaging with your child in a meaningful way if your house isn't a toy-strewn disaster zone. God only knows what she'd make of mascara'ed lashes and tinted lips.

But as Esher Mummy so rightly says - who's to say the day begins and ends with the school run? What about the endless trips to the supermarket, the fortifying coffees, the park dates and the interminable post office queues (returns: the downside of online clothes ordering..)? Fine if your post-school-gate plans are picking dried-out cornflakes out of your labrador's coat: by all means, wear your trackie pants to drop your child off. Just don't expect him - or you - to get invited to any parties of note.

I don't even do a school run, as such, yet. Nursery a few mornings a week, that's all - and that's bad enough. Recently, in the course of a riveting discussion about 'introducing solids' with a mum whose youngest is similarly aged to The Bub, I expressed interest in Baby Led Weaning but said I'd not done it for any of my three. She looked me up and down and said "Well, you wouldn't - not with the way you dress. It's very messy."

Hmm. Because kids are otherwise so very, very clean and tidy, is that it??

Anyway. It made me think - as did the fact that the longest day is now a good month behind us and the nights, while still light, are drawing in unmistakably earlier. Already my thoughts are turning towards camel capes and cashmere - even while SS10 purchases hang, unworn, in my wardrobe. Time to wear, wear, wear. Thank goodness for children, say I - baby led weaning or not, they're mucky as anything, generally providing excuses and opportunities for several outfit changes a day. Like Esher Mummy, I don't dress for the school run, I dress for my life.

Horniman Museum Myths & Monsters exhibition with the children. Wearing Leona Edmiston dress, charity shop belt, Gap denim jacket, Bloch ballet pumps.

Friday night: Jools Holland at the Greenwich Sessions. Wearing Arrogant Cat harem jumpsuit from asos.com, Antik Batik sandals from eBay and Primark necklace.

Friends over for lunch. Wearing River Island maxi, charity shop bangle and Primark gladiators.

Local Nature Reserve: wearing Diesel denim mini (99p on eBay) with Zara stripe top, Havaianas and asos.com canvas bag.

Monday: working from home on High Maintenance Mummy with the children in tow; heading out in the afternoon for a haircut - bye bye bird's nest! Wearing Primark skinnies, charity shop blouse (have been told it's Cacharel and am more than happy to believe it!) Bloch ballet pumps and charity shop trench.

The day after the haircut. The Bub cried hysterically when he saw me, clinging to The Bearded One and refusing to come to me. Even The Princess, usually my Best Fashion Friend, told me I looked silly. Wearing Theory skirt, Fruit of the Loom top from eBay and silver flip flops from some dodgy shop in Peckham.

Afternoon at the park. I'm impressed with the way I've co-ordinated with the pushchair even, almost, down to the coffee stains in the hood and crumb-covered seat. Wearing Primark grey skinnies, Bloch ballet pumps, grey Oushka Oakley and Vero Moda cowl neck tunic from asos.com

OMG, I have an interview. For like, regular, paid work. For the record, this picture was taken after the event. I didn't rock up with a creased dress. Wearing Banana Republic dress that I found in Traid for £14, £1 belt from same store and Swedish Hasbeens from farfetch.com. And how handy to have a trenchcoat (£4.95 from a charity shop in Cornwall) to cover tell-tale travel crinkles and nervous sweat patches. Of which, let's hope, there were none. Just think, if I get the job I might even be able to spend more than £20 on an outfit.

That Warm, Furry Feeling

Years ago, in the halcyon days when 'sans enfants' was a fact of life rather than an occasional something that needed to be planned (meticulously) and paid for (exorbitantly), The Bearded One and I shouldered our rucksacks and 'went travelling': a journey home to Sydney for Christmas became a RTW trip that took in Nepal, India, Malaysia and South America. From trekking through the Himalayas to climbing Bolivia's highest mountain, we really did nothing that thousands of middle-class kids hadn't done before us, but boy did we feel adventurous.

With hindsight, however, probably the most adventurous thing I did on that trip was to not only buy an alpaca fur hat from a vendor hawking by the rails of the high-altitude railway from Cuzco to Lake Titicaca, but to wear it, without a scrap of irony, when I got back to London. I thought it gave me a certain Bond Girl quality: kind of Anna Karenina, kind of Russian spy.

Kind of stupid, my friend the Coal-Eating Geordie told me bluntly, between polishing off pints of lager and sucking back on Marlboro Lights with evident relish. I ignored her: she wore skater-girl jeans and had an odd running style. But as more and more people came out of the woodwork to express their doubts about my sartorial wisdom, and the weather started to brighten up, the hat was put away; the next winter was spent in Australia in cold-weather avoidance and the hat was forgotten.

Until moving house and the inevitable wardrobe cull unearthed it: no way was I getting rid of it. I donned it for the amusement of the children, a riotous game of "What's the Time, Mr Wolf?" ensued, and my alpaca hat found a new home in the dressing-up basket.

A recent obsession with The Wizard of Oz has seen it take on a new incarnation: The Princess, aka Dorothy, has sparkly crimson pumps that pass muster as ruby slippers while Master C is the Lion, with a mane so fabulous that any imagined lack of courage must surely be amply compensated by sheer fluffy glamour. And, just like his mother (aka The Good Witch, The Wicked Witch or Aunty Em, as necessity dictates) back in the days before warm weather and mockery took over, he wears it in public without a trace of self-consciousness. It's such a regular part of his dress now that I barely even register it any more - so I was a bit bemused to notice people hanging out of car windows and smiling widely as we stood at the traffic lights to cross to the Natural History Museum last week. Only when I laid my hand on his head to keep him back from the road did I get the mild shock of fur and the realisation that no, I hadn't forgotten to pull my top back down after The Bub's last feed.

Despite the soaring temperatures, the hat stayed on as Master C faced the T-Rex with a roar and the declaration that he'd "got his courage back now". The smiles from strangers followed us all day; my own grew broader and broader, never more so than when my boy went running up to the glass-cased lion saying, in a friendly manner, "Hello Lion! You got mane, me got mane too!!" I've always imagined The Princess wearing my fashion mistakes and triumphs in years to come; I don't think I ever imagined that my heart would swell quite so much at the sight of a child of mine in a piece of dead alpaca.

Carrots and Pears

Pretty much the only thing that stops me from being gargantuan is my love of clothes; I am, by nature, greedy. And, probably like most mothers, I fret if my children don't eat 'enough' - partly because I don't want them waking up (read - waking me up) in the night asking for a piece of toast and partly because it just goes against my gob-stuffing grain. You don't want any more?? But how can that be??

The Princess and Master C took to eating solids with gusto; The Bub was a bit slower on the uptake. Part of me was horrified (what!! are you sure you're my child?) and the other, soppily relieved - as my (probably) last baby, I'm in no hurry to wean. Kind of. If only breastfeeding didn't limit one's wardrobe options quite so much.

Having read, first time 'round, all the baby/ parenting stuff (come on, no one really bothers with all of that once it gets to Baby 2, Baby 3 etc - which is just one of the reasons that you constantly berate yourself for 'favouring' your first-born) I know that babies get quite the sweet tooth in utero and that you should avoid encouraging this by ensuring that their first solids are of the more savoury variety - potato, rather than sweet potato, for instance. But I've got two other children, aged 3 and 2, who demand a fair bit of my attention at mealtimes: I simply don't have the time or, truth be told, patience, to coax and cajole The Bub to eat his pureed carrot. I glance at the clock: dammit, this mealtime is taking far too long and I'd like a bit of an evening before I drag myself exhaustedly to bed, thanks all the same. It's cheating, but sod it: I refuse to believe that my little boy will be mainlining sugar in his teens as a result of my actions. I shove a spoonful of pureed pear into the bowl of orange goop and watch his rosebud mouth, previously firmly clamped, open into an eager "O". Half an hour later, the three of them are fed, bathed and asleep - and I am free to play dress up.

I'm quickly learning that there are other carrots and pears that don't work together to such good effect, however: namely tapered (carrot leg) trousers and me. Unfortunately, the hips that have so successfully birthed three babies are really doing me no favours in the SS10 fashion stakes, at least not the stakes that are shaped like inverted triangles.

Harems, on the other hand, might be a touch more forgiving. Alternatively they're so daft looking that people are too busy trying to work out whether you've taken a leaf out of your baby's book and cacked your pants to notice that your bum actually does look really, really big. I was in H&M the other day when I saw these light grey cropped numbers. They were inexpensive, the fabric felt beautifully light and cool and, with a bright tank, they've become my "kids are in bed, time to relax" staple. Pretty soon I will (maybe) have the guts to wear this style in public; I'm only glad that I didn't see the picture from the H&M website because if I had, I probably wouldn't have bought them. I swear they look better than that in real life (by which I mean - on me.)

And here's the other thing: I am fast realising that the best blogs are the ones where the bloggers include pics of themselves striking all manner of poses in the clothes about which they are writing. I'm not about to flounce fetchingly for the camera and I may not seek advice of a child-rearing sort any more but in this case it's honest opinions I'm after: should I post photos (of me) or no?

The Sartorial Sixth Sense

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.

Flower Power

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.

Eeny Meeny

The DHL driver, once such a regular visitor, hasn't rung my doorbell in weeks. My porch has been devoid of packages and "Sorry we missed you" slips. Have I been shopping less? Have I heck. No, no - what's occurring here is something very special, a rare and magical window in time and space, the moment between dreaming and waking, a never-to-be repeated alignment of forces within the universe.

In short, The Princess is at nursery a few days a week, The Bub has stopped requiring constant feeding and is content to be lugged about in the Bjorn and Master C is pretty happy with anything, as long as there might be an ice cream in it for him at some point. All of which means that I have once again discovered real life shopping.

Recently, I made my first visit to H&M in, literally, years. I don't mind admitting that I was excited - too much so, maybe; I was flitting from rack to rail like a butterfly, drunk on colours and styles and textures, too inebriated to actually take anything in and ending up so overwhelmed that I was underwhelmed. Gutted! Am I seriously going to leave empty-handed? And then I saw the dress. Love at first sight.

But I'm out of practice. The khaki or the blue? The 10 or the 12? These decisions are easily made late at night on a laptop in blissful post-bedtime silence (buy 'em all, try 'em on at home, use the free returns system to send back the rejects) but in a shop, with banging music and Master C agitating to go on the Bob the Builder ride irritatingly placed within eyeshot, not to mention The Bub, attached to my front and making it impossible to gauge an item's suitability by holding it up against myself in the mirror, I'm getting frazzled. I prefer the khaki but it's only available in a 10. Years of pregnancy and post-natal heftiness have warped my perceptions. Am I a 10? Surely I'm a 10? Is Bob the Builder a 10? What??!! Bob the ...?? Oh god, yes, yes, in a minute!

I need to distract Master C from the Bob thing. "Honey, which one do you like? Which one should mummy get?"

He looks, considers. Looks confused. Then his face brightens. "Me do eeny meeny mamma," he says.

He gets as far as "catch a tiger by the toe," and stops. A broad smile spreads across his face. "That not tiger mamma, that leopard!!" He laughs and laughs, slapping his chubby little thigh. "Me like that one," he says pointing to the khaki. He is still laughing as I pay for it, still chuckling when we get to the Bob ride. I am so in love with him, I let him ride on it twice.

Bonne Anniversaire

I'm a sucker for an anniversary, no matter what it's for. Weddings, birthdays, the time I went here, the first time I met so and so... you get the picture. I have an almost Rain Man-like approach to dates, randomly unnerving The Bearded One with lines like "Just think: this time seven years ago..." He, on the other hand, struggles to remember his own birthday. Fortunately, he's now very good at remembering mine. Note the use of 'now'.

He's also - now - good at coming home from work-trips bearing gifts. But when he went to the States to shoot a doco about the indiscretions of Tiger Woods recently, there was never going to be a lot of time for shopping. Fortunately, I'm a pretty easy-going character (cue riotous and incredulous laughter from anyone who actually knows me) who is just as delighted with a swag of magazines as I would be with a session with (and subsequent purchases from) a personal shopper at Selfridges.

It's slightly frustrating to peruse pages of fashion that's not readily available on these shores so I'm devouring features instead (You give your partner blowjobs to encourage him to do jobs around the house?? Seriously? Time to abandon Glamour and move on to Vanity Fair, I think.) when I come across a Christian Louboutin story. Best quote: "You know, I love it when women say to me, "Oh, I am your biggest customer - I have 15 pairs of your shoes!" I'm like, "Darling, you have no idea." For me, a big customer has to own at least 500 pairs of shoes. But those aren't the biggest customers. Those customers have about 6000 pairs."

Six. Thousand. Pairs. Can you imagine? Among these, apparently, is Danielle Steel - leading me to think that I should ditch this blog and start doing some real (ahem) writing. I mean, I may not be dishing out blow jobs for DIY but I can probably write about someone's thrusting manhood without laughing. Or gagging. Much.

But seriously. Six thousand? I mean, are they all gorgeous? They can't be. The thing I find about CL is that a lot of his shoes aren't actually that nice. Take the purple Forever Tina boots. Isn't there something just a teeny bit Jim Henson about them?

But, dribble, he does come up with some stunners, like the Very Noeud slingbacks. Pure vintage pin-up girl with their oversized bows and pedi-essential peeptoes: it's two years this weekend since I crept excitedly into the Rue de Grenelle boutique in Paris and bought my pair. Not even the slight sneer on the face of the assistant as he asked "Your first Louboutins?" could dull my delight, nor my insistence on The Bearded One photo-documenting the event.

They've been languishing in the wardrobe for a while now, not being the most conducive to pregnancy nor walking in the park with a newborn. But with The Bearded One away for work and my weekend plans for when the children are asleep consisting of playing dress up with pieces new and old, I think that my shoes and I are due a reunion. Happy Anniversary, my beauties.

Louboutin quote taken from Vanity Fair May 2010, shoe pics from www.netaporter.com, other photos mine.