My room is a bomb site. Shoes are strewn everywhere as I hunt for a pair that will be kind to my wounded feet. I finally find a pair that I can wear, though they are entirely inappropriate for the event of the day. Surely originating from the same family as the Perspex hooker heel, the items of offence on my feet today are reflective silver soled stilettos, with blue, aquamarine and white glossy straps. And the item in the diary today is entertaining children; two to be exact, girls aged 2 and 4.
I decide that the only way to make my appearance excusable is by hamming up my outfit to out-do the footwear. Thinking Carrie Bradshaw slash Angelina Ballerina, I rootle a voluminous tutu out of my dress-up box and slip it over blue jeans and a mad flower print singlet by Cybele. It painted a great picture - arriving at the family home on my red scooter, small dog in a pouch on my front, leather riding jacket, shiny heels and sprays of white tulle flying in the wind.