Well, I went to aforementioned hellhole of a shopping centre and crashed the car into a pillar parked the car. I think where I went wrong was the fact that I had been repeating the phrase 'tiered, jersey, maxi' in my head instead of 'mirror, signal, manoeuvre' and the damn pillar leapt out of nowhere. No harm done though. 3yr old dd did comment with utter resignation that 'mummy needs to go back to school'. DH sent me off with half an hour and his bank card. I didn't ask where he was going but I presume it involved the local cycle shop and a long conversation about carbon fibre forks.
Just a quick explanation for those people lucky enough to live outside of East Anglia, Chapelfield shopping centre is one of those places where beautiful young things and emos sprawl like dead bumblebees across the shiny lino, looking effortlessly chic and unencumbered by pushchairs and bags of raisins and a ready arsenal of nursery rhymes. I was doing quite a good job of hurrying past them all and stopped for a regroup outside H&M. It looked quite nice. Lots of flowery things in the window, bit of fake grass. I found myself wandering in.
Well what do you know. The lesson I have learnt today is if you see an item of clothing sported by the masses, it's probably widely available in a high street store. Actually, I've mastered several lessons today, not least of which was that trying on dresses in a faded, grey nursing bra was ill-advised. I need S&B more than I thought it seems. Anyway, they had oodles of them. Dresses, not faded, grey nursing bras.
I slunk through embarrassedly, trying to ignore the dagger stares from the poker-thin assistants, leaning bonelessly against pillars with ill-disguised ennui. I saw it etched across their features. They knew I was approaching 30. It was clear I didn't belong there. Didn't put me off though. My Grandad fought in the war.
Anyway, lots of them. Grey, black, squashed olive, monkey sick yellow. You name it, they had it.
They begrudgingly let me into the fitting room (weren't they called changing rooms once upon a time). They didn't want to mind. I was clearly reminding them of the fact that youth is fleeting and stomach muscles are fickle but they weren't quick enough to close the fitting rooms down and evacuate. I tried on one dress. All nursing bra issues aside, it was fine. Covered a multitude of sins, hid my pasty white flesh from the glare of the lights and the disgustingly large mirrors.
I paid for it quickly. The music was making my ears bleed and I was beginning to panic slightly by that point.
I left with a quick detour to spit at the abomination that is 'jeggings'.
All in all, took about 7 minutes. Spent the remaining 23 minutes of child free time with an earl grey and a gingerbread man, taking deep breaths and wondering if I'm brave enough to go underwear shopping next month.
So, Style and Beauty, you've been great. See you again in 3 years when I need new clothing.