Robin vs Priscilla, Round II

Today I went on a shopping trip to Birmingham with both my mother and a teething baby. Brave, yes? I went with the intent of shopping for clothes, both for self and child. So frankly, it was never destined to go well.

Recent experiences involving reflective shop windows and my mile-wide bottom have taught me to skulk in the shadows wherever possible, but there’s just no-where to hide in a changing room. It’s as if you’re supposed to actually look at yourself in there: there’s mirrors and everything. I cowered into the corner as far as I could but the lighting was remorseless, and I could clearly see just how far apart the fasteners were on the size I had – hopefully – selected. Also, the material was… was… how can I put it? Bluntly, I suppose. Ladies, I had camel-toe.

Oh, that cringing trail of shame back onto the shop floor, past the helpfully-beaming assistant. ‘Any good, madam?’ Back out to where I could hear my screaming, over-tired infant being pushchaired in a holding-pattern outside the changing rooms by my mother. Instantaneous increase of stress levels and haste. Searching with fumbling fingers for the next size up and OMG, they don’t make them any bigger in this style.

Firmly fight back tears, visit pushchair, make laudable effort at happy-noise smiley-face at scarlet-faced bawling child. Who immediately discerns my concealed distress and promptly attempts to incorporate the essence of my despondent karma into the tenor of his protests. If he continues along this vocal path, he will shortly only be audible to dogs.

Mother decides that he is over-heated (he isn’t) and wheels him outside into the rain. I strongly suspect that Harry is now wailing because he is in titchy shorts, a t-shirt that has ridden up to his armpits, and is being rained on.

And so it went on. For 4 hours. Oh, and the train home was rammed, so child naturally trotted out his soaring ululations again, to the delight of our fellow passengers. Groan. Not a happy day. What my poor mother must have suffered. I went out determined to buy something simple and well-cut in a bright, cheerful pastel for a family christening this Sunday. I came home with a £12 pair of brown crop trousers. Robin of Sherwood just kicked Priscilla’s arse again.

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