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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5 Responses

  1. Oh God. I hate buying clothes. I hate hate hate hate it. And then, you finally get the zipper done up and think you’ve found something in your size and you turn and look in the mirror and several cubic feet of fish-belly-white hip-padding are squeezing out in rolls above the waist-band… Doing all that with a tired cross wet uncomfortable infant and YOUR MOTHER in tow. Not all the G&Ts in the WORLD can make up for it.

    Also, what is it with mothers-now-grandmothers? I’ve never entirely forgiven mine for the time I was baby-sitting the colicky infant Minx, and had got her soothed and half-asleep and just about to doze off in my arms (which, frankly, I was enjoying hugely – baby! Asleep in my arms!) when my mother turned up, tutted ‘Isn’t that child asleep YET?’, hoiked her off me and into her pram and proceeded to wheel her ferociously back and forth in the draughty cold hall while Minx howled like a banshee.

  2. Head nodding wildly in sympathy here. I don’t even need to go shopping, I just have to stand in front of my wardrobe where seven sizes and what feels like several thousand dollars worth of clothes hang. And the only things that fit are a frighteningly huge pair of stretch jeans and variously coloured fleece jackets. And I simply don’t have it in me to buy anything new because I know that will just end in tears.

    And to do it with your mum and a shopping averse baby. Well. I’m sending you a big feel better hug because the bottle of wine won’t fit through the computer cable.

  3. Oh, I have plenty of clothes… just very few that fit. I’m in serious fear that I’m going to be forced to go shopping before my mat. leave ends. I have 6 weeks to go and at least 13 lbs to lose.

    You have my sympathies on the changing room experience.

  4. oooh errrr…

    To think that I have all of this to look forward to. Not so far away.

    Can I live in a choice selection of dresses made by cutting a hole in a bedsheet, ordering my groceries online and never leaving the house, I wonder?

    J

  5. […] I’m back on my ubiquitous Robin-of-Sherwood-meets-Priscilla-Queen-of-the-Desert topic again. Concerning which there have been too many posts, I know, but until I figure out […]

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