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Shoes, solids and a big hello to the Source

By Lisa McGarry

Hola folks! Its good to know that I am now out and proud for the gorgeous (seriously, you look fab today: loving the hair) readers of www.thesourcemag.net to peruse at will. I solemnly promise to try and entertain you in between bursts of self-obsessed vitriol and shoe lust and the like, not forgetting the many twists and tangents which reflect the flighty state of my postnatal mind. 
I started this blog (ugh, I know - its a terrible word, have been thinking so ever since my friend Josie pointed it out, and now I'd quite like to rename it something less reminiscent of berks in lumberjack shirts) because I love to write, don't do it enough, and felt that waxing comical re being a ditzy new mum could be fairly appropriate when living in an area so brimming with bundles of joy that they're as common as a sperm at a wife swap. So in short: welcome, wilkommen, bienvenue, shalom - it's great to be here *does cyber-skip*.

Now: shoes. Don't worry, am not one of these SJP types who wears my Louboutins (or even owns Louboutins) to Sainsburys of a morning, but this week I have had a MAJOR shoe moment (and yes, I feel like a tit for saying "major shoe moment"). Was taking a stroll down Portobello Market, thinking about the shadowy mogul types trying to take over the area by means of stealth purchase; a very depressing muse which led to a dash into Office to check out the sale rack. And there they were: one pair of purple, snakeskin sandals in the multi-strappy, vertiginous style which has been a la mode ever since I got knocked up; distant, mythical symbols of girlydom which have got me weeping with lifestyle jealousy when flicking through the fashion pages of any publication. And there they were. In my size. Marked down from £80 to £10. Wowzers.

So of course I had to have them: at that price, its worth it just to have them casually lying around the living room as if at any moment I could be about to slip them on with a sparkly shrug and an oversized (though not quite large enough to stow a changing mat) clutch. Just listen to the online description: "Super-tough but sexy strappy slingbacks with a skyscraper of a stiletto heel. Series of straps and buckles link up to a gladiator-style leather front to make a serious statement." Does that piece of provocative alliteration sound anything like the shoes required by a new mum-not-really-about-town? They are divine, and I have literally no use for them whatsoever. Unless you count wearing them to feed the D-Bubz his porridge (which I have), or teaming them with ski socks for some classic 'lounging @ home' chic (which I haven't...yet).

Seriously, I don't know when I'll next be dancin', really dancin' (and wouldn't be, in spiky 4-inchers, for long - I'm not a Saturday, or even Girl Aloud), or going to a semi-posh party. In fact, the D-Bubz has yet to encounter any kind of babysitter. So to commemorate my first Source blog and ensure these bad girls get a public airing at some point, can anyone suggest a suitable venue that's both child-friendly and uber-glam? (All suggestions welcomed.) This whole shoe episode just reminds me that I should be reading Home & Garden, notGlamour: I feel like I've taken voluntary fashion redundancy and am now in a river in Egypt. Ooh, chunky bangles! Very practical when you risk giving your wee boy a shiner every time you pick him up. Little halterneck number! Fabulous with a nursing bra. Latest eyeshadow trend! Just what you need at Baa-Baa Babies. I could probably wing it through my days with nothing more than some concealer and a good pair of boyfriend jeans, although where's the fun in that? So I continue with my purchasing and flicking through the mags and cooing at anything sparkly: delusion, it's so 2010.

In other news, D-Bubz is now On Solids. This doesn't mean he is ordering steak cooked medium rare and casually butter-and-salting bread rolls; rather, he is now the enthusiastic consumer of baby porridge, and it's quite a milestone in his young life. It's also quite a scary one for moi: not only do I now have to keep stuff sterilised, but am starting to realise the extent of his appetite. I am going to be feeding him pretty much forever, and the worst thing is, I think I like it. But it's yet another reminder that my gorgeous little boy won't be little for long - the strange thing about motherhood, which no-one really mentions, is the slight sadness marking every development. Like when his baby hair suddenly fell out at 4 weeks to be replaced soon after by his proper hair; I actually cried. Bittersweet, it is, and I am trying to savour every moment, every tiny change.

In other other news, I am increasingly concerned by The State Of Our House which is reaching crisis point - the heap of clothes in my bedroom has recently acquired a small flag on its summit - and so I think it could be time to bite that crunchy metal bullet and phone a friend. To get her cleaner's number. But cleaners and me, we don't really work. I remember my mum having one when I was younger: a total glamazon with waist-length blonde hair and improbably long scarlet nails for someone in the habit of wielding a hoover for others. She was also sarkier than Russell Brand after a shag-free week, which I took as a side-effect of having to sort out our washing. Anyway, she scared the beejesus out of moi, and that was the end of my cleaner experience until many years later, when sharing a house with three other women, all reluctant to do the bathroom on a regular basis, when we enlisted the services of another glamazon, this time the nearly-6-foot, basketball playing Scandinavian Iva, who mopped her way like a towering whirlwind for several hours every other Friday. I was so mortified about having her come when I was, to all intents and purposes, a student, that I would hide away to avoid having to communicate with her athletic and capable (yet slightly English language-challenged) self, but we developed quite a good relationship in the end, based on me skulking and her jumping out at me.

Iva's days were sadly numbered when she gave Carys' trailing spider plant a geometric bob without asking (to be fair, it was taking over the kitchen), which we only found out after each housemate had been interviewed re said plant bobbing and all sworn we hadn't touched it, guv (while it annoyed the piss out of everyone, we still didn't have the brainwave of attacking it with scissors). Anyway, she probably wasn't too upset - I'd have hated to clear up after us lot. And the rest is messy history - to get a cleaner, you have to sort out your clutter, and I'm the kind of person who only wouldn't have clutter if I didn't have a stick of furniture, and even then I'd probably just make a pile on the floor, so the thought of bringing one into our lives always felt like an act of cruelty (towards the cleaner). But I grow weary of this never-ending attempt to become anally retentive, and weary of my shock and awe when I visit the spit and polish-scented abodes of more sensible friends, like a child visiting Disneyland and getting a hug from Captain Jack Sparrow. So in the next couple of weeks, I'm giving the cleaner thing another whirl. Otherwise, I could end up dusting the bookshelves in my new shoes, which is a pretty dangerous scenario for everyone...

Mother In The Hood xxx


#4 Dave 2010-03-10 16:09
Punctuation would be nice.

Better using sentences rather than paragraphs, makes it easier to breath whilst you are reading.
#3 titi 2010-03-09 17:46
Yep, you are actually right, and it is gripping stuff 8>)
#2 Christine 2010-03-07 16:52
...and sometimes more is more! :-)
#1 titi 2010-03-04 22:19
Uh, I appreciate you like writing, but less sometimes is more!

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