Dear Tom Ford C.C My Former Self

Dear Tom

I can spot a fashion girl a mile off.  This morning, walking through Westfield, I spotted a fashion-foal separated from the sartorial safety of her pack. I drew a sharp intake of breath as she marched past; I hadn’t had that much fashion eye-candy for ages, Tom!  She had the look of a woman who actually had somewhere to go as opposed spending the morning fannying around Pret before causing trouble in TopShop for the fifth time that week.  My eyes fixated on her as she marched ahead of me through the universal unkemptness that is the British general public, casting her Olympian-torch-like-shine onto anybody who came within five inches of her magnificent fashionable being. She carried a Celine shopper that was smart and colourful enough to take the casual edge off her Isabel Marant wedge-heeled-trainers, clever, huh?  Colourful, skinny-jean-clad legs stuck out from beneath a coat that was cocoon shaped in grey Tweed.  Her nails, cheeks and lips were awash with spring’s beauty trends, all creamy and delicious peachiness. Perfect white-blonde hair was scraped high into a tight topknot; this was a woman clearly on her way to the offices of Net-a-porter, either that or she was lost and looking for the Eurostar.  I froze outside Waitrose. What was that thing stood where my reflection should be and should I tell her to ditch the padded parka because ‘it’s makin’ ya look a lot like Big Daddy, sister’?  Oh, shit, that’ll be me, then.

The fashion-foal was in ‘my gang’ so therefore it was perfectly legit to follow her EVERYWHERE she went.  She mustn’t see me, though.  I couldn’t do the old Fashion Gang Nod Of Appreciation wearing a waterproof parka (I’m not talking Altuzarra) and a flat boot combo.  The FGNOA is basically when a fellow Fashion Gang member is wearing something new season but very early on in the new season and there’s a moment of mutual respect where we’re basically saying ‘yeah blud, innit, respect to ya’ but in a fashion way.  It’s less of a nod, certainly no smashing of appreciative fists, more of a slight eye movement to the right, not too far, mind.  Why am I wearing this outfit? There should always be a balance in the silhouette; if you’re going to wear a bulky parka then you must pair it with a skinny jean and a bit of a heel. And yes, fashion people always describe things as being singular. Never is a pair of shoes ‘a pair of shoes’, it’s always ‘a heel’, or ‘a shoe’ and there’s no such thing as a pair of trousers in fashion speak, it’s ‘a trouser’.  The same goes for prints, it’s a ‘bit of a print’, never ‘prints’, or better still, ‘a bit of a splashy print’, that actually means very little but somehow we all know exactly which print the other is talking about.  And skinny jeans are always, yep, ‘a skinny’, which could also mean a skinny latte, depending on where you are at the time.  Sorry! I digress!  Fashion-foal saunters inside Westfield by the horrid, lying Waitrose windows.  I try to keep my distance.  Is that the new Prada fragrance she’s wearing? The lift arrives and I shove my pram in between its double doors, a move that alerts her to my presence but not my identity thanks to a carefully placed Ann Demeulemeester scarf.  Net-a-porter is on the 2^nd floor. I know this because I’ve just joined GymBox next door, not because I was loitering outside the Karl Lagerfeld launch the other week, honest.  She gets out at on the first floor and walks hastily towards Pret.  So do I.  Bet she orders to a skinny cappuccino, no chocolate and takes a banana for later. AND SHE DOES! OH, GOD I LOVE THIS WOMAN!  Pray she didn’t see the croissant I’ve shoved into my nappy bag. Baby, err, loves croissant.  Fashion-foal is off!  I whizz out of the door after her, my double cream hot chocolate with extra chocolately stuff shoved into the very handy cup holder that’s attached to the Bugaboo. FF glances in the TopShop windows then quickly scoots towards the escalators. NOT THE ESCALATORS! And that’s where my stalking ends, no matter how flat my ‘boot’, I still haven’t got the hang of the escalator / pram combo. 

Decide to go back to Pret to have a rest as that was way too much fashion activity for one day.  As I sit picking the crunchy bits off my third croissant of the morning, I realise how absurd we all look, us fashion folk, I mean.  ‘A wedge-heeled-trainer’, in brown suede worn with ‘a red skinny’, a cocoon coat in grey, a green handbag that costs more than two months rent, hair scraped up into what could be confused with a pre-operative style a nurse might be instructed to do before you have stitches in your eye. Peach nail polish? Peach lips?  I mean REALLY??????? She looked positively day release and I love it!  I like the fact women buy things their boyfriends and husbands will think are ugly / stupid / pointless or all of above. I enjoy the fact that fashion has very little to do with men, even gay men.  Men, we don’t give a damn what you think we look like, okay?  Sorry, Tom, but it’s true.  I think I just had a light bulb moment.  I don’t care that the other mum’s are wearing their ‘mum uniform’.  UGG boots, Cath Kidston* nappy bags, polite, oversized jumpers from GAP.  Why?  It’s over people, mama’s back and mama’s wearing ‘a splashy print’ at baby music class next week.  So long comfy, sweet potato covered knit, hello awkward ACNE blouse and plum skinny jean combo.

I’m back. There is a God, her name is Net-A-Porter and she lives on the second floor of Westfield.

Best wishes,

Etc etc

*I do not own a Cath Kidston nappy bag. I do, however, own one by Gucci that was a kind gift from the Gucci press office.  It has been bitched about at many a mothers’ get together, which I thoroughly enjoy.

Dear Gina C.C Big Ben

I admit, I've had a good old moan about your 'Contented Little Lunatic' book and you're possibly the bossiest person that ever lived, you and your irrational expectations that a baby will sleep and eat at certain times 'just because Gina says so'.  Oh, he should be asleep now, really?  Despite the fact baby doesn't wish to sleep or eat at your designated intervals, I’ve thoroughly embraced your diktat.  Baby's taken to your schedule in manner of me in the relaunched Selfridges shoe hall, i.e. extremely well.  Gina, I admit, I wasn’t exactly a 'scheduley' kinda gal before baby arrived and in many ways you gave us our life back, and I thank you for that.  But, I wondered, have you ever considered including a section entitled 'New Parents' Schedule'?  If not, may I suggest the following as a starting point? 

Dear New Mum, before you had your baby your morning may have looked something like...

Get up at 7.30am. Moan about getting up at 7.30am. Shower. Have tea hand picked by Tibetan monks. Read several blogs and online newspapers. Tweet. Eat expensive organic wheat free toast made by virgins.  Tweet. Boil two eggs laid by chickens raised at Buckingham Palace. 8am, commence beauty routine. Tweet. Check Facebook. Caress limbs with oil imported from Morocco on a bed of petals. Consider doing some sit-ups, but there’s just no time.  Blow dry hair using several products only available from a one off salon in Paris. Apply Chanel foundation. Spend ten minutes on each eye working the driest Dior mascara wand through lashes first, then the semi-dry wand, finishing off with the latest, wettest mascara wand in order to create perfect ‘backstage’ lashes. 8.30am, try on entire wardrobe. 8.55am, vow to buy more tops from Net-A-Porter. 9am run out of door cursing fact there’s not enough time in life and how 'I’m gonna HAVE to go on a retreat to India / Thailand to 'practise' yoga in order to relax as it’s the only way I can get some head space, man!’ 9.30am, arrive at desk chirping ‘I feel like I’ve done a whole days work already, I just don't know how I do it!’

Dear new mum, after you've had your baby your morning may go something like...

Get up at 6am. Trip over spare travel cot located by door. Wonder why we have a spare travel cot located by door? No time to worry about stubbed toe or spare travel cot. Go to soothe crying baby. Vow to pee at some point before lunchtime. Switch on bottle warmer. Feed Dog. Feed Cat. Get baby from cot. Sit baby in highchair. Look at diary unable to read writing so who knows what’s gonna happen today.  Cross fingers. Feed baby his bottle. Entertain baby. Make baby his porridge. Put baby in full body bib. Take baby food out of freezer whilst porridge is cooking.  Wash baby’s bottle. Put sterilizer on. 7.15am Feed baby porridge. 7.20am sit shaking garish rattle over head in vain hope it will trick baby into finishing porridge.  7.22am, make raspberry noises whilst shaking garish rattle above head.  7.23, force dog to wear a Trilby in order to entertain baby. 7.24, beg baby finish porridge.  7.45am, baby finishes eating porridge. 7.46, dog licks entire high chair whilst still wearing hat. 7.47am, dog is banished to his bed with Dettol wipe attached to his butt.  7.48am, Dettol wipe cat. 7.50am, second nappy change of the morning, wash baby, dress baby, entertain baby. 8am, empty sterilizer, refill bottles for the day, make list of things I need to buy for baby, scrape porridge out of hair. 8.30am, lie on floor with baby playing peek-a-boo. 9am, baby’s second nap. 9.01am, wish Starbucks would deliver. 9.02am, have two minute shower. Put on something that isn’t covered in sweet potato. Dab on a bit of blusher and whizz a bit of mascara through lashes so not to scare the kids. 9.30am, start rest of day.

Should we work on this together, Gina?

Best wishes

Etc etc

Dear Tom Ford C.C WeightWatchers

Tom, I aint gonna lie but there's no point sending your entire SS12 collection over this season.  I’m so sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve like totally gained.  You’re probably muttering ‘jeez, this would NEVER happen to Claudia, Victoria, Natalia, blah blah blah’, and the truth is I know but I JUST COULDN'T STOP NOSHING!  The moment that blue line appeared it was all about eating as much as I physically could.  I was ravenous. I had no self control. Even my Spanx have walked out in disgust.  

Where had this hunger been hiding, Tom? Not in my Stella tuxedo pants that’s for sure.  In the manner of Mila Jovovitch (allegedly) I gained 35 kilos.  That’s a whopping five and a half stones.  That’s like carrying Natasha Poly on my back for nine months.  Man alive, I didn’t just gain; I gained an entire supermodel! Yes, I ate*, but not as much as those dudes on 'America's Biggest Loser'.  I'm as shocked as you are, and agree, I've let myself and the whole Goddamn front row down.

Best Wishes

Etc etc..

*Approx pregnancy food diary...

7am: get up, gag, eat two toasts, gag.  9am: gag, pop to Starbucks on way to tube, eat a granola bar, gag.  9.15am: gag, get off tube, gag, pop to Pret, eat a croissant, gag.  11am: gag, back to Pret, eat a hummus sandwich, gag. 12 noon early lunch of soup, another sandwich and quick nap in disabled loo. 2pm: gag, second lunch of veggie sushi, big box mind, head on desk for twenty minutes, wake up, gag. 4pm: packet of crisps and possibly a baked potato, gag. 6pm: a medley of carbohydrates. 6.15pm: bed.

Dear Tom Ford C.C Metropolitan Police

There are so many crucial bits of information ‘they’ left out.  I admit, I was a total fool for thinking I’d be spending my maternity leave doing the stuff I did pre-baby (PB) i.e. faffing around on a monumental scale.  Je suis le queen of faff. I have a master’s degree in ‘Faff’.  Yes, I thought I’d be tootling off for ‘fancy’ lunches within a couple of weeks of delivery. Out to lunch mentally?  For sure.  Going for fancy lunches in town?  IN TOWN?  Dressed FANCY?  Cock-a-doodle-doo!  Maybe ‘they’ did tell me but perhaps I had my previously-well-manicured fingers in my ears. Or maybe I thought it would be different for me, this baby malarkey, I mean, how hard could it be?  Stick the nine pound mite in a swanky, overpriced pushchair, pair with sensible yet fashion forward footwear (possibly Lanvin trainers in several peppy colour ways), add large sunglasses et voila!  I am Gwen Stefani-lite, if you squint.


I thought I’d be the ultimate culture vulture, too.  But needless to say I didn’t make it to Leonardo, Degas, Twombly, Emin or Corinne Day last year, nor have I been to any gigs, had dinners out or seen any films this summer, autumn and now winter.  I lie, I saw the wotsit with the Dragon wotsit last week, sat on my own in a huge comfy seat in the fancy bit at Westfield, glass of wine on a little side table, huge thingy of popcorn all because HIG said I looked ‘emotional’ and needed ‘time out’.  Ok, I admit it; I thought maternity leave was going to be a bit like taking a really long holiday for which I would get paid to lounge around and read books.  I can just about manage to read about Amy Childs’ tits spilling out of a too tight dress on the Daily Mail website, never mind read a book or look at Italian masterpieces. 


Anyway, I digress!  The biggest thing ‘they’ forgot to tell me was about ‘the guilt’. Yes, that’s right, GUILT.  I’m not talking about mild guilt like when you've over shopped the old credito card on new season, the endorphin rush quickly turns to panic and before you know it a bunch of drunken butterflies are partying in your tummy. Goddamn you Net-a-porter and the cyber ship you sailed in on. No, this guilt is the Big Daddy of all guilt; I’m talking about ‘mothers’ guilt’.


Let me break it down:

1.    I feel guilty for moaning about being tired to friends who don’t have children.  They don’t wanna hear it, they’re just nodding polity and wondering when their friend will be back in town. 


2.    I feel horrendously guilty for moaning about being tired to friends who do have children. I probably wasn’t there for them when they were going through the early stages of motherhood, OH THAT REALLY MAKES ME FEEL GUILTY.  What a shit friend I am (beats self with overpriced shoe).

3.    I feel guilty for admitting I want to go back to work because it will be easier than being a full time mum.  By the way, I am the only woman willing to admit this in my antenatal group. I said it at our last coffee meeting and then quickly left before social services were called.

4. I feel guilty about not wanting to go back to work. I have moments when all I want to do is stay at home and play with my son and brightly coloured, squeaking plastic objects, and I'm not talking about Jodie Harsh's collection of handbags.

5.    I recently hired a nanny for a two afternoons a week.  The first time she looked after my son, I stood at the bottom of the stairs, semi-spying on her, foaming at the mouth with jealousy. Oh, that’s normal. Not. The whole experience made me feel terribly guilty, clearly she’s a nice person and I am not and my baby would prefer to be with her. Play ‘Insane in the Membrane’ as backing track here.


6.    Nobody in my antenatal group has part time help.  Shoves head in oven.


7. Did I breastfeed for long enough?  Everybody in my antenatal group is competitive breastfeeding.  I’ll pass them the number of a good surgeon when they’re done, which will probably be in four years time knowing that lot.


8. I had ‘write a novel’ on my to do list but it aint going so well hence getting part time help, but the sales are on and and and and.. well, you know…


My friend’s granny says feeling guilty ‘is terribly common’, but she also thinks buying anything new is too, which makes me really rather common and therefore I need a drink, possibly at the Connaught, which aint so common. 

Best wishes,

etc etc