So when did I turn into my mother …….

I remember the day I turned into my mother. The day when I walked in crazy and walked out sensible. The day when I sacrificed fashion for comfort and spontaneity for reality.

It was around 5 years ago. On a Thursday morning. I was all dolled up for Ladies Day at Ascot. Fuschia pink Whistles dress, matching Philip Treacey creation plastered to perfectly coiffeured bob and ah! Now here’s the sensible bit. The shoes. Of course, the obvious choice is the fuschia pink diamante strappy sandals. But the thought of tottering around the London Underground and various other methods of transport in 8 inch heels was quite horrifying. Aside from the fact I can’t walk in the damn things as all that connects your foot to the inner sole is 2 thin pieces of suede, the additional thought of being stood all day in said shoes was even more horrifying. The balls of my feet would be burning before lunch! And then I’d have to take them off and stagger around barefoot like one of those drunken slappers after a night on the half price Bacardi Breezers outside some god-awful Plymouth nightclub called Ritzys.

I could wear the Birkenstocks and take the sandals. But that would mean extra baggage. They won’t fit into the matching fuschia Lulu Guinness clutch. And the only other bag to hand is a Tesco’s Bag For Life. Hardly appropriate. Even if it matched. Plus I’d look like something recently released into the community. However, somewhere in the bottom of the wardrobe, I know there are a pair of low heeled pink sandals that might just solve the problem. Fortunately they match. And sadly I choose to wear them over the gorgeous mules.

I’ve vivid memories of venturing to Mr Stringfellow’s nightly emporium many years ago (before it was a strip club!) wearing very little but some carefully arranged bits of string and the highest heels despite the fact it was usually the middle of winter. No jacket required! And now, well I have to consider the venue – will I be on my feet for any length of time, will I have to spend time outside whilst in transit and therefore what would be appropriate weather attire. And more importantly, how will I get home? Last train? Taxi? Can I afford a taxi? Years ago, getting home was just a mere possibility. In an ideal world, I’d be rather hoping I didn’t. All that mattered was I was going out and I was going to have fun. Hell, I could always get a night bus. Or hitch-hike.

So in end, I opted for the comfy sandals and put the hardly-worn strappy mules back in their box and headed off to Ascot. Mindful not to forget a cardigan, a train timetable, some cash for a taxi, glasses, phone, a packet of Rennie, a small bottle of water (in case of dehydration should the train breakdown) and an umbrella. Just in case.

About time Tesco started making colour co-ordinated Bags for Life!

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