Thursday, 7 February 2013

Taking Slummy Mummy to a new low

I actually mistyped the title of this post the first time around, but on consideration think I should have left it as it was: Slumpy Mummy. Oh yes, that's me.

I have never been one for fine tuning my appearance. If I manage to remember all my clothes I chalk it up as an achievement. Motherhood is not to blame for this as I have been this way for time immemorial, but it certainly hasn't helped. It turns out that having to get the child and myself ready to go out, while helpful husband is sitting in the car with the engine on, is beyond my meagre organisational capabilities.

Yesterday was a prime example. I'd actually done quite well. There were nappies, water, coat and a hat for the child. Money in my wallet. Dogs let out and their pretensions to joining us on our trip nicely squashed. I'd not been able to locate any shoes that fitted the child but wellies were a great last minute find.

I settled into the car to only mild irritated tutting from the husband (who had no legs to stand on since he installed the child in the car without noticing he had no shoes on). We roared off to our wonderful holiday day trip out (otherwise known as the only play barn in the area).

It was only when we were half way there that I looked down and realised I was wearing the manigan. In a panic, I scanned the car to find a suitable alternative, the play barn being frigidly cold at all times, but there was nothing beyond a scarf. This would come in handy but couldn't by any stretch of the imagination replace the manigan for warmth.

For those of you who don't know, a manigan is a cardigan for men. Stylish, hip and trendy at times, but our manigan is a breed in its own league. The manigan to beat all manigans.

I wear it because it is warm and our stove-heated flat is cold in these winter mornings. What my husband's excuse is I don't know, but the garment has achieved cult status in our house. It's awful. It's grey, bobbly and shapeless. It has nasty big plastic buttons on it. It never gets washed often enough. I frequently button it up wrong and fail to notice. We spot manigans when we are out near clothes shops, but none have so far replaced the dreadfulness that is our family manigan.

And if you're wondering why I didn't provide a photo of me in said manigan I will just say this. My standards might be low, but not that low. As for the play barn, at least it was quiet and I could brazen it out without hip trendy mothers (who have nowhere else round here to take their precious ones on a wet Wednesday in February) shrinking from me in horror.

On the plus side, realising I was wearing the manigan took away any feelings of worry about the fact that I had yet again failed to brush my hair.

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