Operation Badger: An increasingly necessary and increasingly frequent pain-in-the-backside task, a.k.a the three to four-weekly dyeing of the grey roots into oblivion.
The name was coined from an observation made by offspring not yet blessed with tact or diplomacy, "Mummy your hair is black and white. You look like a badger!" Skunk would have been marginally worse so the badger comparison was grudgingly accepted. I do have to point out that my hair was never intentionally black; I am not aspiring to be the oldest Goth in town. It was in fact ‘Medium Chestnut Brown’… disturbed by a phonecall. The result not only being a slimy hair-dye slathered Blackberry and a frustrating conversation about pensions with someone in Bangalore but for the last month I have had unfeasibly dark hair for a woman of my age. Fortunately the outbreak of badgeriness is chemically beaten into submission for the time being, giving me ample time to deal with my…
Porcupine legs: One of the only guaranteed deterrents against wriggling bed-sharing offspring. Also stage four leg hirsutism.
‘OK. Get in. And lie STILL.’
Wriggle, snuffle, roly-poly, squiggle, stretch ... “OWWW, Mummy you spiked me with your porcupine legs.” Offspring whimpers and retreats to far reaches of bed. Ah yes, an unforeseen benefit of not having the time, will or energy to shave one’s legs. The measurement scale of unshaven lady-legs was started by my (ex) husband, commencing with ‘toast legs’, which are merely as unpleasant and scratchy as toast crumbs in bed. Graduating through ‘coarse grade’ (as in sandpaper), to ‘cactus’, when the scale finally reaches the worst offender in the prickly stakes – the porcupine. A quick run of the hand up the leg confirms latest incompetent removal technique, my legs feel like a hedgehog with alopecia – a new entry to the scale! However, I’m working on the general premise that no one is going to see, so really, why bother? This premise also relates to the following.
Matching underwear: stuff of myth and legend … and of life before children
The cacophony of clashing underwear that I’m guilty of – and suspect lurks beneath the outer layers of most of the adult representatives in the playground every morning – bears testimony to the fact that matching underwear is now consigned to history and very special occasions. Underwear now just has to be to hand, hopefully clean and actually belong to me (the injuries sustained by trying to squeeze into a pair of Hannah Montana age 9-10 pants are eye-watering to recall). The potential requirement for matching underwear for those of us dipping into dating again is in itself a good reason not to. Contemplating setting up my own dating website ... Doesn’tmatch.com. It could be a mismatch in heaven for harassed women and colour blind men.
But fear not ye merry gentlemen, the annual beautifying season will soon be here, when we do tend to make the effort to fake it. No badgers or porcupines on the festive parade, and the matching underwear that you bought us last Christmas finally sees the light of day. It does though usually also see the Prosecco ... but we will look lovely as we pass out.