Real life | 21 February 2019

‘Is it for your daughter?’ said the sales assistant as I pointed to an expensive skincare product.

She had glided over to me looking concerned as I stood in the pristine shop dressed in muddy boots and quilted coat, a woolly pompom hat on my head and not a scrap of make-up on my face as usual.

I dare say I smelt of horses and dogs, prompting her to glide more swiftly towards me than she might have done had I been odour neutral, or giving off a nice whiff of Chanel like the yummy mummies floating about the place.

I’m not a yummy mummy. I’m not even a slummy mummy. I must be described as childless, although I have slightly adopted the little lodger in that I have taken her under my wing.

I looked at the sales assistant and saw that her face was a picture. She had spoken more in sorrow than in anger at my dishevelled state, I think.