Poor Poppy. After all that wrenching and wailing, it now seems her elbow was broken after all (well, it certainly was after all that wrenching and wailing). When the pain persisted, we took her back to A&E where a tiny fracture was diagnosed. Everything about Poppy is tiny, so why should her injuries be any different? So now she’s sporting a rather fetching (tiny) red cast – she chose red to match her shiny (tiny) red shoes. And so proud is she of her colour co-ordination, she only wants to wear the cast and the shoes. Which is a tad impractical in November.
And as Daisy then went through Poppy’s drawers pointing out all the red clothes that she has to wear for the next three weeks, I realised that they have come down with a severe case of Fashion Faux-pas Fever. You see, I’m a matchmaker of Monica-esque proportions. I match my socks with my bra. I match my bra with my pants. I match my scarf with my gloves. It would be inconceivable for me to wear a blue bra under a red top. I actually wouldn’t be able to leave the bedroom. I’m no clothes champion I hasten to add. The words Alana, trendy and is have probably never been said together in a sentence. I’m more grounded than heeled. But, I can only wear brown boots with a brown coat, or black boots with black jeans. Black and brown shall never meet on me. I know it’s an illness. In the midst of a medley of things that matter, what they eat, how we’ll school them, recession cut-backs, and the multitude of decisions I make every day to keep us all alive and thriving, I allow myself this frivolous fashion foible, this trivial tasking of colour coding clothes, this – lets face it – shallow luxury. I may look 108, haven’t slept properly in years, have 2 inch roots, but damn it, my bra matches my socks.
It’s genetic of course. Just like her arthritis and bad eyesight, I’ve inherited my mother’s “don’t miss-match” mania. And so it seems I’ve passed it on to my girls. Even a broken arm can’t break the colour code. Bless them. Secretly though I was delighted Poppy chose the red cast. It goes with her red shoes, and red coat. How on earth could we have left the house with a colour-clashing cast??
I know, I know, I need to get out more. …. But only if my shoes and coat match.
And as Daisy then went through Poppy’s drawers pointing out all the red clothes that she has to wear for the next three weeks, I realised that they have come down with a severe case of Fashion Faux-pas Fever. You see, I’m a matchmaker of Monica-esque proportions. I match my socks with my bra. I match my bra with my pants. I match my scarf with my gloves. It would be inconceivable for me to wear a blue bra under a red top. I actually wouldn’t be able to leave the bedroom. I’m no clothes champion I hasten to add. The words Alana, trendy and is have probably never been said together in a sentence. I’m more grounded than heeled. But, I can only wear brown boots with a brown coat, or black boots with black jeans. Black and brown shall never meet on me. I know it’s an illness. In the midst of a medley of things that matter, what they eat, how we’ll school them, recession cut-backs, and the multitude of decisions I make every day to keep us all alive and thriving, I allow myself this frivolous fashion foible, this trivial tasking of colour coding clothes, this – lets face it – shallow luxury. I may look 108, haven’t slept properly in years, have 2 inch roots, but damn it, my bra matches my socks.
It’s genetic of course. Just like her arthritis and bad eyesight, I’ve inherited my mother’s “don’t miss-match” mania. And so it seems I’ve passed it on to my girls. Even a broken arm can’t break the colour code. Bless them. Secretly though I was delighted Poppy chose the red cast. It goes with her red shoes, and red coat. How on earth could we have left the house with a colour-clashing cast??
I know, I know, I need to get out more. …. But only if my shoes and coat match.
Ah bless her she's certainly wearing it well.
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