Only one bandwagon at a time...

I am not one for fads. Unless you count the whole ‘House of Colour’ thing which, for a crazed month last year, had me throwing out anything olive in favour of blue, blue blue. Or the time I bought spirulina, macha powder, and a whole host of other powders to make a morning smoothie that would energize and cleanse me, only to discover that they are all vile and leave green marks on your teeth. Actually the macha powder was okay, mixed into museli, but I digress. The point is… Um… yes. Fads. I am not one to jump on every bandwagon going. Just every other one.

But one ‘fad’ has caught my attention, and I’d probably try to argue that it isn’t a fad at all, but I always say that, and it’s wearing a bit thin. The fad is sugar avoidance. And I say this as a former sugar junkie.

To say I love sugar is understatement. I have sugar in m tea and my coffee. I have always, always, considered pudding to be the main point of every meal. I like to have one of those huge 800g bars of Fruit and nut in the fridge, and will happily eat an entire row in the space of about twenty seconds. 

But no more. Because I realized that I was getting sugar obsessed. And it didn’t feel good. The more sugar you eat, the more you crave. I wasn’t sleeping well. I had a whole load of small but irritating things wrong with me; my doctor suspected candida.

So I started reducing my intake. On the advice of Kathleen DesMaisons (www.radiantrecovery.com), I upped my protein quota first, making sure that I had protein with every meal. Then, bit by bit, I reduced my sugar. Not carbs, mind; I don’t want to strip all the joy out of life. And I didn't follow her rules about writing things down, or eating a potato before bed. Actually I didn't do anything she said apart from making sure I have more protein. And  bit less sugar. I still have museli for breakfast; I just have a low sugar one, and an egg as well.  I’ll have a glass of red wine, but I won’t drink half a bottle (not every time, anyway). I don’t eat chocolate, but I eat plenty of fruit. I’ve cut out biscuits and cakes, but I’ll have a piece of wholemeal toast smeared with peanut butter if I need a pick me up mid afternoon.

But do you know what? I don’t, usually. Need a pick me up, I mean. I don’t get that mid-afternoon dip anymore, and I’m sleeping like a log at night, too. My skin is better, my digestion is better, and my stomach is flattening.

I’m even less crabby at the weekend when woken up by my 3 year old jumping on top of me at 6.30am. It may be a fad, but I think this one is going to be a keeper.

Until the next one comes along of course…

And we wonder why we drink?

Let me, for a minute, bore you with a day, chosen at random from the past two weeks: Leave house at 7.15am with daughter’s urine sample to drop off at GP's surgery on the way to work – suspected urinary tract infection. Get to work, meetings, reports, call doctor to check on sample, discover has been left with nurse, call back and speak to doctor, reminding her of daughter’s history and urging her to check it and send to hospital, back into meetings, ask surgery to call me on mobile with any updates. Get home, shove piece of bread in toaster and smear peanut butter on it as have ten minutes before having to leave again to attend parent evening at school. With three year old clinging to leg crying ‘Mummy, I want YOU to put me to bed,’ see blinking message on answerphone. Daughter does indeed have UTI; prescription is waiting at surgery. Peel three year old off me, quickly kiss five year old and seven year old, cram toast into mouth whilst grabbing car key and race to surgery, then chemist, to pick up antibiotics. Drive furiously to school and get there just in time. Back at 9pm, shattered, no time to cook anything… Open a bottle of wine instead. Pour a glass. Drink it. Exhale…

I know there are other props. Mindfulness, a hot bath, popping some fresh kale and spirulina into the blender for a delightful smoothie (tried that once. Not so delightful).

But none of them hits the spot like a glass of red. None of them says ‘Okay, it’s your time now. Kick back. Enjoy me. You’re done for the day. Everyone’s alive, the house hasn’t burnt down, and no one has seen through you yet…’

And none of them taste anywhere near as good with stilton, either…

Post-shopping guilt...

I am not a shopaholic. Well, not a really bad one. I mean, okay, so my author sister did write a whole series of books loosely (LOOSELY) based on my ability to find shopping opportunities wherever I happened to be (yes, people, I was a financial journalist who dreaded her credit card bills every month). But I’m not really that bad. I mean, I have never remortgaged the house to pay off my shoe debt, or abandoned one of my children so that I could buy some designer jeans. But I do, if I’m being completely honest, have ‘wish lists’ on a dozen shopping sites, which do, from time to time, move directly to my online shopping basket before I can say ‘mastercard’. Talking of which, I am the only person I know who knows the number (and expiry date) of their credit card off by heart. And I did buy several bodycon dresses whilst pregnant with my third (without trying them on, naturally), because they seemed like a great deal and I was convinced (blame the hormones) that they’d look JUST GREAT once the baby was born (I had evidently blocked out all memory of bra pads, baby sick and, you know, the fact that I would just have had a baby so it would be frickin YEARS before I even considered anything approaching bodycon again…)

The point is, whilst I loathe shopping centres and am like a man (ie grumpy and impatient) when traipsing round shops looking for something that I need, I love nothing more than to swoop like a bird on something that I want. And I also have a commendable ability to justify such purchases afterwards; even to congratulate myself on doing so well, as though no money had parted hands whatsoever.

Which brings me to these:

 

Which I have just bought.

Now, they’re nice. Well I think they’re very nice. Low heel, so very practical. Hanging out with the children comfortable. Perfect for work. Even better for tripping around Florence, say. Which is TOTALLY going to happen. With three children. Frankly I don’t know how I’ve survived without them.

Except they’re also pale patent leather so not really very practical at all.

But come on, they’re very cute. And the strap is just sexy enough to give an otherwise drab outfit an edge. Plus they’re called ‘Gemma’, so how could I not?

I’ll tell you how. By not buying them, By recognizing that I have a cupboard full of shoes, and that mostly I wear trainers not beautiful Miu Miu shoes that look like they should travel in a cab at all times.

But then I tell myself I deserve them. I work hard, I devote myself to my children. I deserve a pretty pair of shoes, right? Of course I do. (And they were in the sale. Half price! Total steal!)

Just like I deserved this: 

And these:

And this jacket (currently in my wish list; let’s see how long I’ll hold out)

 

See the psychology of shopping is hard to unpick. Am I emancipated (spending my own money, making my own choices, 'because I'm worth it'), or subjugated (spending my hard-earned money chasing lifestyle dreams sold to me by glossy magazines which are funded by advertising from these shoe’s very designers?

Have I, a supposedly intelligent woman, bought into the ridiculous notion that pretty shoes will make the winter nights seem less cold and dark?

Except is it so ridiculous? I mean, nice shoes DO make life better. And not just when they’re mine. I love seeing people on the street who’ve made an effort, who are wearing something beautiful. The world can be drab and grey; sometimes we need pretty things to pick us up. Particularly when those pretty things are a result of craftsmanship, of stunning design, of care and attention.

And if they’re wish fulfillment, then what’s the harm in that? I sometimes take out my ‘occasion’ shoes and try them on, prancing about the bedroom like I used to when I was six, trying on our au pair’s dresses and heels, imagining that I was all grown up and had somewhere exciting to go.

Because it’s all about anticipation isn’t it? The getting ready for the party; the build up to Christmas; the preparation for a first date. That’s always been where the magic is.

So am I going to wear these shoes? I hope so. I mean, I’m sure I will. Loads. But if I don’t, at least I’ll have enjoyed imagining myself wearing them. At least I’ll enjoy glancing at them every time I rummage for another pair of trainers.

And anyway, I WILL wear them; I’ll just have to find the right thing to wear them with. Like that jacket, for instance…