Rebecca Fletcher aka Margot tries the Good Life, retells the reality of her school gate fashion faux pas and we’ve all been there!
Spring is finally here. I can’t quite believe it! It seems like we have spent the last few months riddled with germs and huddling by the warmth of the Everhot in the kitchen. A bit of sunshine and I feel a spring in my step…no pun intended. Except for one teensy problem. It seems that I am more suited to hibernation than spring. You’d think, dear Reader, that I’d be a bit more prepared for spring, considering how long it has been in making a show of itself. Whilst everyone else is busy getting their summer groove on, I am still trying to cope with the fact that the bags under my eyes have not adjusted to British Summer Time. Faced with the terrifying thought that very soon I shall no longer be able to smother myself in chunky knits, I have realised that also means that my toes will have to see the light of day and arms and legs will be stripped of woolly material. Dear Reader, I don’t mind admitting that I am wholly unprepared for baring even the smallest amount of flesh.
Unhelpfully, the school gate fashion brigade is already in full swing with crisp white shirts, fur gilets, the skinniest, miniest jeans and platform shoe boots – a minefield, if like me, you’re more the slummy mummy type, likely to arrive at drop off time with Russell Brand hair, having dried the sleeves of your daughter’s school jumper on the air vents of the car dashboard because of an unfortunate incident with a smoothie and younger sister. I am clearly not designed for early mornings with my full face on and dressed from head to toe in my latest haul from Net-a-Porter. Oh goodness no! I am the mother that turns up in the muddiest car, with odd socks, filthy wellies, paw prints on my thighs, scarf over my head and sunglasses on (would it be too awful to admit to needing the sunglasses to hide the school night gin hangover?!). That’s halfway to a look that the Queen might pull off on the Balmoral estate, minus the hangover of course. Pity one can’t get away with it at 34 years old, pulling up outside the gates of a North Hampshire prep school. Where are the boho kaftans I say?!
It is only when my mother expresses her displeasure at my ‘scruffwear’ as she calls it that I realise that I might be in need of a spring makeover. That and Jerry telling me that a woman in her thirties really ought to stop dressing like a teenager. He does have a point. Not sure that I can get away with baggy tunics (black), faded jeans (black – can you see a pattern emerging, dear Reader?) and muddy trainers forever. However it is my delightful 6 year old Primrose who deals the final blow on my slummy mummydom. “Why can’t you dress like all the other mummies….?”, I hear one morning as I have hurriedly thrown on a pair of jeans which have probably seen better days. “Who would you like me to dress like today?” I ask tentatively. There are any number of journos, actresses, successful businesswomen and a footballer’s wife to boot at the school gates. She shows me a picture she’s drawn. “Well Mummy,” she says, “all mummies should dress like this.” I smile and nod. Haven’t the heart to tell her that Cinderella’s small whalebone corset might induce a fair few wardrobe malfunctions when negotiating two small children into car seats, lugging school bags back and forth, walking the dog and writing at the kitchen table….. Think I may need more than a spring makeover to make that one work, dear Reader. Perhaps Primrose could make do with ordinary Mummy with a new pair of jeans and brushed hair instead?!
However help is at hand with the aid of Claire Praom, Personal Stylist based in Marlborough. Claire enjoys helping women and men look at colours and clothes in a different way and is on a mission to make parents comfortable and happy with themselves without the need for surgery. Tel: 07884 435 455 or visit to find out more how she can help revitalise you. www.lovetostyle.com
Also find out more from Margot and her country capers at www.margottriesthegoodlife.com