V.I.P.

I was RECOGNISED IN THE STREET as "the woman that writes that blog" today. Actually she might have said "the woman that writes that bloody blog". I can't remember the details. Either way, this should have been a thrilling, delightful, magical cocktail of all things precious and shiny if, when I was spotted, I hadn't looked like this -

A pasty faced, make up-less germfest.

The previous night pouring rain had woken me three times. Me waking just once in the night is UNHEARD OF. Usually my head hits the pillow and I fall into a coma which cannot be stirred by earthquakes, monsoons or tsunamis. Alright, alright, we don't get many of those in North West England, but we do experience the distressed wails of The Poop, whose night time moans, I am assured, produce comparable Seismic after effects, yet she never troubles my snooze. So for me to wake three times in one night? Something was definitely afoot. Unsurprisingly I woke this morning with a streaming nose, sticky eyes and a throat the diameter of a garden pea (no, not a marrowfat one - they're broader). Winner.

To make my debut in the 'Spotted' or 'Wicked Whispers' column of a tabloid rag on just such a morning was not the coming-of-age I had envisaged.

Shuffling out to pick up some formula for Boo from the local shop seems harmless enough. It is most certainly not an outing which requires make up, a fancy hairdo or trousers. Oh? Just me that last part? That explains the looks.
Anyway, as I'm edging down the pavement I note a distant "hiya" which, in my usual stand-offish, ignorant mode, would be blanked. So it was. Then the "hiya" rang out again, followed by mutterings which definitely included the word "blog". I spun on my heels and pulled something in my neck, in my haste to greet my first ever fan.


I was hoping a smile and a nod would suffice, particularly when, while smiling and nodding, I became acutely aware of my dishevelled demeanour. I went back to walking away down the street. I heard the woman call something else out and her shoes come scuttling up the pavement behind me. Turns out it is incredibly difficult to be downright rude to people when you want something off them (i.e. for this woman to keep reading my blog). So I had to chat. About the blog, about Betty and about being a legend in my own lunchtime. Though her expression suggested my legendaryness was not so much a three course slap up at a snazzy restaurant, but more akin to eating a pie in the back of a van. Can't please everyone.

I was keen to make early reference to the pitiful state of my germ ridden mush, so I shoehorned in a comment about how this rubbish June weather plays havoc with my immune system. She said she thought I looked rough on the telly anyway. She then called me a "woman's woman" as if this should make me feel better. I offered to autograph her Daily Mirror. She told me I should get my hair cut. Hard faced cow.

It took me three quarters of an hour to make the five minute journey home as I hid behind every car, bush and lamp post (which is no mean feat with a pram) in the vein hope of not being clocked again - at least until I had a face full of slap.
I bet Anne Diamond doesn't have to put up with this rubbish.