Today was market day. Not in the old fashioned sense, but in the new fashioned sense. Market day, here, is a parade of well dressed men, women, grannies, granddads, tourists, babies, preggos and even dogs. Overlord, Wednesday, Bug and I ventured out to the market because Overload had a craving for the spit roast pork that one stall sells in a little take-out bucket with fried onions, stuffing, potatoes and crackling and it does smell mighty good. So off we went. Getting down there, we passed the teenagers who dress like they long to be naked but don’t want to show an inch of skin,. I will have a rant some day about leggings. So, yes, teenagers with lycra, moms in tracksuits and dads with scruffy faces and kids with McDonalds’ faces and knotty hair.
We got to the park. All well and good because Bug invariably falls asleep in the moments before we pass through the gate and then WHAMMO- instant, universal makeover. I swear to god I saw that couple lounging around in the pub in track pants two seconds ago. I know that baby was in a off-white snowsuit and now it’s a pristine pink one. That woman did NOT walk from the train station in stilettos. etc etc etc.
Apparently there is some sort of member’s only subscription to the gate keeper. Pay 100 bucks a week and as you walk through those old, tarnished, yet persistently sky blue gates, you will metamorphose into the likes that could put Heidi Klum and the Klum family to shame. Overlord, walking in his Oakleys and Cantos was nonplussed. I, however, was squirming as Wednesday was in hot pink trackpants, a slightly too short on the arms puffer jacket and wellies. Good God only a moderate amount of mortification would have sufficed. Bug was dressed quite well, in contrast, but was bundled up in the cocoon in the stroller and so her titian hair was the only thing on view for admiration.
I, really not bothered and predominantly lacking any kind of wardrobe was wearing Overlord’s jeans, Overlord’s intentionally outsized white hoodie and the only pair of shoes I own that do not have a wicked heel on them. Add to that, elbow length, fly away, fading dye hair and minimal make-up and I would not have liked to have seen me from another person’s POV. Heck no.
In addition, I’d love to know where these people have the money to buy all these clothes. I thought we were in the biggest job drought to hit Ireland since the famine and yet every second teenage girl has an “I Heart PB” bag and most moms look as though they’ve just walked off Gok Wan, while the children must each have Next’s wardrobe at their disposal. Weep.
Wednesday and Bug have a tonne of clothes, mainly because they have two fairy godmommas in the Financier and the Confectioner who spoil them ROTTEN. All I’m asking is to win the lotto, just a little Lotto, the Monday Millos or something eency weency like that, to smarten up my wardrobe. That or I am going to rack up some cash, buy four pairs of Levis or Wrangler’s, quite a few cowboy, lumberjack and black shirts and long sleeve bits and live like a mountain woman for the rest of my life.
Someday It’ll be sorted. But for now.. I’m going to change into Overlord’s purple lazy boy pants. Because I am at home and not on bloody parade.