It was a beautiful, rainy grey morning in the middle of June when she decided it would be an awfully good plan to do as she did in the depths of Winter, and eat breakfast by candlelight.
So she flitted around the living room lighting far too many little candles and a hundred little tealights, popped a delighted babba into his highchair and wandered into the kitchen in an "all’s right with the world" kind of fashion…
Breakfast was going to be an elaborate affair for your average Thursday morning, but what the hell hey? If you can’t celebrate nature watering your garden for you, what the heck can you celebrate? So she juiced strawberries and scrambled eggs, toasted bagels and peeled the most perfect blush pink apple before going to town on creating a scrumptiously pretty breakfast tray fit for the Queen she was…
"Mummy" said her little angel, "Isn’t the fire pretty?"
And the Mummy smiled and gave herself a small pat on the back, because the fireplace was abundant with hydrangeas from the garden, sweet little lavender candles and an oh so pretty postcard she had found at the car boot sale the week before.
"Yes Darling, it is beautiful" she said.
"So pretty and orange" said her little cherub.
What a clever little boy I have, she thought as she filled the sink with a pool full of violet and basil scented water. And then she stopped dead in her tracks. So pretty and orange?? This house was pink and green and red, but there wasn’t a square inch of orange anywhere other than in the toybox she kept well out of sight of her delicate senses. Orange? Fire?
She ran into the living room and there sat her little boy munching on a slice of banana, utterly transfixed by the glorious fire ablaze on the mantlepiece above his head.
The Mummy nearly fainted. This called for a sexy fireman and quite frankly there wasn’t one to be seen for miles around.
She ran back into the kitchen and threw her bestest vintage tea-towel into the violet and basil water, then ran back to the fire and threw it over the little pink tealight that was the cause of all the trouble. The fire blazed. Her vintage tea towel steamed. The gorgeous postcard burst into flames and her little boy laughed to see such fun on an otherwise dull morning.
Out she dragged a gorgeous cotton tray cloth, drowned it, and ran back to chuck it over the fire before it set her little boys curls alight, and when it turned black and the room was no longer aglow, she collapsed into a heap on the floor and thought about never getting up again.
But as if Mummys would ever have the luxury of lying comatose on a Laura Ashley rug to recover from such a fright! The little boy had to be dragged to nursery or it would be clear to the Yummy Mummys of Ormskirk that she wasn’t coping at all with the sheer hassle of having been abandoned…
So she shoved him into a pair of shorts quite unsuitable for puddles of muddy rain, packed his bag with goodness knows what, force fed him another piece of morello cherry jammy toast, shoved her feet into a pair of black Birkenstocks and dragged herself and her astonished little boy out of the door…
"Mummy" said he, "Are you wearing your princess dress to school today? ."
The Mummy looked down and there she was. In all her broderie anglaise pink nightie glory. In the street.
A princess if ever there was one.