I fell over a pigeon the other day. Flat on my face in the middle of town. Trust me to come across the only pigeon in England who doesn’t move out of the way when he sees a lolloping great Vintage Housekeeper scurrying towards him. I fell. He flapped his wings in a crazy fashion in my face and a passing teenage boy nearly choked laughing on his sausage roll.
I was all of a fluster. And in a fluster is a jolly good description of my state of mind ever since…
Mine is a funny old life. This week there has been an interview with The Daily Mail. A photo shoot in the house complete with afternoon tea, make up artists et al. A child so sick I was scared to go to sleep. Two dates with two men. The plan of my book which has kept me awake at night with worry. A new culinary obsession with smoky bacon. And no time at all to read which leaves me feeling like I’m floundering in a big black hole desperate to see the light…
Day after day I sit in the coffee shop with the yummy mummies regaling them with stories of one more adventure in the madness that is my life and I constantly feel as though I’m talking about someone else. Was it really me leaning over a table full of lemon cupcakes smiling for a lovely photographer and feeling for half a minute or two like a filmstar? Was it me who opened that email asking me if I wanted to be on Tv? Am I the Mommy caked in professionally applied make-up, up to her eyes in vomit covered sheets?
And if I am, why don’t I recognise her? Why does she feel like my fifth cousin twice removed?
I used to feel authentic. And now I’m not sure that I do.
I was destined to fall over pigeons you see.