I have a confession to make: I have a problem with shoes. No, not that problem – actually the reverse. I admire shoes with 4 inch heels…as works of art not as practical footwear. You see I’m of the apparently quaint belief that shoes are there to be worn as footwear not as a means of inflicting crippling pain on myself because I’m a woman and therefore socially obliged to hate my body. So there shall be sensible footwear that’s actually stylish. Really what is so wrong with having shoes that actually have some tread?? Or to put it another way IT’S WINTER WHY THE HELL DO YOU THINK I WANT TO BE WEARING BALLET PUMPS?? WHAT DO YOU THINK I WALK ON AIR OR SOMETHING?? Or even have servants carrying me on a divan while I’m wrapped up in a duvet? (All in good time). Please can I have some shoes that mean that I don’t slip when navigating wet leaves on the pavement or icy footpaths – IS THAT REALLY SO MUCH TO ASK?? I just don’t think it likely that a Prince Charming will come to my rescue in the (highly probable) event that I do fall over and incapacitate myself. And even if he does happen to be passing he’s probably more likely to fall over himself laughing at me. Besides I’m not sure that hanging round A & E is a good way to get to know people. I could be wrong…(but trust me, I’m not)
A guest post by MrsB:
When I am in charge of the universe (and one day, I most definitely will be), do you know what I’m going to ban first? Of course, you don’t, so let me tell you. Fucking Yummy Mummies. As it is, they tend to refer to themselves just as “yummy mummies” without all the fucking and what not. The fact that I can bring myself to use such appalling language is testament to the fact that I am not a yummy mummy. My slightly off-centre dress sense, lack of make-up and hair-that-could-really-do-with-a-brush-running-through-it-at-some-point-this-century only serve to drive the point home. I haven’t read Fifty shades of Shite, I do not model myself on a Stepford Wife and I couldn’t give a flying fuck what the latest must-have fashion accessory is. I would rather impale myself on a sharp knitting needle than have a stranger waxing my areas and if I were to arse around having a manicure it would last a grand total of five minutes. Tops. My child always has the air of having lived about him (by which I mean he is a little grubby looking, rather than resembling a well-turned-out china doll), and you don’t even want to know what state my house is in. I am the very antithesis of yummy mummy-hood, and I’m not bitter about it at all. I just don’t see the need for them to be so fucking perfect and smug about it.
worlddominationhandbook 