Tag Archives: duvet

I’m Harry Styles’ Mother…

If you want to feel suddenly ancient, do what I did on Friday and go late-night shopping into town right before a One Direction tour date.

The plan was a good one. The Teenager was at a sleepover, the builder was in town and we were going to hit the shops, followed by a drink or two, perhaps a bite to eat. How cosmopolitan and smart I felt as we left the house. Hmm.

Lots of traffic on the way in, got parked, went to the lift. Hordes of tweenagers jumping up and down squealing at each other, comparing glittery eye-shadow and nail varnish.

Swarms of them flooding the shops and restaurants, clutching banners ‘I’m Mrs Styles’, ‘Marry ME Harry’, ‘One Direction – Over Here’. In an instant, I felt very, very old and very dowdy as I remembered Harry was only 19 (19!!) and was born in 1994, two years after I left high school. I was old enough to be his mother.

The builder wanted to buy a new duvet, and as we were standing feeling up different togs and feathers, working our way up and down the row, I felt even older. Duvet shopping. On a Friday night. Where did it all go wrong?

I bought some cards (ooh, they do a lovely selection in John Lewis), vitamins and a new wallet. Exciting. Prematurely old? We decided to cut our losses and head to the bars. We wandered around, checking each of them out. Too trendy, too dark, too small, too many doormen, too big, too loud, too scary. We were a walking, talking Dr Seuss poem.

I stopped outside one of them in horror. ‘Retro Bar – 90’s Music’. Since when were the 90’s retro? Dispirited, we sat outside a fake Spanish tapas bar, glumly sipping our wine (me) and gin and tonic (the builder), watching the skinny, mini-skirted women teetering past on high heels, hair sprayed into submission, faces glowing with anticipation. We muttered to each other, ‘she must be freeeezing’ and ‘why don’t they put a warm jacket on?’

We finished our drinks and went home. I put the cat out, popped my slippers on and settled down for a nice night in front of the telly, the lyrics of ‘Those Were the Days My Friend’ running sadly through my mind. I think it’s time to shake things up a little…

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For Sale: One Cat

Our recent snowpocalypse has meant I have been forced to endure my cat’s company for far longer than is natural. For the last four days, I have only ventured out the house to buy food, have a quick coffee with friends and check in on my mum, trekking through the snow and back with my solitary ski pole.

The rest of the time, I have stayed at home. Or the cat’s home, as she would have you believe. She’s been skulking around, eyeing me suspiciously and virtually handing me my keys and pointing to the front door.

Yesterday was the final straw. I ran out of Felix cat food and bought in own-brand from Sainsbury’s. She is now on hunger strike, roaming the living room in protest, getting under my feet – not a great idea with foot drop. She randomly pounces on her toy mouse, just when I’ve got a hot drink in my hand. She leaps for the windowsill and falls off. She skids across the floor.

I have a lovely duvet tucked behind my sofa, which I bring out to snuggle under when I’m watching telly, waiting for the heating to kick in. The cat paces the room and as soon as I get up, she’s there, sprawled out, smug grin on her face before she proceeds to wash her bits loudly.

I took pity on her yesterday (why?). I was in one of those bargain stores and found a little cat bed for a fiver. I’ve recently bought a small stove for the living room and thought, how sweet, wouldn’t it be nice to see her in front of the fire, like a normal cat? So I bought it, took it home, wrapped her special blanket round it and popped it in front of the fire. Perfect.

She hasn’t been near it. As I write this at my desk, she is on my duvet, on my sofa, executing an intricate yoga move, trying to clean her neck. Don’t get me wrong, I love her to pieces, but I think we have spent too much time together. I am in danger of turning into a ranting, solitary loony who can only talk about her cat.

Tomorrow, it will be different. I am re-engaging in normal life again. I may just buy her some Felix. If she gets off my duvet….

(This is not the first time I’ve complained about my cat (tragically). You can read more about her here, in my previous post, I Used To Like My Cat)

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