The Shoe Princess's Guide to the Galaxy (9 page)

       
Hell, I even helped to create the Richards of this world.

       
The war is far from bloody over. (I have a sudden urge to burn any feminist book I own not penned by a mother.)

       
Then again, maybe Alison is the modern-day Emmeline? And I am a spineless copout, dithering about even getting back to first base. And not sure I particularly want to anyway. I can’t believe I am thinking this.

       
Mmm ... this is big. And more than a little unsettling.

It’s now 8 p.m. and Millie is tired, hungry and irritable. That makes two of us – my head hurts and my throat is sore. Though I’m sure the fact that I’ve been up since 4.30 a.m. and had nothing more than a glass of champagne and three morsels of sushi since lunchtime isn’t helping either.

       
Unnoticed by the team, Millie and I slip out. It takes us a good ten minutes to hack a path through the jungle of revellers packed cheek to jowl, and filling the whole restaurant and bar.

       
After I’ve collected all our bits from the front desk, the concierge walks outside with me to hail a black cab. We’re immediately faced with a large number of men in dark anoraks, milling around like an army of ants. Some talking on mobiles. Others huddled in small groups. Quite a few of them are playing cards on the pavement. There are even more across the road.

       
It’s a little intimidating.

       
The concierge picks up on my anxiety.

       
‘Paparazzi,’ he says glibly, and shoos a few of them from the main entrance area.

       
Of course. Duh! I now notice the massive cameras hanging from their necks.

       
I’ve never seen anything like this before.

       
Must be one
major
celeb for this amount of attention. My mind’s ticking overtime with thoughts of who we might run into – Robbie? Elton? Or maybe Sting and Trudy checking into the hotel to practise some tantric sex?

       
Ooooh, this is SO exciting. I can’t wait to tell Fi!

       
I ask the concierge if he knows who they’re here to snap.

       
His eyes widen and he grins broadly.

       
‘The Cat!’

       
Make my day.

After a long bubble bath and much soul-searching I go to my shoe cupboard and do the blindingly obvious. I pack all my smart, high-heeled work shoes away at the back: ‘Goodbye my little friends ... Parting is such sweet sorrow ... but remember this is just for now, and definitely not for ever  ...’

From:        Jane (home)

To:                Fi (work)

Subject:        RE: The Cube – What happened to you?

Fi, Wrong time, wrong place for mum with babe in arms! Speaking of which, you’re not going to believe what I found in Millie’s sling (remember the ‘babybag with straps’?): half-eaten sushi; a rolled-up £20 note; and scrunched-up dirty napkins. Did I look like a walking bloody dustbin to you?!

       
Have a FAB Xmas/New Year break and phone me early Jan with all the Marco goss.

       
Much Love

       
Jane

       
xx

PS. Glad Marco made it to The Cube. And fancy having framed artworks attached to the ceilings directly above the beds ... only at The Cube! Take Care, J xx

I’m too spineless to tell her that I’ve just resigned from work.        

My first Christmas as a fully-fledged, unemployed 1950s housewife is aptly spent in domestic purgatory – ping-ponging between my mad extended family in Oxfordshire and Tim’s barmy clan in Somerset. Millie’s so overtired and out of routine we’re pretty much back to the bad old days of demand-feeding – sob. And then, there are my gifts:

Tim

(Everything was labelled ‘To Mum’ – has he forgotten my name?)

•BMA guide to children’s health

•Fire-blanket and fire-extinguisher for kitchen

•Carbon-monoxide alarm

•First-aid kit (size of Red Cross field camp)

•Starter home-safety kit of door and drawer latches

(Too much time talking to bloody Harry at Fi’s dinner party, it seems.)

Tim’s Parents

•Good-housekeeping guide and dinner-party planner

•Set of hot rollers

(Retro-chic gone mad!)

Mum and Dad

•Pinny (
circa
1953)

•Iron

(Why not throw in a repeat prescription for Prozac for good measure?)

Kate

•Twelve-month subscription to
Practical Parenting

(Marginal improvement on last year’s PETA gift-aid certificate, in lieu of present. At least I can use it.)

WHAT have I done?

       
I need a Shoe Princess fix.

New Year’s Eve shows all the promise of making up for our completely ordinary festive season, thanks to an invitation to a glittering black-tie ball – hosted by a large client of Tim’s company. That is, until Millie breaks out in a frightful fever an hour before Kate’s due over for babysitting.

       
We promptly cancel Kate (who’s grateful for the chance to stay at home and quietly meditate the old year out and the new year in) but decide that Tim should still go to the ball. As his boss made it abundantly clear that all of the team should put in an appearance tonight.

       
Too anxious to sleep, I spend the entire night making copious checks of Millie’s temperature and breathing; and looking for any signs of rashes. Filling in the rest of my time on the computer and
finally
mastering the art of blogging, thanks to the wonderful (and patient) help of some fellow Shoe Princess tragics also online. (I wonder if Alison has web friends to help her through her day as well? Nah. Not enough time.)

       
Just before dawn, Tim stumbles home and finds me asleep at the desk.

       
Not altogether the best start to the new year. But then again, things can only get better!

www.ShoePrincess.com
 
A huge thank you for the many stories, especially those from the designer shoe sales – surely the most exhilarating way for a SP to spend her day. Where else could one find office girls clad in jeans and armed with steely determination, side-by-side Gucci handbag-toting, 6-foot-tall Russian mannequins, in full-length (emerald-green!) fur coats? Fabulous!
 
No doubt everyone’s heard of the unsightly commotion at the Manolo Blahnik sale in London – I hope none of my SPs were involved? Although, I will concede that anyone standing on a pavement for 3 hours in Siberian winds has the right to be peeved by ‘insiders’ taking photos of shoes on their mobile phones for people in the queue behind you – and then buying them on their behalf, so that nothing is left when you finally get into the store. Clearly a breach of SP shoe-sale etiquette.
 
A gem of a Shoe Sale story from SP of Manhattan:
 
The Scene: 11 a.m. Saturday morning. Peak hour at the Saks Fifth Avenue shoe sale.
 
Two girlfriends are sitting next to each other, trying on several pairs of shoes. Chatting loudly, Girlfriend 1 leans over to Girlfriend 2 and says, ‘He stood in the lobby, took ONE look at my new shoes and said accusingly, “I’m not even going to ASK how much they cost!” And I said, “Good! Because neither did I!”’
 
Cue both girls howling with laughter.
 
Sound familiar?

9. Tripping

It seemed like a good idea at the time, giving up corporate life to discover my inner domestic goddess. But to my workmates it was nothing short of absurd. After all, maternal instincts were not something I was particularly known for.

       
Within a minute of my official resignation letter landing on the desk of ‘Patricia the Plague’ (head of human resources and so named for the speed at which she can spread anything from memos to STDs) the news of its contents ping-ponged from email to email throughout the entire eight floors of Asquith & Brown. Fi predictably phoned me, demanding the necessary counter-intelligence to keep the gossips at bay. But alas, I could not give her what she wanted. My stellar career at Asquith & Brown had come to an ignominious end.

       
After I’d detailed my childcare and bottle-feeding fiascos, along with chronic sleep deprivation and the fact that Millie had inconsiderately come into this world without a battery pack and self-help manual, I finally managed to bring Fi round to the fact that she’d be doing solo lunchtime dashes to Russell & Bromley. Well, at least to a point where she’s now vaguely supportive of my ‘new’ job – though I’m sure she thinks it’s all skinny lattes and walks in the park. (As is her prerogative as a childless working girl.)

       
Liz, on the other hand, has been a fantastic pillar of unconditional support. Openly saying that she would give up work in a flash if she were in my position, and that Millie is far more important than any monthly target or business plan. (I have no doubt that she is not just humouring me on this one.)

       
As for our families, everyone is completely over the moon. Unanimously informing me that these are the best days of my life. It does make me wonder what they would have said if I had gone back to work, though. Would they have feigned approval? Or bitten their tongues?

       
Nevertheless, I’m trying to think of my current lifestyle change as an adventure – a welcome relief from battling with the daily grind of petty office politics and London transport. Sort of like taking off on a last-minute City Break to a sunny foreign destination, accompanied by Tim and a newly purchased pair of striped canvas espadrilles, with two-and-a-half-inch heels and adorable ankle ties.

       
The only thing is, I’m quickly starting to feel that maybe Rachel is right: spur-of-the-moment adventures often fizzle horribly after the initial adrenalin rush of escaping. Her response to my big news was peppered with words like ‘lifestyle suicide’, ‘fat’, ‘boring’ and ‘penniless’. Oh, and ‘sexless’.

       
But let’s be honest, I’m not likely to get an objective reaction from someone who dry-retches at the sight of a car that’s not a two-seater sports convertible, am I?