I've been receiving the information for the upcoming Motherhood and Feminism conference. I must say, it looks like an excellent few days.
I've tucked into the middle of a delicious novel by India Knight (her name was so bloody marvelous that I had to give her a try). She writes chick lit but for jaded married moms. The story takes place in London and like when I read anything set in London (like the latest Shopaholic book (& Sister) which is a fine read -- vastly better than that awful "Can You Keep A Secret") - the voice inside my head takes on a British accent. Like Gwynnie in Sliding Doors everything is Bollocks this and Wanker that. I skip off to the loo and I take Baby Girl out in her pram. The voice inside my head also slips into an Irish (Oyrish) brogue and I mutter "Jaysus" and "Christ in the Market" a lot. It's really quite annoying. I have never actually asked anyone if the voices inside their heads are capable of mastering international accents because I fear they would look at me sadly as if to say "poor wee thing [see!] is off her meds".
I am trying to convince myself that walking over to the library for storytime is a much better use of my morning that driving to Globo shoes to find a pair of those delicious looking soft pink boots with the poms poms as featured in the flyer this morning. It is cold and rainy and I could happily nest inside but Baby Girl likes to engage the other tots in battle. I don't often wish for more wealth but I would really really really like a chauffeur or a team of litter bearers to carry me about in a palanquin. I really ought to have been a Czarina.
