So I bought ‘the’ pram, the pram that was going to transport me to the ditsy heights of air kissing, skinny latte drinking, ballet pump wearing bliss of the King’s Road. Where I would probably (obviously might be a more appropriate word here?!) be friends with Kate Middleton.
But I missed the Sloane Square stop due to a technical nappy mishap (no need to go into this …) And that’s when the bubble burst and then it burst again when I reached for my changing bag and pulled out my plain, black plastic, mass produced changing mat. Pop went my rose tinted, pastel pasted bubble. Mrs Reality to the stage please! But I’m not very good at existing in a world of reality, I probably should confess, to support all future daydream rambles, that I hail from an English studying, professionally trained acting background, and reality is not usually a word we are used to associating ourselves with.
But recently, I had lapsed into some sort of reality along my winding garden path of life; I married a handsome Yorkshire gent, we had a gorgeous little boy and I needed to somehow stitch pretty, whimsical daydreams back into my life. And it started with a changing mat.
People say life begins at thirty, well mine began at a sewing machine with a ring on my finger and a bun in the oven.
Crabbkins: making practical things pretty.