Life’s not easy when you’re Mrs Harry Styles’s mother
You know when you’re pregnant with your first child? Once the joy of finding out there’s a new life growing inside you, the horrible realisation dawns that you need to go through childbirth in order to meet him or her? Well, last weekend I went to Wembley and back in a day and it felt kind of like that. The happiness at getting there followed by the horror of realising you have to get back afterwards.
So what was I doing going on a 440 mile round trip to Wembley? Well, I went to Wembley and discovered the nightmare of the North Circular Road, the end-of-the-world style traffic heading for Brent Cross shopping centre, and to learn that a trip to IKEA can be akin to a trip to hell when said store has its own 5,000 place multi-storey car park, before giving in and going to sit in the car park of a local retail park for 5 hours. Continue reading →
I hate exercise. I really do. I am a member of a gym that I hate going to. It’s filled with gym fascists, like the gang of twenty-something blokes who hog the weight machines or who congregate around the pull-up equipment with their bulging muscles trying to outdo each other with their pull-themselves-up-ability and the tininess of their vests.
The girls are no better. They usually appear in twos or threes in their Juicy Couture tracksuit bottoms, g-strings, tiny vests and of course the obligatory tattoo which I believe in some quarters is referred to as a tramp stamp. They carry 50cl bottles of Volvic and do very little in the way of an actual workout – it would ruin the carefully applied layers of make-up – but they do a lot of giggling when the boys in their vests do their pull-up exercises. Continue reading →