One of the joys of having a teenage daughter is that early morning hunt for all the cosmetics and clothes she's borrowed from you. This is made even worse because somehow, in our rented house, she's bagged the bedroom with the en-suite shower. But this morning's search for my conditioner was put on pause when I spotted the collage of family photographs she'd made. In every single one of them, I'm eating. No one else, just me. Stuffing my red face in every beauty spot we've visited. I thought about throwing a CZJ hissy-fit but something stopped me, and that was the realisation that - come adulthood in a therapist's office - she'll obviously see me as an all-devouring mum anyway. So I left, leaving the conditioner too.
On Saturday I went to a poetry workshop on passion led by the beautiful Catherine Smith. All wonderful apart from that moment when I shut my eyes to think of objects of desire and saw, not Russell Crowe, surfers on Cornish beaches or even tanned feet in leather sandals, but the exact red I want to paint my kitchen walls.
So it's official. I've turned into a woman with wispy, unconditioned hair who takes paint samples and tap catalogues to bed. There are worse things in life, I suppose. Untanned feet in plastic smelly sandals?