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The sun is shining. How wonderful. I used to think pale hairy legs were unattractive on men, but this year I’m desperate to see some, instead of sweaty feet stuffed into suede tasselled loafers with inches of ankles proudly on display, atop which the wearer sports sprayed on denim jeans that can only be described as ‘budgie smugglers’. I’m at that bawdy stage of my 30’s where I make tawdry comments like a 14-year old boy. I once laughed at someone for calling Roger Daltry ‘Sex on Legs’, now I say it about Gary Oldman.

Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s great men accessorize more. Equality is equality. I just hoped it would mean women being paid the same as men, not men going through the equivalent of our micro-mini skirts from 1990. Looking back at photos I’m so pleased there was no Facebook to document it. They don’t have this get out of jail free card. Marilyn Monroe once said, “Your clothes should be tight enough to show you’re a woman, but loose enough too show you’re a lady.” Men in skinny jeans often just look like women themselves.

I always wonder where these trends start. Who was the first boy to shimmy into his sister’s jeans and have the balls to front them out (literally), and who was the first person to follow suit? My husband says I’m an idiot and what we wear and think has already been decided for us by advertising agencies who have meetings at the beginning of the year and pick the trainers, clothes and abbreviations the whole world will soon be wearing/saying. It’s hard to believe him though, when he also thinks snails have meetings about eating his plants and stays up late to watch them at it.

Inspired by the World Cup, he’s obsessed with our lawn looking like a football pitch. It will never happen because we have a dog who poos on one side of the lawn, then digs up the other, and all my plants have died through lack of water. Yesterday, he trundled up and down the lawn naked, with a roller full of grass seed, whistling. A confident man or a nervous breakdown?

My hey-fever is so bad my summer accessories include entire toilet rolls stuffed up my vest to tackle my steaming eyes and catch the next sneeze, which is never far away. The husband also thinks hay fever was invented by advertising companies so offers no support, telling me not to be such a sheep.
The middle one hopes pretending to have hay fever might get her a day off school so splats her cheeks with water from a ‘Tiny Tears’ bottle and wanders round clutching her stomach every morning. It doesn’t work, but it does make us late.

I use the bottle to give water to my baby lovebird, who is thriving. I take him everywhere (so the cat doesn’t get him). He’s so popular he has his own Instagram account. I took him to London on the train last week and he was a hit. My friends think it’s hilarious and text me photos of one legged pigeons saying, ‘You’ll probably want to get him to the vet, spend hundreds on him and then carry him on your shoulder?’ I hate Seagulls. We have three babies on our roof, and the mother constantly dive-bombs me when I go to put the washing out. I’ve taken to carrying a water pistol with me at all times.

I do love my bird though. He looks at me with adoration and sings when I pick him up. No one has ever liked me this much. I’m aware it’s because I feed him, but I’ll take what I can get. I feed my children and they don’t sing to me. They sing songs from The Greatest Showman again and again until I want to scream. That Hugh Jackman though, sex on legs.

Our house is a battle of the bands between the kid’s stage shows, the birds squawking and the husband roaring ‘It’s coming home, it’s coming home, football’s coming home’. The Charlatan’s wrote the wonderful lyric ‘I never want an easy life if me and he were ever to get there’ which sums up my attitude to life on most days. Other days the lyrics ‘All we are saying, is give peace a chance’ by John Lennon and Yoko Ono, come to mind.

My husband says I’m chaotic, then asks me to find his suit trousers, wallet and keys, which he slung in various places round the house the night before. He says I’m obsessed with washing, then demands his navy-blue shirt be cleaned. I dance alone to Chaka Khan’s ‘I’m every woman’ in the kitchen when they are all out the house.