Possibly the first time round, but quite definitely for Number Two, the removal of the placenta triggered the slow degradation of innumerable brain cells. Lost for ever, it seems, is my ability to absorb New Modern Fiction (but never mind, ay?), disturbingly supplanted by an unquenchable lust for all things crap…. and schmaltzy. In this I find, however, that great minds have gone before me: Bill Bryson writes movingly of his lust-affair with a seashell light (think something your four-year-old dreamed up, then…. take it down a notch) and of his inability to enter a 99 cent store without a plentiful haul….
It is a dirty little secret, but I really quite like…. Reality TV. My divine friend Blake - who truly does spend most evenings doing yoga and crocheting (two things I have never really attempted but will certainly be putting on my CV anyway) - was quite noticeably taken aback by this admission. Friday evenings will definitely find Yours Truly gobbling up hour upon hour of McDonald’s television, sighing over frou-frou concoctions of satin and lace, sometimes even (oh god….) crying when a particularly epic search finds its apotheosis in a gargantuan gown of Kardashian proportions….. Why? I am already married: I have no more use for tulle in my life! I think it’s because my all-time favourite zone-out activity (boil-the-baby hot baths with wine) can only last for so long before your skin gets all pruny. And at the end of the day I demand a prolonged sojourn to a place where no brain and no thought is required: Enter Reality TV, which extends the mind-numbing comfort of the hot bath schema, but with less damage to the skin. Also, I have to be ready with some fashion-forward choices for when Todd suggests we have a ten-year vow-renewal ceremony….
(The show is ‘Say Yes to the Dress’ by the way J)
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