Grazia

I was coming home after the school drop off the other day, looking forward to an undisturbed cup of tea and an absorbing browse in Grazia, when I met my husband leaving for work. He was in the garden clipping a saddle bag to the back of his bike looking worried. “Did you see the article about Victoria Beckham?” he said. Having expected to be told something about milk or bread and the lack of either or both, I paused, but then thought about it and yes, I had. An incisive commentary on the former spice girls’ drawn face at a fashion show. Breaking news in other words. I nodded. “You mean the article about her being tired?” and waited for a sarcastic comment about the shallowness of celebrity magazines, the waste of time and space they cause and the general patheticness of it all. But was left standing with my mouth open when he said (and I’m quoting directly here) “I mean, of course she’s tired, that’s a lot to take on, with a small baby. New York fashion week, the Oscar parties, the diffusion line. It’s no wonder she’s worn out.”

 There wasn’t a lot to say other than “I suppose..?” and quickly scan the neighbours’ windows to see if they were open, just in case they are even worse eavesdroppers than I am. (you know you have a problem when you hear your kids saying “why are you telling me to shush?” way too frequently.)

 I know, worrying about what the neighbours think is a very middle aged response but I can’t help it. (You think that’s bad? Whenever the doorbell rings I tear off my apron, kick my slippers under the couch, beseech the children to act normal and open the door with a nonchalant “relaxed smile” on my face.)

 I was a little bit worried though. (No. Not about Victoria.) and as he cycled off in a reassuringly vigorous, masculine way, made a mental note to hide the Grazia from now on.