I realize the title is misleading. Don’t worry, this isn’t some village pervert’s grubby diary of discreet gropes or fondles at the church fete.
The 3 things I felt were emotions:
The first being frustration. This morning I circled outside the shops of Brent cross shopping centre, staring balefully at the “Sale” signs and smiling wistfully at the other womenfolk I could see mere metres away, rifling intently through the “£10 and under” rail.
They didn’t notice me, a lonely ghost of a woman, as they were too busy being moments away from finding the perfect pencil skirt.If they’d paused to listen though, they would have heard the deafening hum of my visa debit card throbbing inside my pocket.
I couldn’t even enter the store, it was pointless.I was pushing a buggy containing my 2 year old daughter and in my right hand was the small squishy mitt of my 4 year old son. Both children were in quite compliant moods, all the more reason to avoid a quick browse and risk ruining their sunny demeanors.
I remember only too well the horror of being under 5 and my mum dragging me round Bolton’s indoor fruit and veg market.
I was hip height to the huge herd of Boltonian housewives as they moved as one, a mass throng of corned-beef legs and matronly bosoms, as they jostled and surged forward in their quest to find the cheapest cauliflower.
Admittedly today was more cardis than caulis but as I circled like a hungry aquarium shark watching plump school kids through the glass, my rail of dreams faded before my eyes and we headed to Boots for kids toothpaste.
2. The second emotion is embarrassment. I keep seeing my neighbour in the local pool. He’s a distinguished gentleman of pensionable age, quietly spoken who tends his garden and always has a smile when he passes. Which is why it’s always faintly mortifying when I see him crawl towards me through the azure chlorine haze as I perform my ungainly breaststroke.
On the street we’d call out a neighbourly “Hello!” but no such pleasantries happen in the pool.
In fact, a neat “double blank” was performed this evening proving we’re both as equally uncomfortable seeing each other soggy-fringed in small Lycra swimwear.
I don’t want to see my neighbour’s wibbly thighs and silver-haired chest and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want to see mine.
At least I know him I suppose.
Being recognised by complete strangers in the pool is my 3rd “Worst place to hear the words ‘you’re that Sara Cox aren’t you?’ ”; my second is in a busy pub loo of hammered hens when I’m sober and my first was during an antenatal examination when the consultant asked me who I thought would be the number1 record that week* whilst feeling for the baby’s head.
*It was Britney spears and “Toxic”, chart fans.
3. What I’m feeling at this very moment, is smugness.
I’m smuggled up in a smuggy smug smog of muggy smuggledom.
And it feels great. I’m in bed. The wind is whistling outside and the rain is lashing the window.My other half is out with all our pals celebrating the birthday of a notoriously fun club night known as yoyo.
All the crew will be there, but I’m in for Fearne Cotton tomorrow at 10am so joining them was never an option.
I’m also reporting live from Radio 1s biggest ever event, the humungous Hackney weekend on Saturday and Sunday 10am-1pm with my Bolton bro Vernon Kay, so need to keep myself on sparkling form, plus on Sunday at midnight I then hop over the airwaves onto radio 2 for a couple of hours before reappearing on radio1 at 10am Monday morning.
Feeling jaded is not an option over the next four days, so I’ve hopped aboard the sensible wagon to Teetotalsville and falling off is not an option.
I don’t envy what my other half has in store tomorrow: sore head, furry tongue and internal organs sweating booze and cadged fags.
I’m pleased they’ll have a swell time tonight but I’m glad I’m in bed, rocketing off the smug-o-meter scale.