Wednesday, 8 June 2011


Peering out the window, I grimaced. It was May Bank Holiday weekend, so, yep, it was about to rain. 'What am I going to wear?' I wailed, mentally flicking through my wardrobe.

My little boy was playing in an all-day football tournament for the Under Eights. What would all the others Footballers' Mothers and Girlfriends (MAGs) be wearing?

'Jeans are too casual,' I thought. Besides I couldn't fit into mine since binge-eating my entire diet-food's weekly menu in one sitting.

Just then I spotted Victoria Beckham in that day's paper. She was kicking a ball around with one of her son's in a park, dressed all in black and wearing five-inch Louboutin heels.

'Well if it's good enough for Posh...' I thought, heading to my wardrobe. Out came my ballerina-style shoes, with straps all the way up to the knee, a knitted Maxi dress and a cape. 'Very MAG-ish.' I thought, taking in my husband dressed in his skinny jeans and sunglasses. 'Very DAG,' I smiled, impressed.

My son had slept in his beloved football kit so need to worry about what he was going to wear, and after co-ordinating my little girl in Hello Kitty jeans and a poncho, off we went.

'Can you stand over there?' my son said as soon as we arrived, pointing to the other side of the park. 'You all look funny.'

Wounded, I looked around at the other mums and dads. They were all dressed in sensible jackets, boots, jeans and had umbrellas. We were wearing shades, and enough bling for a night out with the girls from The Only Way Is Essex.

'Might have to dress down a bit next time,' I thought, watching my parents arriving in their cagoules and carrying their own seats. They'd done this before. 'I spotted your gold buttons glinting,' Mum said. 'I knew it would be you.'

Four hours later, my feet were numb, my teeth were chattering, and my freshly blow-dried hair was stuck to my forehead. 'Are there any toilets?' I mumbled, unable to feel my frozen lips.

'You can't go, he might score,' my husband warned, and so I crossed my legs. Luckily it was so cold I soon lost all feeling in them, and forgot I needed to go to the loo.

'Please let him get the ball in net soon,' I willed, clenching my blue fists. Unbelievably, ten minutes later he did and I jumped up and down on the spot, screaming: 'Yes, gooooooaaaaaaal.'

My son glared at me. So did my husband. Mum laughed and my little girl started copying me. 'Sssh,' my other half said. 'You're embarrassing us.'

At least the excitement had warmed me up, but I only let out a small cheer when my lad headed in another goal during the next match. I didn't want to feel his footballer's wrath again, and just counted down the seconds until it was over.

Finally, he was presented with his medal – when I nearly shed a tear – and it was time to go home. 'Did you have a lovely time?' I said as we left the park, bending down to kiss him. He rubbed his cheek and pulled a face.

'Yes it was great – but can you wear a tracksuit and not make any noise next time?' he replied.
I flinched. 'And by the way,' my eight-year-old continued. 'From now on can you call me Messi?'

Do you think VB or the Barcelona soccer star's mum gets this sort of flack? Because it sure is making me as sick as a (badly-dressed) parrot.

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