Make Up Lessons

They say a picture paints a thousand words.  And so this is going to be my post on a lovely sunny Saturday in Blighty.  This afternoon the family are going to decamp to the school May Fair – I say the family, but of course, as with most weekends, everyone is spread out.  Middle Son is at a sleepover and will meet us there where he will refuse to make eye contact with me until he runs out of money, Eldest Son is on the River Thames somewhere in a boat, G is doing the garden, and so Little Man, Grandma, Grandad and I will be sampling the delights of the school BBQ, winning back the prizes we donated in the tombola, and if we are lucky will get to throw wet sponges at the headmaster (all in the name of charity of course).

It’s been a busy old week, and one in which it was not a good idea to come down with the sore throat ear thing that has been doing the rounds.  So I limited myself to an afternoon of dying quietly, and during that afternoon I was sorting out some old photos.  Well, I say sorting, but the reality is that actually it was a kind of dawdling over photos…

And one was so vivid in my memory that I had to share it with you.  Those of you who have little boys will know how fascinated they are with the trappings of womanhood that you have about you.  The lotions, the potions, the jewellry, the shoes, the makeup – they may not admit it, but they are drawn to them like Magpies to bling.  Some men never grow out of it.  Some just hide it, only to come out at rugby dinners or stag nights. But on the whole little boys find it an amazing alien world to which mummies and girls belong.

Unless, that is, they are left on their own…

Which is what happened 5 years ago and G was left in charge. The boys found their face paints and decided to do their own make up, with the addition of my brand new Chanel lipstick in red.  And when the colours simply didn’t work they just wiped it all off on my white towels.

Words painting pictures?  Something needed to paint over my words when I got back home…