Sometimes I like to pretend I lead a WAG-ish life; that I am indeed a lady who lunches, drives some sort of monstrous Chelsea tractor and shops in high-end boutiques. It’s like a mental dressing-up box, trying on different lifestyles for size.
York seems an appropriate place to do this. It’s full of cobbles, tourists, architectural remnants and hideously expensive little shops that would do the Cheshire set proud.
So Milo and I swan in and out of shops so tiny they could have been pickled, examining pieces of overpriced bijouterie before casting them aside with a glance that says ‘I wouldn’t hang this round my dog’s neck’ (well, I do; I’m not sure Milo has reached quite that level of non-verbal sophistication yet). Outside, the sun beats down, and Milo and I unpeel layers of jumpers, coats and waterproofs and fling them onto the buggy.
We land up in Sarah Coggles, an oddly named yet rather chi-chi boutique a stone’s throw from the cathedral. I find myself drawn to the gleaming rails, and run my hands over fabrics softer than Milo’s cheeks. I wonder vaguely whether I should have settled for couture rather than a child (I’m getting in character; in my head, I’m starring in an episode of Footballer’s Wives).
I hover over the structural elegance of a Vivienne Westwood jacket, convincing myself that the £400 price tag is a reasonable investment for such a key piece.
‘Can I help you?’
I turn around, startled from my reverie, and meet the frosty glare of the shop assistant. She’s all of 12, wearing a skirt so short it would shame the cast of Shameless and demonstrating An Attitude. God love her, I think, she’s not going to know what’s hit her.
Just as I tilt my chin up into the ‘do you know who I am pose’ I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I am not what you might call polished. I don’t have any make-up on, my jumper reveals discernible traces of Milo’s breakfast and I am standing next to a buggy so overladen with clothes I look like an Oxfam shoplifter.
‘I, er…’ I start, before looking down at my son.
He has crawled over to the Vivienne Westwood rail and is now attempting to haul himself up on what appears to be one of her trademark tartan skirts. Not only that, he appears to have found the remains of yesterday’s cheese sandwich and has mashed it into the palm of his sticky, greasy hand.
There’s only one thing for it.
‘Quick, Milo,’ I whisper into his ear as I scoop him up, ‘leg it.’
Ratings: Babychanging facilities: Nope. Cafe: Nope. Buggy-friendly? Not really. Cost: Depends whether you buy anything Worth it? Look, if you have a clean, well-behaved (and entirely dull) child, who sits obediently in his or her buggy while you browse, this is the place for you. Otherwise, steer clear. Nice togs, though.
Travels with my baby 