My Alter Ego

I used to love shopping for clothes. I could happily spend hours browsing shops and trying things on. And then I had two children. 
My lovely mum gave me some money for my birthday this year, to buy myself some clothes, the first time I've bought anything that isn't from the maternity section since 2009. This is because she is embarrassed to be seen with her daughter looking like a bag lady a wonderful person. So we optimistically skipped in to town earlier this week, starting with me plonking the boys and mum in the toy section of John Lewis so J could drive a Little Tikes car into everyone's ankles and a teething M could slobber over everything in sight.
It is from this point onwards that I discovered that shopping turns me into Rhod Gilbert. Absolutely everything and everyone made me cross, from my new perspective as a curvy in all the wrong places busy mum of two.
I had a voucher to use in Topshop, and had a lot of fun trying to find something to buy when I couldn't hear myself think over the obscenely loud music. I actually commented on it to the girl next to me, who looked at the elderly crazy lady mumbling to her, aghast, which meant I had to start singing to the music to prove I was young and supposed to be there, except it was so sodding loud I had to shout, which helped the whole situation marvellously. I slunk out and mooched into Zara, where I intended to use my imagination and copy the entire outfit of my brothers lovely girlfriend who visited the other day. I couldn't get my usual size of trousers over my thighs, and when I did wrestle myself into an outfit, I looked ridiculous. I would love to say that my muffin tops are a gentle reminder of the amazing thing my body did by producing two beautiful boys, but really they are just gross, and not for public viewing. I did however, manage to find a couple of tops, and joined the line of svelt muffin top-less lovelies at the till. Cue a baby crying outside the shop, and me realising I didn't have any breast pads in. I had no choice but to shut my eyes and hope no one could see me or the milk that would inevitably start leaking all over my top. After 400 hours, it was my turn, and the stupid bloke at the till started folding my tops up with tissue paper. I smiled. Inside my head I was yelling "TISSUE PAPER! Do I look like the kind of person who needs tissue paper? I have a rip in the crotch of my jeans because they are ten years old and I can't sew, my boobs are about to explode milk all over my once-white-now-grey maternity top and I have porridge in my hair! JUST SHOVE THEM IN THE SODDING BAG!". As it was I kept my mouth shut and stomped back to John Lewis, making myself feel better by growling at every moron who got to the door of a shop and then just stopped, or people who walked too slow, or too fast, or breathed a bit too near me. I was greeted by J careering round corners and scaring the crap out of other children, so we retired for a cup of tea and some lunch in the once-quiet-but-now-my-children-have-arrived-sorry-everyone cafe. I did end up with a few items, from the sections of John Lewis usually frequented by seventy year olds, but I was pleased with my haul. I'm sticking to Internet shopping from now on though.