The Beauty of a School Unicorn

They want me!
I had a telephone call this morning, from a nice lady at the popular and informative daily television show, This Morning. She explained that they are looking to do a feature on someone whose wardrobe is in dire need of sorting out, and mine fits the bill.
My wardrobe is a joke. It’s not even in my bedroom. It resides in a cold and damp room we very insensitively call Baghdad, due to the fact that it is less than organised in there, and often resembles a war-torn city.
It is where the computer lives, and houses things like my beloved, old and poorly grandfather clock. And my collection of My Little Ponies.
But it is also where I dress. The majority of my clothes are there – well, except for those frequently-worn items that are currently in little piles next to my bed because it makes more sense to have them handy. But as my knickers live in Baghdad too, I have to make the daily journey to the polar ice cap of the Funny Little Bungalow to find something to put on.
Of all the challenges facing a mother of four living on a building site in the middle of winter, this is the one that I find most odious.
What is one supposed to wear?
I have dreams about becoming a stylish, svelte creature in silk, reeking of Jean Paul Gaultier. I imagine that, one day, even in jeans, I’ll manage to pull off the effortlessly chic look I so often see in magazines. In summer, I long for winter, when I can chuck on cords and woolly jumpers and hide my lumpy bits. In winter, I miss the ease of shorts, flip-flops and a vest.
But one thing remains the same whatever the season; I never feel like I’ve got it right.
Despite the fact that my wardrobe is full to bursting with all kinds of exotic and wonderful pieces of cloth, each one chosen carefully over the last twenty years as a welcome addition to my “collection” (mainly because it was cheap), I usually only wear a very small selection of my clothes, for comfort reasons.
This year, I’m blaming the build. The house is cold when we get up. Who wants to faff with fashion in a cold room when you could be eating toast in your jeans in the relative warmth of the kitchen? The decision about what to wear is the most time-consuming part of my morning, and I always get it wrong.
The Four Little Seymours have no such trouble. They have their school unicorns, as we call them. Once they’re up, they know what they’re wearing, and after I have wrangled Boy Seymour’s wayward legs into his trousers, he can usually do the rest himself. Mini Seymour often manages to make a few fashion statements with her unicorn – and yesterday she sensibly chose to put school trousers on over her tights and under her pinafore just because she could. (This reminded me of a garment I used to wear in the early noughties – trousers with a skirt actually attached! A genius idea that never really took off, despite my daily modelling of it in front of my students as a young teacher not wanting to expose the shape of her bottom to adolescents.)
At the weekend, when they choose their own clothes, I am always a little proud and a touch envious as Little Seymour Number Two seems to mix all kinds of clothes together and still manages to look incredibly cool and funky. And Little Seymour Number One, who has now out-heighted her grandma, is turning into a beautiful creature who looks lovely simply because she is young.

And so I wrote in to This Morning for help, taking a picture of my very own Ward Robe in Spare Oom/Baghdad a while ago, and to my surprise, excitement and horror, I
am going to be featured on their show next week.
“Does it matter that I live on a building site?” I asked.
“Not at all,” said the nice researcher lady. “It’ll all add to the feature.”
I bet it will, I thought, as I imagined the camera man falling over before he even gets to the door, and Trinny (yes, Trinny!), unsure where to tread in case she’s lost forever down a muddy trench.
But I will not be deterred. I love telly. And this isn’t my first foray into the world of moving pictures. I was on Colleen’s Real women about seven years ago, when I had to skip with jelly, and talk about how quirky and “out there” my personality was in an effort to convince Mrs Rooney that I would be suited to modelling Kit Kats. I was unaware that modelling chocolate required such skills, and clearly, I wasn’t “out there” enough, as I didn’t make it to the final three and win the hallowed photo shoot, for which, (I’m ashamed to say) I was desperate.
I’m over that now.
Almost.

And here we are again! At the grand age of forty, I am once again offering myself up as a sacrifice to the media industry, so that they can mould me into something chic and lovely. I am starting to fear, however, that maybe that’s just not me, and I am, in fact, just comfy in my own skin…
But I’m game, and really very excited. And who knows? They may take pity on us all, living as we do, and send Nick Knowles round to give Big Seymour a hand.
Now that would be just marvellous.