This last week I’ve been listening to Miranda Hart read her autobiography Is it just me? Such fun!
I honestly feel like Miranda is prancing about in my kitchen and chatting to me about her life. She wants me to gallop, play hopscotch and dance around to Billy Joel.
She’s a lovely guest to have, always reminding me to replenish my cup of tea and calling me My Dear Listener Chum or MDLC.
In her book, she admits to things that we all do, but never dare talk about. She discusses the dangers of farting and yoga. Actually, there are many fart and bum jokes so, stay away from her book if you don’t like that sort of thing.
Sometimes I felt I was laughing with her. I too love the little kettle that you find in hotels. Like her I’m not a big fan of those “family updates” sent out with Christmas cards. I too find manicures a little uncomfortable. She describes it as “basically just holding hands with a stranger for forty-five minutes whilst listening to Enya.”
Other times she was laughing at me. She is often calling my bluff at trying to be cool. I hope I’m not one of those obsessive, over the top mothers that she talks about…
Her book actually seems far more profound when read out loud. The moments of seriousness have real gravitas. I’m taking to heart what she said on raising children.
She says: “Please don’t force them to wear the right things, eat the right things, learn and do the right things. No parent can ever get it right but much more importantly, if you’re basically decent and kind, then it’s hard to get it particularly wrong. We’ve all turned out all right, so let them play! Let them be a mess. Give them a tin of beans and a big stick and cast them loose in back yard with an Arctic roll (jam roll). Because think about it, how great would it be to live life like a child right now?”
Thank you Miranda for your book. I often think to myself, or even say it out loud, “No Miranda it’s not just you!” And what a relief that is.
still reading bedtime stories 