My body has worked hard for me over the last six years. There are some lumps and bumps, wrinkles and scars, but frankly, I’m quite proud of them. I can’t say I don’t lament the loss of my once pert(ish) tatas though. “Why are your boobies so droopy, Mama?” asked Iole last week. “Ballooning from an A to an E three times in 5-years will do that,” I mumbled under my breath, with a curse or two about breast pumps. “Because Mama’s all out of latte,” I added. Indeed, my days of leaving the house sans brassière are over, and so should those items in my wardrobe that don’t require one be too. I tried on a long dress today, yellow like Sicilian lemons, that I used to wear bra less to parties and weddings. “You could get some of those sticky pads for your nipples,” said our nanny, Marilyn. What, the nipples that sit somewhere around my waistline? No way. I can’t be bothered with sticky tape and silicone cutlets. I need to wear a bra. Full stop. One day, I may take my friend Bianca on a trip to Panama City for cocktails and lifts, but in the meantime, I’ll trust my sturdy bra to get me through.

I’ve crossed paths with a pint sized lady with short pinkish/purple hair a few times lately. “Nice sunglasses,” she says to me. “Nice hair,” I say back. It’s actually just a front quiff that’s dyed the colour of candyfloss, the rest of her hair is silvery grey. She wears cat eye glasses, too. She’s cool. I’m pretty sure you need to be fair skinned to pull of a blush pink rinse. Or upwards of 75, when you can do whatever the hell you want. My Auntie Polyxene had a mauve bouffant, and so does Jason’s grandfather. It’s sweet and eccentric, like their very own pastel cloud.

I adore pleats, only they can be such a nuisance to keep crisp. My husband is an excellent ironer –– one of the many skills his mother armed him with when he went off to live in Italy at 21 –– but who has the time to press twenty pleats? So I’ll keep admiring accordion skirts and blouses with pleated cuffs in shop windows and magazines, until such day as I decide a dress is so exquisite, that I simply have to pick up an iron myself.

This evening we read a book called Mister Horizontal & Miss Vertical, written by Noemie Revah and illustrated by Olimpia Zagnoli. I was drawn to the bold, minimal graphics –– plus, Olimpia was on our shortlist of girl’s names when I was pregnant with Luma. The book is inspired by a Rene Maltete photograph of a family walking along a boardwalk, the Dad wearing horizontal stripes, the Mum in vertical stripes, and their child sporting a checkered shirt. It’s one of the best family photos ever, and this book is all sorts of wonderful. There are the books I buy for my children, and the books that I buy for myself, in the hope that my children will appreciate them, too. They loved it, and they’re pretty ok. at saying, “harlizentil.”

At school, swimming caps were mandatory, and we hated them. It didn’t matter how much talc we poured in, they were always such a pain to peel on and off. I heard a similar lament this morning from a woman who grew up in the 60s who said that while her latex cap was pretty to look at (a psychedelic flower print) it was always so painful “especially when my Mom pulled it off my head, pulling my hair out with it.” When men started sporting long hair and ponytails, she said, and still swam without a cap, women decided they could do the same. “If men didn’t have to wear swim caps, neither should we.” Of course these days, they’ve come full circle, with caps making a splash once again. Only this time around, it’s purely aesthetic.

It takes guts to don a topper. And I’m not talking about baseball caps or floppy fedoras. I mean an objet d’art du tête. On the patio at Terroni yesterday, I met a woman in her late 70s sporting a classic straw cap sent over the edge by a huge black straw pompom. “You look fabulous,” I told her. She wore the hat with such insouciance and confidence, and was genuinely delighted (surprised, even) by my compliment. I think we reach a certain age/stage in our lives when humour and chutzpah trumps trends, and when noshing on tagliatelle with a giant pompom on our heads is the new fabulous norm.

Our cleaning lady, Ilda –– a middle-aged, Portuguese, gem-of-a-woman –– came to work this morning wearing turquoise culottes and a watermellon pink t-shirt. “I knew you’d love these colours,” she giggled from the top of a ladder (yes, she dusts above the kitchen cabinets, she’s that good). I’m always impressed with people who are fearless in their embrace of colour. Wearing a bold hue is one thing, but wearing two, or three, or even four bold colours together is what excites me. And if they clash, better yet. Take orange and pink, the most fabulous clash of them all. The world would be a duller place if they didn’t collide.