Last weekend my son Jack and his friends were over here for a few days to celebrate his birthday.  It always makes me smile how he always invites me to tag along and I wonder about what his teenage self would think, in those days wanting nothing more for his birthday than for his parents to remain as inconspicuous as possible. 

‘Just empty the car and go,’ he muttered when we dropped him off at university for the first time, declining the offer of us taking him to do a ‘big shop’, a rooky error that he never made again. 

But he’s older now and I am included, although sometimes I show my age. 

‘Who the hell is Jazzie B?’ they demand of me, when we are playing a late-night game.

We went to Toulouse for the day having booked a late lunch in Le Bibent, the fabulously opulent belle- epoque brasserie situated in la place du Capitole, the main square.  But whilst everyone was looking forward to more food, despite a gourmet extravaganza the evening before, I was salivating at the thought of the shops, especially as we head towards party season. 

Le Bibent particularly resplendent when we were there last Christmas

I won’t be going to any Christmas parties; I didn’t last year, nor the year before.  And I probably won’t go to any next year either.  If I did, I have an evening dress I adore (and have worn just the once), together with several other frocks that would pass muster as ‘cocktail wear’. My wardrobe, sorry wardrobes – I have two – are packed with clothes and I really could survive without buying another thing ever. 

I don’t buy often and then its normally something I don’t need but I cling on to things forever taking them to a wonderful lady in the nearby market town to take in, take out, repair and rebuild. She’s a miracle worker but even she laughs at the state of some of the things I find in the back of the wardrobe and suggests that perhaps the time has come for this or that to go to the déchèterie.  I always dig my heels in, why would I get rid of something which holds so many sentimental memories?  Or if not memories, possibilities of what memories I could create dressed in it.  

I still bemoan the fact that in my ruthless pre-moving to France clear out in 2016, I donated a mid-calf length, pale grey drop-waisted sleeveless flapper dress that I bought around 1989.  Twenty-seven years later I still hadn’t worn it, never having found quite the right occasion.  Now of course whatever the event; wedding, christening, funeral or village meal in the salle des fêtes, I stare blindly into my wardrobe and know that the grey DH Lawrence number as I think of it would’ve been perfect. 

As we pull into Toulouse railway station I reckon I’ve got a good couple of hours browsing time before lunch and suggest I meet up with everyone in the restaurant later.  Jack turned tour guide has decided he is taking everyone to the Jardin Japonais which whilst appealing to most of the group, does not have the same magnetic pull as spending two hours retail-gazing with me and Alicia and Caroline bow out from zen-time in Kyoto. 

In a responsible adult-like way, I feel the need to include at least a little sight-seeing.  Have they come all this way just to browse make-up in Sephora? In Galeries Lafayette, we swish through a sea of jewel- coloured, fringed suede handbags, past pale cashmere scarves and gloves and the glass-topped counter where I always pause to admire the gorgeous enamel cases of the fountain pens.  Ridiculously expensive and ridiculously impractical, of course I want one. 

We head to the lift and the 6^th floor, with its outside rooftop terrace from where you can see the entire Toulouse skyline of historic buildings pretty in pink whilst sipping espresso martinis. I dutifully point out the church built on the spot where the battered body of the patron saint of Toulouse, Saint Saturnin, sentenced to death by being tied by his ankles to a raging bull was dumped, the ropes finally snapping. 

‘And there’s the Basilica of Saint-Sernin, where his body is buried,’ I say pointing to the bell tower, a multi-tiered wedding cake topped with a turret. ‘And the clock-tower over there, that was once a dungeon.’

Tourist guide duties over, we sip our drinks and talk turns to how I’m getting on with promoting my book.

 ‘It can be a hard slog,’ I say, ‘garnering the confidence to put yourself out there and handling rejection or criticism you hadn’t anticipated.  But then just as your head goes down, encouragement, help and positivity comes from where you least expect it.’`

We laugh at my audacity in sending the book to someone who is currently riding high with his own memoir. And cannot believe that he actually replied. Immediately upon receipt.  I show them the e-mail.  I’m not sure why I haven’t already deleted it.

‘Oh my God,’ they say, ‘it really is from him.’ He tells me that he doesn’t have the band-width for me.

‘It was nice of him to reply,’ offers one of them, ‘but to be honest he probably would’ve been better not to. Band-width? That’s rude.’

‘Maybe he was tired.  It was sent after midnight.’ I offer trying to shake off the sinking feeling I felt when I read it.

But then later on the same day, I had received the most fabulous encouragement from a Booker Prize nominated author and journalist who I have read and admired for a very long time.

‘Self-belief, is a tough one,’ I say, ‘but we’re all filled with doubt sometimes. And I just need to keep telling myself not to give self doubt band-width.’

We laugh, ask the gorgeous waiter to take our photo and head off.  There’s a huge branch of Zara and we are due to have lunch in less than an hour.

I love Zara.  Living in the middle of a field is bliss, but I’m a city girl at heart and the chaos in Zara is a perfect fix, like being let loose in a dressing-up box.  I want nothing.  I need nothing.  Well maybe a silk, drop-waisted dress, preferably in grey.  I never stop looking for a replacement.  And then I see them – sequined shorts in the deepest rose pink.  Hot pink. They make my heart flutter.  They are fantastic. They catch the light and sparkle as I turn them this way and then that.   I wouldn’t have got away with wearing them when I was young, let alone now.  Unless?

‘You live in a field, I tell myself, ‘Who will see you? 

I will see me.  And so will Bertie.  And maybe I do have the perfect occasion in which to wear pink sequined shorts.  Perhaps teamed with the forest green metallic knee-high boots I spot next to the snakeskin ones.  I will feel invincible.    

We arrive at the restaurant, everyone else is already at the bar. 

‘Did you buy anything Mum?’ asks Jack.

‘A mascara,’ I say, but the idea is still formulating.

Self-belief that’s all it takes.  When I sit down at my desk to work on promoting my book I need to be full of confidence.  I need to feel the part.  I need to look the part. I need to feel invincible.  I have just the outfit in mind.

I’m off to Bordeaux at the end of the month and their branch of Zara is positively enormous.