By REBECCA SPARROW
Fifi Box, I love you.
That’s a big opening statement (and perhaps slightly stalky since Fifi doesn’t technically know who I am) but I don’t care because I love you, Fifi. I bloody do.
Yesterday, standing in the “express lane” at Woolies, stressing about whether I was one grocery item over the legal limit my eyes flicked across to the magazine rack.
And there on the cover of a weekly glossy was a cover that made me do a double take. I was transfixed by an image of a vaguely familiar (who IS that? I know that face …) new mother staring back at me.
A new mother — looking so very tired and yet flooded with love — holding her sleepy newborn daughter.
I couldn’t read the headline, so it took my brain a full 30-seconds of Rubik’s Cube moves to work out this clearly besotted new mum was in fact Fifi Box.
Fifi Box whom I’ve loved since I interviewed her eight years ago for a former newspaper column. (I came away impressed with how self-deprecating, genuinely friendly and refreshingly candid she was.)
Fifi Box who has issued the first photo of herself with her smoochalicious new daughter Trixie looking real. Natural. Normal. Like one of us.
And I bloody love her for that.
Why?
Think of it this way, Fifi’s beautiful, real, natural, new mother photo is in complete contrast to how new mothers are usually presented on mag covers. Usually new mothers are, you know, showing off their ‘bikini-ready bodies’ standing there wearing chopstick high heels with perfect hair and flat tummies, new babe in arms. Apparently I missed the memo that once you squeeze a baby out of your clacker (or have one delivered through the sun-roof) you morph into a Bond Girl. Who knew?