At a certain point in my pregnancy, Instagram began to bombard me with pictures of a pregnant Margot Robbie. It felt like my feed was trolling me in a particularly mean way: hey, rapidly expanding lady, wanna see how the most beautiful woman in the world is handling all of this? And I did. After a while, I assume my feed became self-fulfilling: I kept looking at pictures of Robbie, my glowing pregnancy nemesis, so the algorithm offered me more and more. I wanted to see how she looked; I wanted to know what she was wearing. (Spoiler alert: she looked amazing, obvs.)
Margot has had her baby now, but still she pops up on the grid. She’s rocking a roomy pair of dungas and sunglasses, looking chic and slightly knackered, strolling alongside her husband who is pushing the pram. And I am still here, wondering what on earth to wear. Because although I have been given lots of hard-earned wisdom and advice during my pregnancy (some solicited, some not), no one warned me that putting together a decent outfit would become an undertaking more fraught than the politics around having an epidural.
