the shop that specialised in large sizes. Eventually she decided she would rather be fat than be on a diet and miserable for the rest of her life. Her life had improved from then on.
Her sisters had not succumbed to the fatal fat. All three of them remained slim, despite having children. She used to rail at fate for giving her this peculiar metabolism that made her put on weight just thinking about food, when her sisters could apparently eat anything they liked without putting on an ounce. It was so unfair. Didn't they share the same genes?
But it was pointless wasting energy fuming about things she couldn't change, so she gave in gracefully to her fate and became the best auntie in the world, always available for baby-sitting and days out. She could enjoy her nieces and nephews and then hand them back at the end of the day. In many ways she had the perfect life, no one to worry about except herself. No need to explain or justify what she did. No problems.
She concentrated on the things that she was good at and she was, after a fashion, happy.
At least, she was happy until Patsy's birthday party.
Patsy was her youngest niece and her favourite, although she tried not to show it. She loved precocious children, and Patsy, at seven, had the vocabulary of an adult. Better than some adults she knew. Some of her students' parents could barely read and write, judging from the notes she received, and their level of conversation at Parent Teachers' evenings could be abysmal.
But Patsy was a delight. The week before the party, she stayed with June for the weekend while her mother and father went for an anniversary break, and she and June had spent many happy hours playing Junior Scrabble. June had to hold back a little, but not as much as you might expect.
She was surprised and slightly worried when Patsy came up with FONDLE and BREASTS. “Where did you learn those words?” she asked.
Patsy put a U and an N in front of PROVOKED. “They were in the newspaper,” she said, without looking up from the board. “I asked Mummy what 'breests' was, but she wouldn't tell me. I knew you would, though.”
June laughed until the tears came to her eyes, and then she told her. “It's pronounced 'brests' and it's another word for a lady's chest.” What a joy that child was!
The party however was a nightmare.
When June was a child, birthdays had been simple affairs. Her mother had baked a cake and made jelly and sandwiches, and invited all their cousins and any special friends of the birthday girl in question. There had been balloons and a few small prizes and they had played Hunt the Thimble and Pass the Parcel and Musical Chairs with Mother playing the piano. She remembered parties as being happy, rowdy occasions.
Admittedly somebody would probably be sick, usually Ellen, who tended to get over-excited. Occasionally there would be a small accident – someone would fall down the stairs or out of a tree, but no bones were ever broken. And at the end of the day, the guests went home, and she and her sisters went happy to bed.
That wasn't good enough these days, apparently. No. It wasn't a proper party unless you held it at McDonald's or a theme park or hired a hall and caterers and an entertainer.
When June expressed doubts about this, her sisters looked at her as if she had suggested that the moon was made of green cheese.
“June,” Ellen said, in the kind of patient tone you use when addressing a rather stupid child, “children expect a proper party these days. You can't get away with the amateur productions we had as children. They expect a properly-organised party with proper entertainment and party bags and presents.”
“Party bags?” June was out of her depth here.
“Each child,” May said, in exactly the same patronising tone as her sister, “Has to be given a party bag with sweets and small toys and party favours, like balloons and squeakers and streamers.”
“And then, when they go home,” Rose added, “they
Her sisters had not succumbed to the fatal fat. All three of them remained slim, despite having children. She used to rail at fate for giving her this peculiar metabolism that made her put on weight just thinking about food, when her sisters could apparently eat anything they liked without putting on an ounce. It was so unfair. Didn't they share the same genes?
But it was pointless wasting energy fuming about things she couldn't change, so she gave in gracefully to her fate and became the best auntie in the world, always available for baby-sitting and days out. She could enjoy her nieces and nephews and then hand them back at the end of the day. In many ways she had the perfect life, no one to worry about except herself. No need to explain or justify what she did. No problems.
She concentrated on the things that she was good at and she was, after a fashion, happy.
At least, she was happy until Patsy's birthday party.
Patsy was her youngest niece and her favourite, although she tried not to show it. She loved precocious children, and Patsy, at seven, had the vocabulary of an adult. Better than some adults she knew. Some of her students' parents could barely read and write, judging from the notes she received, and their level of conversation at Parent Teachers' evenings could be abysmal.
But Patsy was a delight. The week before the party, she stayed with June for the weekend while her mother and father went for an anniversary break, and she and June had spent many happy hours playing Junior Scrabble. June had to hold back a little, but not as much as you might expect.
She was surprised and slightly worried when Patsy came up with FONDLE and BREASTS. “Where did you learn those words?” she asked.
Patsy put a U and an N in front of PROVOKED. “They were in the newspaper,” she said, without looking up from the board. “I asked Mummy what 'breests' was, but she wouldn't tell me. I knew you would, though.”
June laughed until the tears came to her eyes, and then she told her. “It's pronounced 'brests' and it's another word for a lady's chest.” What a joy that child was!
The party however was a nightmare.
When June was a child, birthdays had been simple affairs. Her mother had baked a cake and made jelly and sandwiches, and invited all their cousins and any special friends of the birthday girl in question. There had been balloons and a few small prizes and they had played Hunt the Thimble and Pass the Parcel and Musical Chairs with Mother playing the piano. She remembered parties as being happy, rowdy occasions.
Admittedly somebody would probably be sick, usually Ellen, who tended to get over-excited. Occasionally there would be a small accident – someone would fall down the stairs or out of a tree, but no bones were ever broken. And at the end of the day, the guests went home, and she and her sisters went happy to bed.
That wasn't good enough these days, apparently. No. It wasn't a proper party unless you held it at McDonald's or a theme park or hired a hall and caterers and an entertainer.
When June expressed doubts about this, her sisters looked at her as if she had suggested that the moon was made of green cheese.
“June,” Ellen said, in the kind of patient tone you use when addressing a rather stupid child, “children expect a proper party these days. You can't get away with the amateur productions we had as children. They expect a properly-organised party with proper entertainment and party bags and presents.”
“Party bags?” June was out of her depth here.
“Each child,” May said, in exactly the same patronising tone as her sister, “Has to be given a party bag with sweets and small toys and party favours, like balloons and squeakers and streamers.”
“And then, when they go home,” Rose added, “they
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