a skirt?
‘What did you do to your hair?’ he accused.
Had holding that long blunt spear turned him into a caveman? ‘I died it. Henna.’
‘I liked the black.’
‘Strangely enough, your preference didn’t really influence my decision. Boudicca had flaming red hair.’
‘And she was a brutal warrior. Again, maybe not appropriate for children.’
‘Unlike Leonidas, who just carried his spear to pick up litter?’
Luc wandered past them with a steaming bowl of mini red frankfurters in one hand and a family-sized tomato ketchup in the other. ‘Come on, you two, the fighting is supposed to be fictional.’
Shirley snapped her mouth shut with a click.
Hayden looked her over once more for good measure, shook his head, then turned and strode away from her. The turning caught his little skirt and gave it extra lift as he marched ahead of her and gave her a better look at his strong thighs.
Would Boudicca have busied herself with the undersides of the Roman tunics?
she scolded herself.
A tiny smile crept onto her warrior lips.
I’d like to imagine so.
‘You are the best army I’ve ever led!’ Shirley whispered to her seven young boys, hunkered down behind a barrier of rubbish bins and a play house. Every one of them grinned, wide-eyed and excited, through the tomato ketchup now painted on their faces in a replica of her Celtic swirls.
Shirley doled out more fist-sized ammunition.
‘I think it’s time for a strategy change …’ she whispered, laying on a thick accent that was somewhere between Scots and Welsh. And almost certainly nothing like Icenian. ‘An army is never as strong without its leader so this time I want you to hurl everything you’ve got at Leonidas. Take. Him. Out!’
‘Yeah!’ The boys pumped their fists in the air and took up positions in the cracks between their protective barricade. Across the garden, she could see the erect mohawk of Hayden’s Spartan headdress poking up above a hastily constructed shelter made of a deflated paddling pool and some upturned garden chairs and waving as he gave an inspirational battle speech of his own. Then half a dozen little faces peered up over the shelter with their own improvised headdresses on. A cut-down bucket, a foil headpiece, a dustpan brush taped to a head …
It made them easier to find than her stealthy, sauce-smeared Celts.
‘Ready …’ she whispered, and then surged to her feet, yelling, ‘Leonidas!’
‘Boudicca!’ Across the lawn, Hayden leapt the barrier, thrusting his spear skywards and shouting.
Two mini armies exploded in opposite directions and both let the other pass to run to their real targets. Shirley backed away from the bucket-foil-and-brush-wearing Spartans. As one, they let their missiles fly and she curled her arms up over her head and turned side-on to the assault. Fifteenfat little balloons hit her and burst into a watery mess. High, low, middle. She had to admit, the Spartans were pretty well-coordinated little fighters, whereas her Celts missed more than they hit, then dashed off to pick up the unburst balloons and try again, giggling.
Hayden made much of his watery death, eventually falling flat in a blaze of glory on the suburban lawn. The Celts piled on, cheering. Then the Spartans piled on top.
‘Okay, warriors …’ Tim’s mum intervened loudly, plucking the first of the children off a beleaguered Hayden. ‘You have restored peace to this land and now a mighty feast awaits the victors in the kitchen.’
The boys and their bottomless energy fled into the house on a chorus of cheers.
Shirley plucked at her saturated bindings and dragged the wet fabric away from her legs. Her hair and the beaded Celtic inserts she’d woven in dripped more water onto her.
Hayden sauntered towards her, grinning. ‘Quite the battle.’
Her pulse sky-rocketed. ‘You were annihilated; dead men can’t speak,’ she puffed.
‘You took a few mortal wounds yourself, judging by all that blood.’
It wasn’t
‘What did you do to your hair?’ he accused.
Had holding that long blunt spear turned him into a caveman? ‘I died it. Henna.’
‘I liked the black.’
‘Strangely enough, your preference didn’t really influence my decision. Boudicca had flaming red hair.’
‘And she was a brutal warrior. Again, maybe not appropriate for children.’
‘Unlike Leonidas, who just carried his spear to pick up litter?’
Luc wandered past them with a steaming bowl of mini red frankfurters in one hand and a family-sized tomato ketchup in the other. ‘Come on, you two, the fighting is supposed to be fictional.’
Shirley snapped her mouth shut with a click.
Hayden looked her over once more for good measure, shook his head, then turned and strode away from her. The turning caught his little skirt and gave it extra lift as he marched ahead of her and gave her a better look at his strong thighs.
Would Boudicca have busied herself with the undersides of the Roman tunics?
she scolded herself.
A tiny smile crept onto her warrior lips.
I’d like to imagine so.
‘You are the best army I’ve ever led!’ Shirley whispered to her seven young boys, hunkered down behind a barrier of rubbish bins and a play house. Every one of them grinned, wide-eyed and excited, through the tomato ketchup now painted on their faces in a replica of her Celtic swirls.
Shirley doled out more fist-sized ammunition.
‘I think it’s time for a strategy change …’ she whispered, laying on a thick accent that was somewhere between Scots and Welsh. And almost certainly nothing like Icenian. ‘An army is never as strong without its leader so this time I want you to hurl everything you’ve got at Leonidas. Take. Him. Out!’
‘Yeah!’ The boys pumped their fists in the air and took up positions in the cracks between their protective barricade. Across the garden, she could see the erect mohawk of Hayden’s Spartan headdress poking up above a hastily constructed shelter made of a deflated paddling pool and some upturned garden chairs and waving as he gave an inspirational battle speech of his own. Then half a dozen little faces peered up over the shelter with their own improvised headdresses on. A cut-down bucket, a foil headpiece, a dustpan brush taped to a head …
It made them easier to find than her stealthy, sauce-smeared Celts.
‘Ready …’ she whispered, and then surged to her feet, yelling, ‘Leonidas!’
‘Boudicca!’ Across the lawn, Hayden leapt the barrier, thrusting his spear skywards and shouting.
Two mini armies exploded in opposite directions and both let the other pass to run to their real targets. Shirley backed away from the bucket-foil-and-brush-wearing Spartans. As one, they let their missiles fly and she curled her arms up over her head and turned side-on to the assault. Fifteenfat little balloons hit her and burst into a watery mess. High, low, middle. She had to admit, the Spartans were pretty well-coordinated little fighters, whereas her Celts missed more than they hit, then dashed off to pick up the unburst balloons and try again, giggling.
Hayden made much of his watery death, eventually falling flat in a blaze of glory on the suburban lawn. The Celts piled on, cheering. Then the Spartans piled on top.
‘Okay, warriors …’ Tim’s mum intervened loudly, plucking the first of the children off a beleaguered Hayden. ‘You have restored peace to this land and now a mighty feast awaits the victors in the kitchen.’
The boys and their bottomless energy fled into the house on a chorus of cheers.
Shirley plucked at her saturated bindings and dragged the wet fabric away from her legs. Her hair and the beaded Celtic inserts she’d woven in dripped more water onto her.
Hayden sauntered towards her, grinning. ‘Quite the battle.’
Her pulse sky-rocketed. ‘You were annihilated; dead men can’t speak,’ she puffed.
‘You took a few mortal wounds yourself, judging by all that blood.’
It wasn’t
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