Typical.
‘What’s wrong, Jeremy?’
‘I’m going to get beaten up and that cos I’m a posh kid.’
‘You’re twice the size of an average ten-year-old. They wouldn’t dare. Besides, Mrs Lake is a really good teacher. She won’t stand for any teasing. Certainly not
bullying. There’s a school policy.’
‘Dad says school policies aren’t worth the paper they’re written on.’
‘Well, your dad’s not a teacher. Now come on. There’s a bacon sandwich waiting for you.’
‘With tomato ketchup?’
‘With tomato ketchup.’
The door swings open and Jeremy steps outside. ‘At least I don’t have to wear a tie anymore.’
‘Exactly. Every cloud has a silver lining.’
Monday is Steve’s day off so he drops Jeremy and Rachel at school and leaves me to deal with Olivia. I am not actually worried for Olivia. I am more worried for the
playgroup workers who may not have previously encountered a child quite in her league. I am a little concerned they will have her down as one of those eccentric children, possibly on the autistic
spectrum as she is quite fanatical about some things – namely shoes and cleaning.
I have managed to persuade Olivia not to wear her Snow White dress and am trying to convince her that leggings and a fleecy top will be the most practical outfit for painting and going on the
trikes outdoors.
‘But I don’t like leggings, Mummy. You never wear leggings.’
She is right. I never wear leggings. What sane adult would wear leggings? Except for petite refined delicate Claudia who has neither hips nor bottom.
‘How about your corduroy skirt? That’s really pretty.’ Really hardwearing and I can wash it at sixty degrees and not turn Steve’s underpants a shade of purple.
‘How about Tinkerbell, Mummy? I could go as Tinkerbell. That’s really pretty.’
I kneel down and look her in the eye, woman to woman. ‘Olivia if you get paint on Tinkerbell it will never wash out however much Vanish or Cillit Bang I use and you will never ever be able
to dress up as Tinkerbell again and that would be very sad indeed.’
‘Okay, Mummy, I’ll wear the courgette skirt,’ Olivia says as if I have just pulled her back from the edge of a hidden precipice.
‘Good. The courgette skirt it is.’
Hallelujah.
I watch at the door of the church hall. A familiar place for Olivia but these are different kids to the ones she knows from Sunday School. These are un-churched kids. London
kids. She’s a London kid but I suspect she is a little cushioned from London life. Will she be alright? At least she knows this space. The smells. The quirks of the ladies’ toilet. She
has even cleaned the toilet when it’s been my turn on the rota. Thankfully she doesn’t have to battle with the urinals. I wouldn’t want her to share them with the boys in this
room. (Thank Heaven for little girls.)
She has already muscled in on a group having a tea party with plastic cup cakes and foam French fries and has insisted on being mother. ‘I’ll just go and put the kettle on,’ I
hear her strident voice ring out above the cacophony. While she waits for the kettle to boil (she is very realistic in her role play), she takes a doll out of a Moses basket and changes its
nappy.
Nappies. Rachel knows how to change a nappy. For real. She’ll do Imo if I’m desperate. If I’m stuck on the phone with a parishioner, for example. If I pay her. 50p a go. Olivia
would love to change Imo’s nappy but at the age of three I draw the line.
Rachel. I wonder how she’s getting on at St Hilda’s C of E. With Jeremy. She has to put up with a lot, my big girl. My too-old-for-Disney girl. It wasn’t so long ago I was
changing her nappy. Her skinny legs with the softest pearly skin. And then there was Thomas.
‘Come on, Imo,’ I say. ‘We’ve got loos to scrub and food to buy.
Imo starts crying, furious because I’m dragging her away from all the fun. Olivia looks up at me about to leave. Looks at Imo. It
‘What’s wrong, Jeremy?’
‘I’m going to get beaten up and that cos I’m a posh kid.’
‘You’re twice the size of an average ten-year-old. They wouldn’t dare. Besides, Mrs Lake is a really good teacher. She won’t stand for any teasing. Certainly not
bullying. There’s a school policy.’
‘Dad says school policies aren’t worth the paper they’re written on.’
‘Well, your dad’s not a teacher. Now come on. There’s a bacon sandwich waiting for you.’
‘With tomato ketchup?’
‘With tomato ketchup.’
The door swings open and Jeremy steps outside. ‘At least I don’t have to wear a tie anymore.’
‘Exactly. Every cloud has a silver lining.’
Monday is Steve’s day off so he drops Jeremy and Rachel at school and leaves me to deal with Olivia. I am not actually worried for Olivia. I am more worried for the
playgroup workers who may not have previously encountered a child quite in her league. I am a little concerned they will have her down as one of those eccentric children, possibly on the autistic
spectrum as she is quite fanatical about some things – namely shoes and cleaning.
I have managed to persuade Olivia not to wear her Snow White dress and am trying to convince her that leggings and a fleecy top will be the most practical outfit for painting and going on the
trikes outdoors.
‘But I don’t like leggings, Mummy. You never wear leggings.’
She is right. I never wear leggings. What sane adult would wear leggings? Except for petite refined delicate Claudia who has neither hips nor bottom.
‘How about your corduroy skirt? That’s really pretty.’ Really hardwearing and I can wash it at sixty degrees and not turn Steve’s underpants a shade of purple.
‘How about Tinkerbell, Mummy? I could go as Tinkerbell. That’s really pretty.’
I kneel down and look her in the eye, woman to woman. ‘Olivia if you get paint on Tinkerbell it will never wash out however much Vanish or Cillit Bang I use and you will never ever be able
to dress up as Tinkerbell again and that would be very sad indeed.’
‘Okay, Mummy, I’ll wear the courgette skirt,’ Olivia says as if I have just pulled her back from the edge of a hidden precipice.
‘Good. The courgette skirt it is.’
Hallelujah.
I watch at the door of the church hall. A familiar place for Olivia but these are different kids to the ones she knows from Sunday School. These are un-churched kids. London
kids. She’s a London kid but I suspect she is a little cushioned from London life. Will she be alright? At least she knows this space. The smells. The quirks of the ladies’ toilet. She
has even cleaned the toilet when it’s been my turn on the rota. Thankfully she doesn’t have to battle with the urinals. I wouldn’t want her to share them with the boys in this
room. (Thank Heaven for little girls.)
She has already muscled in on a group having a tea party with plastic cup cakes and foam French fries and has insisted on being mother. ‘I’ll just go and put the kettle on,’ I
hear her strident voice ring out above the cacophony. While she waits for the kettle to boil (she is very realistic in her role play), she takes a doll out of a Moses basket and changes its
nappy.
Nappies. Rachel knows how to change a nappy. For real. She’ll do Imo if I’m desperate. If I’m stuck on the phone with a parishioner, for example. If I pay her. 50p a go. Olivia
would love to change Imo’s nappy but at the age of three I draw the line.
Rachel. I wonder how she’s getting on at St Hilda’s C of E. With Jeremy. She has to put up with a lot, my big girl. My too-old-for-Disney girl. It wasn’t so long ago I was
changing her nappy. Her skinny legs with the softest pearly skin. And then there was Thomas.
‘Come on, Imo,’ I say. ‘We’ve got loos to scrub and food to buy.
Imo starts crying, furious because I’m dragging her away from all the fun. Olivia looks up at me about to leave. Looks at Imo. It
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