I’m chuntering on with Mr Wolf. I have to get it finished, that’s completely finished, by December 18 because the nippers break up from school then for their summer holidays and really I’ll get no work done for two months. So the clock is ticking, which funnily enough is the way I like it.
I would have had it finished by now except for the end of term holiday a few weeks ago, and generally Six and Four are much more time-consuming. Of course, they know everything by now so endless hours are spent in arguments about how many trees there are in the whole wide world and if God can’t be bothered to show himself should we really be spending so much time talking about him. Sometimes I have no answers – or at least not good ones – for their questions. Now I understand why when faced with questions like, why did they build the Great Wall of China, some parents stumble about and then say, to keep the rabbits out.
Anyway, at school there are some right bitches. Most of the mothers are fine but there are a couple who seem to think they are descended from Royalty. They have those lemon-sucking faces and walk around in a haughty manner, though it doesn’t quite work in the Australian National Costume of thongs (flip-flops to you and me), sawed off shorts with floppy arses, tops which were once tent material, and hair-dos which haven’t been near a hairdresser – at least not one who can still see – for, oh I don’t know, maybe 16 years.
There’s a stick-insect blonde one who doesn’t talk to anyone unless they are what she considers true-blue Aussie. This counts me out, clearly, as I have no criminal record.
She’ll walk past me without so much as a nod. With great fanfare she went off to Perth with her husband and kids thanks to hubby's new job. He works in tarmacaddam, apparently, and is an expert in laying reverse cambers on the approach to roundabouts.
But soon she returned, minus the husband. I imagine he couldn’t put up with her either. Anyway, she’s got herself a little fluffy dog, presumably in place of the husband, and parades around with it like Marie-Antoinette.
Jerome’s wife, who speaks like Penelope Cruz, with twice the fire, sat down next to me the other day while we were waiting for the kids to come out of school and moved her shoulders about and said, “oh, you see, the fancy woman has got herself a fancy dog.”
“Oh yes,” I said, “and another thing-“
“No, no! Let me finish, for I have more to say.” She narrowed her eyes at me and whispered, “they are two bitches together.”
I had to laugh.