Friday, October 30 ‘09
There was a book on the playroom shelf called “Mummies never get sick.” It lied because sometimes they did. They just couldn’t take a day off from work to be so. In her nine and a half years as a mother, she had only been bedridden once with flu, up until now. A stomach virus hit her big time, forcing her to crawl on to the sofa in between sudden dashes to the bathroom, which thanks to the completion of Modern Pemberley was now on ground floor level. It lasted 10 days, leaving her with vertigo and very dodgy on her feet. She somehow managed to run a party for eight-year-old Miss Bennet Number Two and her 25 chums thanks to the sterling efforts of Mr. Bennet and his amazing ability to gather the girls in an orderly fashion and get them spitting cola bottles, rolling conkers and eating hula hoops off string. He would make a great party entertainer. Fifteen years ago she fell in love with him while he was riding a unicycle in the midst of a circle of kids in his capacity as a youth leader in charge of a holiday club. It was days like this, when the stuffing had been knocked out of her, she really appreciated her own Mr. Darcy. Not that she had any energy to exert any passion, but it did remind her why she had married him. As the bug co-incided with the entire length of half-term holiday, it meant the little Miss Bennets were home and therefore Modern Pemberley was not quiet. Not that ever was, apart from the two-hour silence Mrs. Bennet enjoyed when Spag and Bol were asleep. Her elder three children had given up their afternoon nap soon after hitting two. At almost two-and-a-half Spag and Bol had no idea their mother wasn’t letting them give up theirs. Happy to lie down in parallel cots, the little Miss Twin Bennets were chatty bedfellows and enjoyed their lunchtime natter before drifting off.
Somehow in between flopping, Mrs. Bennet managed to sit and do beadwork, collage, cakes, play dough, jewellery, painting and maths practise with chocolate buttons. The children didn’t complain. As long as they got out of the house at least once a day, they were happy. And again somehow Mrs. Bennet did, so long as she was back on the sofa within the hour. It had become her new friend. Mr. Latte – who had moved in ever since Mrs. Bennet had bought a life-line sophisticated coffee machine with her 40th birthday money – had to sit quietly forgotten in the corner. She had no desire for him, or anything other than a mug of hot water, nicknamed Mr. Peely Wally in the Modern Mrs. Bennet dictionary.
But she did feel well-off. Ironically it was an enriching experience to be ill. Mrs. Bennet had realised what she had and it was good. She may not always have enough money to pay for their clubs and shoes, but where coffers lacked, the blessings around her more than compensated. Watching Spag and Bol chasing each other from lounge to kitchen to playroom to lounge dressed in fairy dresses and winter hats which were far too big from them, giggling profusely as they did, cheered her no end. Sometimes Mummies did get sick. But they were never lonely.
Friday, 30 October 2009
Saturday, 10 October 2009
Up on a roof
Saturday, October 10 '09
"It's sunny, so please put dolls out," read the text. Mrs. Bennet was currently marching the three oldest Miss Bennets down the hill towards the cinema, leaving Mr. Bennet with the mischievous Spag and Bol and a half-constructed IKEA wardrobe to build. She had temporarily lifted the DIY curfew as Jannie, Mrs. Bennet's lovely mum had arranged for the King of Bodge, Mr. Jannie to be at hand to help. Whether it was safe to leave her husband and her Father banging away with two little girls free to roam at will, was a risk Mrs. Bennet decided to take. At least with the sun in full beam, there was a chance that the acne-creamed baby dolls could get their much-needed face lifts. Mr. Bennet was sceptical. He didn't believe such drastic treatment would work. Mrs. Bennet was more optimistic. She returned at lunch-time to find the two plastic victims sunbathing on the shed roof. Thankfully the older Miss Bennets didn't notice until later that afternoon. By then the sun had done wonders to the doll's grafitti skin and she was able to explain why they were where they were and that their parents hadn't gone completely mad.
Mrs. Bennet was impressed. One of the dolls, although now having slightly darker skin pigment in places, was essentially Biro-free. Her companion still wore some of her wounds and needed to revisit the plastic surgeon in the morning and be turned over to catch the sunlight, if there was any. But at least Spag and Bol had been given a reprieve. Their older siblings weren't cross with them or their mother for letting them loose in the first place. Acne cream mixed with sunlight had done the trick, certainly for one doll, who was returned to her owner. The other returned to the hospital shed for a rest, ready for a further installment. Mrs. Bennet did now worry for her own daughters should they ever need acne cream. She certainly wouldn't be putting them on a shed roof for a sun-bathing session. If the cream reacted with the sun's rays in this way and did Biro-removing wonders for plastic skin, what would it do to real skin? Having said that, Mrs. Bennet thought it could be a good way of removing age spots. She quite fancied a five hour kip in the sun - although perferably not high up on a shed roof!
"It's sunny, so please put dolls out," read the text. Mrs. Bennet was currently marching the three oldest Miss Bennets down the hill towards the cinema, leaving Mr. Bennet with the mischievous Spag and Bol and a half-constructed IKEA wardrobe to build. She had temporarily lifted the DIY curfew as Jannie, Mrs. Bennet's lovely mum had arranged for the King of Bodge, Mr. Jannie to be at hand to help. Whether it was safe to leave her husband and her Father banging away with two little girls free to roam at will, was a risk Mrs. Bennet decided to take. At least with the sun in full beam, there was a chance that the acne-creamed baby dolls could get their much-needed face lifts. Mr. Bennet was sceptical. He didn't believe such drastic treatment would work. Mrs. Bennet was more optimistic. She returned at lunch-time to find the two plastic victims sunbathing on the shed roof. Thankfully the older Miss Bennets didn't notice until later that afternoon. By then the sun had done wonders to the doll's grafitti skin and she was able to explain why they were where they were and that their parents hadn't gone completely mad.
Mrs. Bennet was impressed. One of the dolls, although now having slightly darker skin pigment in places, was essentially Biro-free. Her companion still wore some of her wounds and needed to revisit the plastic surgeon in the morning and be turned over to catch the sunlight, if there was any. But at least Spag and Bol had been given a reprieve. Their older siblings weren't cross with them or their mother for letting them loose in the first place. Acne cream mixed with sunlight had done the trick, certainly for one doll, who was returned to her owner. The other returned to the hospital shed for a rest, ready for a further installment. Mrs. Bennet did now worry for her own daughters should they ever need acne cream. She certainly wouldn't be putting them on a shed roof for a sun-bathing session. If the cream reacted with the sun's rays in this way and did Biro-removing wonders for plastic skin, what would it do to real skin? Having said that, Mrs. Bennet thought it could be a good way of removing age spots. She quite fancied a five hour kip in the sun - although perferably not high up on a shed roof!
Sunday, 4 October 2009
Walkie Talkie can take a walkie
Sunday, October 4 '09
The whole idea of having a shed, studio, retreat, office or space was so that the owner could escape into a child-free zone without being disturbed for however long she needed. Mrs. Bennet had obviously not made this very clear to those who shared bite-sized modern Pemberley with her. For her 40th birthday, the little Miss Bennets had, thanks to Mr. Bennet, given her a walkie talkie so they could communicate with her when she disappeared down the garden.
"We thought it would be fun to chat to you Mummy," they informed her. Eyebrows raised, she looked quizzically at her husband.
"It was so I call you back after midnight," he explained.
"But had it not occured to you that I might not want to come back?" she replied.
The Miss Bennets ushered her into her den so they could test the efficiency of their present. Mrs. Bennet had vaguely remembered seeing the said object on Miss Bennet Number Two's birthday wish list. No doubt she had had something to do with it.
Dutifully Mrs. Bennet took her talkie walkie - which she preferred to call it - to her shed. She couldn't help thinking that a better present would have been an obedient microchip which could be installed into each child (and possibly husband.) The remote control of course would for once be firmly in the hands of Mrs. Bennet.
The whole idea of having a shed, studio, retreat, office or space was so that the owner could escape into a child-free zone without being disturbed for however long she needed. Mrs. Bennet had obviously not made this very clear to those who shared bite-sized modern Pemberley with her. For her 40th birthday, the little Miss Bennets had, thanks to Mr. Bennet, given her a walkie talkie so they could communicate with her when she disappeared down the garden.
"We thought it would be fun to chat to you Mummy," they informed her. Eyebrows raised, she looked quizzically at her husband.
"It was so I call you back after midnight," he explained.
"But had it not occured to you that I might not want to come back?" she replied.
The Miss Bennets ushered her into her den so they could test the efficiency of their present. Mrs. Bennet had vaguely remembered seeing the said object on Miss Bennet Number Two's birthday wish list. No doubt she had had something to do with it.
Dutifully Mrs. Bennet took her talkie walkie - which she preferred to call it - to her shed. She couldn't help thinking that a better present would have been an obedient microchip which could be installed into each child (and possibly husband.) The remote control of course would for once be firmly in the hands of Mrs. Bennet.
Friday, 2 October 2009
But it’s not working
Friday, October 2 ‘09
There were certain theories which clearly were not working in the Bennet household. The “getting out the door” theory did not exist as far as Mrs. Bennet was concerned. She had tried everything in her parental power to get her offspring out of the house, into the car, back out of the car and through the school gates before the bell went. But no matter how hard she tried, there was always something – a child, a paddy (or a “ponk” as Mr. and Mrs. Bennet called it), a recycle van, a lack of parking space or a completely exhausted mother – which stopped them achieving their goal. This morning it was Spag (alias Miss Rosie Bennet) who would not co-operate. She point blankly refused to put on her shoes or coat, and instead lay prostrate on the floor and wouldn’t budge. It hadn’t helped that the older Miss Bennets had decided to play hide and seek instead of cleaning their teeth. It was only when she moved the computer chair Mrs. Bennet discovered Miss Bennet Number Two – so good was she at hiding. Instead of using spoons to eat their cereal, they had armed themselves with felt tip pens and got lost in a world of imaginative drawing. There was just no sense of urgency or the comprehension that “I must go to school.”
Mrs. Bennet had had enough. Doing live reports on radio or television was a doddle compared to getting five children out of the house. Her stress levels soared far higher. Whatever it took she would not get worked up by this charade any more. If the children weren’t ready by the time the Scooby Doo van had to leave, then they would have to come in whatever state of dress they were in. Having to go to school in pyjamas would soon teach them a lesson.
The other theory which had failed her so far was the acne cream removing Biro one. Right now the defaced baby dolls were plastered in the white stuff, so-say sun-bathing so that the sun’s rays could work with the chemicals in the cream. Only the sun had disappeared two hours ago. Spag and Bol's etchings hadn't. The dolls, looking rather pathetic and sad, were lying on the trampette. One or two of the neighbour’s cats had sauntered by to see what was going on, and realising that one of their favoured spots had been taken, walked off haughtily. It wasn’t every day you saw two miniature people undergoing cosmetic surgery in broad daylight. And it was broad daylight, or to be more accurate direct sunlight that was needed for this procedure to work. Mrs. Bennet feared she would now have to wait a year. She peered curiously at the creamed dolls. Had the marks faded slightly or was that wishful thinking? They were certainly visible and very striking on one side.
She wiped off the cream and popped the dolls back into the hospital shed.
As it was Friday, there was not a chance of trying the procedure again until next week. A whole weekend then of hoping the question: “where’s my Baby Annabell Mummy?” didn’t pop up. Mrs. Bennet decided she might have to tell the owners that unfortunately their babies were currently in special care and couldn’t be held for a while.
Clouds threatened overhead. Mrs. Bennet needed a miracle. Well two actually. A dose of divine wisdom as to how to get to school on time and a cure for removing black marks from innocent plastic babies. Incidentally if the cream did work, she intended to put some on her wrinkles and sit out in the sun all day.
There were certain theories which clearly were not working in the Bennet household. The “getting out the door” theory did not exist as far as Mrs. Bennet was concerned. She had tried everything in her parental power to get her offspring out of the house, into the car, back out of the car and through the school gates before the bell went. But no matter how hard she tried, there was always something – a child, a paddy (or a “ponk” as Mr. and Mrs. Bennet called it), a recycle van, a lack of parking space or a completely exhausted mother – which stopped them achieving their goal. This morning it was Spag (alias Miss Rosie Bennet) who would not co-operate. She point blankly refused to put on her shoes or coat, and instead lay prostrate on the floor and wouldn’t budge. It hadn’t helped that the older Miss Bennets had decided to play hide and seek instead of cleaning their teeth. It was only when she moved the computer chair Mrs. Bennet discovered Miss Bennet Number Two – so good was she at hiding. Instead of using spoons to eat their cereal, they had armed themselves with felt tip pens and got lost in a world of imaginative drawing. There was just no sense of urgency or the comprehension that “I must go to school.”
Mrs. Bennet had had enough. Doing live reports on radio or television was a doddle compared to getting five children out of the house. Her stress levels soared far higher. Whatever it took she would not get worked up by this charade any more. If the children weren’t ready by the time the Scooby Doo van had to leave, then they would have to come in whatever state of dress they were in. Having to go to school in pyjamas would soon teach them a lesson.
The other theory which had failed her so far was the acne cream removing Biro one. Right now the defaced baby dolls were plastered in the white stuff, so-say sun-bathing so that the sun’s rays could work with the chemicals in the cream. Only the sun had disappeared two hours ago. Spag and Bol's etchings hadn't. The dolls, looking rather pathetic and sad, were lying on the trampette. One or two of the neighbour’s cats had sauntered by to see what was going on, and realising that one of their favoured spots had been taken, walked off haughtily. It wasn’t every day you saw two miniature people undergoing cosmetic surgery in broad daylight. And it was broad daylight, or to be more accurate direct sunlight that was needed for this procedure to work. Mrs. Bennet feared she would now have to wait a year. She peered curiously at the creamed dolls. Had the marks faded slightly or was that wishful thinking? They were certainly visible and very striking on one side.
She wiped off the cream and popped the dolls back into the hospital shed.
As it was Friday, there was not a chance of trying the procedure again until next week. A whole weekend then of hoping the question: “where’s my Baby Annabell Mummy?” didn’t pop up. Mrs. Bennet decided she might have to tell the owners that unfortunately their babies were currently in special care and couldn’t be held for a while.
Clouds threatened overhead. Mrs. Bennet needed a miracle. Well two actually. A dose of divine wisdom as to how to get to school on time and a cure for removing black marks from innocent plastic babies. Incidentally if the cream did work, she intended to put some on her wrinkles and sit out in the sun all day.
Thursday, 1 October 2009
Mrs. Bennet buys acne cream for a doll!
Thursday, October 1 09
Children, Mrs. Bennet realised, took you to places you never ever expected to go. They also forced you to learn things you hadn’t realised you needed to learn. Such was the case for Mrs. Bennet who was doing her best to prevent the eldest Miss Bennets from venturing anywhere near the male shed. The female version was kept clean, orderly and used as a retreat and office for Mrs. Bennet alone. The male equivalent was quite simply a mess, but proved a useful place to hide anything. It was currently hiding two Baby Annabell dolls.
As Mrs. Bennet was endeavouring to polish up any art skills she had, so too were her offspring. One afternoon, while the older Miss Bennets were painting piggy banks, Spag and Bol, their younger siblings were happily applying their artistic marks to two plastic faces. Mrs. Bennet was changing in the room next door and could hear their happy giggles. Investigating to see just what was so funny, Mrs Bennet caught them in the act. Ball-point pens in hand, they had applied their permanent squiggles and marks on to the cheeks and foreheads of each doll. Hiding the plastic babies was one thing; trying to remove the tattoos was another. After Mrs. Bennet’s attempts to apply nail varnish remover hadn’t worked, somehow Mr. Bennet had smuggled the clothe-less babes down to his side of the shed and had failed miserably to remove the Spag and Bol imprints with mentholated spirits. If that didn’t work, what would? These dolls weren’t cheap, and the Miss Bennets who the dolls belonged to, were not going to be very happy. Not very happy at all.
Mrs. Bennet went to work that night and consulted Mr. Google for help. He was able to suggest various ideas: baking soda paste, vegetable oil, carpet cleaner, adhesive remover and even evaporated milk. According to fellow parents who had also suffered the same ball-point baby defacing problem, none of the fore-mentioned had proved to be the answer. But there was one product which apparently did and there was even photographic evidence to prove it. The solution? Acne cream containing 10% benzyl peroxide. Apply it to the doll and then stick her in sunlight for a few hours and hey presto all the marks disappear.
So here Mrs. Bennet was on her way to a chemist to buy acne cream. Not for a teenager, but for a doll. And if the pharmacist dared to ask her if she had used the cream before or had had any side effects, she knew she would probably not be able to contain herself. Her side effect was a fit of giggles.
Children, Mrs. Bennet realised, took you to places you never ever expected to go. They also forced you to learn things you hadn’t realised you needed to learn. Such was the case for Mrs. Bennet who was doing her best to prevent the eldest Miss Bennets from venturing anywhere near the male shed. The female version was kept clean, orderly and used as a retreat and office for Mrs. Bennet alone. The male equivalent was quite simply a mess, but proved a useful place to hide anything. It was currently hiding two Baby Annabell dolls.
As Mrs. Bennet was endeavouring to polish up any art skills she had, so too were her offspring. One afternoon, while the older Miss Bennets were painting piggy banks, Spag and Bol, their younger siblings were happily applying their artistic marks to two plastic faces. Mrs. Bennet was changing in the room next door and could hear their happy giggles. Investigating to see just what was so funny, Mrs Bennet caught them in the act. Ball-point pens in hand, they had applied their permanent squiggles and marks on to the cheeks and foreheads of each doll. Hiding the plastic babies was one thing; trying to remove the tattoos was another. After Mrs. Bennet’s attempts to apply nail varnish remover hadn’t worked, somehow Mr. Bennet had smuggled the clothe-less babes down to his side of the shed and had failed miserably to remove the Spag and Bol imprints with mentholated spirits. If that didn’t work, what would? These dolls weren’t cheap, and the Miss Bennets who the dolls belonged to, were not going to be very happy. Not very happy at all.
Mrs. Bennet went to work that night and consulted Mr. Google for help. He was able to suggest various ideas: baking soda paste, vegetable oil, carpet cleaner, adhesive remover and even evaporated milk. According to fellow parents who had also suffered the same ball-point baby defacing problem, none of the fore-mentioned had proved to be the answer. But there was one product which apparently did and there was even photographic evidence to prove it. The solution? Acne cream containing 10% benzyl peroxide. Apply it to the doll and then stick her in sunlight for a few hours and hey presto all the marks disappear.
So here Mrs. Bennet was on her way to a chemist to buy acne cream. Not for a teenager, but for a doll. And if the pharmacist dared to ask her if she had used the cream before or had had any side effects, she knew she would probably not be able to contain herself. Her side effect was a fit of giggles.
Friday, 25 September 2009
Goodbye to DIY
Friday, September 25 '09
Mr. Bennet did not yet know it, but Mrs. Bennet had banned him from any future D.I.Y efforts which may be needed in future at their modern bite-size Pemberley. When a curtain rail fell down in Miss Bennet Number One’s bedroom, hitting the bed with such force it made Mrs. Bennet jump, she vowed that was enough. If Miss Naomi Bennet had been asleep at the time, she would now be suffering from a severe headache. Only a few days ago, Miss Bennet Number Three had experienced an avalanche of coats after tying to reach her fleece. The entire rail fell off the wall, smattering its contents on the five-year-old. Mrs. Bennet now seriously considered employing a Darcy in the Dirt on a permanent basis. Book shelves were also a taboo subject if it involved a hammer and nail. Whilst breastfeeding Miss Bennet Number One on the marital bed, some nine years ago, the shelf behind her collapsed, sending the Chronicles of the 20th century hurtling in the cow's direction. It narrowly missed both mother and child by inches.
A decade on, today was also significant. It marked the end of Mr. Bennet’s D.I.Y exploits, no matter how simple.
Mr. Bennet did not yet know it, but Mrs. Bennet had banned him from any future D.I.Y efforts which may be needed in future at their modern bite-size Pemberley. When a curtain rail fell down in Miss Bennet Number One’s bedroom, hitting the bed with such force it made Mrs. Bennet jump, she vowed that was enough. If Miss Naomi Bennet had been asleep at the time, she would now be suffering from a severe headache. Only a few days ago, Miss Bennet Number Three had experienced an avalanche of coats after tying to reach her fleece. The entire rail fell off the wall, smattering its contents on the five-year-old. Mrs. Bennet now seriously considered employing a Darcy in the Dirt on a permanent basis. Book shelves were also a taboo subject if it involved a hammer and nail. Whilst breastfeeding Miss Bennet Number One on the marital bed, some nine years ago, the shelf behind her collapsed, sending the Chronicles of the 20th century hurtling in the cow's direction. It narrowly missed both mother and child by inches.
A decade on, today was also significant. It marked the end of Mr. Bennet’s D.I.Y exploits, no matter how simple.
Wednesday, 23 September 2009
The Mummy’s in a bad mood syndrome
Wednesday, September 23 ‘09
“How would you feel Megan if I kept telling tales of you?” asked an indignant Miss Bennet Number Two.
“Sad,” replied a quietly spoken Miss Bennet Number Three, who after a long pause, added: “But then I feel sad because you hit me!”
Most people had an alarm clock. Mrs Bennet had squabbles as her new-day welcome. After the first ten minutes she just knew it wasn’t going to be an easy few hours. Her stomach was knotted, her head pounded and she did not want to face an hour of battling against wills, detangling hair and scraping squashed cornflakes and jammy toast off the floor or walls. She felt stressed. Mr Bennet had casually informed her last night that he was off to Singapore for five days. His announcement came at a moment when her resources were empty, her brain was scrambled and her body exhausted. She was in a season of change. Not THE change thankfully, but never-the-less, there were various things in her new decade calendar which took her out of her comfort zone farther than she had anticipated. She had embarked on leading her first parenting course, started a year’s art and design course on a Tuesday evening to see if there was anything creative left in her after 22 years and the twins had driven off with a childminder for the first time. Having interviewed some 85 artists over the past 18 months, Mrs Bennet had felt inspired and had decided to throw herself back into her art and this morning was the first of a 10 week pastel course. She thought it would be fun to play about with colour as her young children did so freely. But she was so uptight inside, all Mrs Bennet kept thinking was: “what am I doing here and why did I come?” By lunchtime she bitterly regretted plunging into anything new. The efforts needed to get to such a course, whether it was this one or the Tuesday evening, was such that she felt so frazzled by the time she arrived, it took her almost the entire class duration to unwind. Surrounded by those who clearly knew what a pastel was and had either been to art college, painted regularly or taught art, she wanted to leave before she had even made a mark on the page.
It didn’t help that she was feeling bad at shouting at the Miss Bennets and blew her top because one of them refused to look for a pair of white socks. They had absolutely no sense of urgency to get out of the house and quite frankly Mrs Bennet was fed up in shepherding them to the boarding gate. Like a kettle she boiled over, steam pouring from her nostrils and words flowing uncontrollably. She then suddenly stopped, fell to her knees, burst into tears and apologized profusely to the little Miss Bennets, who immediately threw their arms around her. She, now the child; they the adults.
This morning, the boarding gate was crammed with five lunchboxes, nappy bags, book bags, art bag, shoes, three swimming kits and a gym bag – in case she could run away afterwards. Despite this, due to the emotions bubbling within the Mummy, it was not the smoothest of exits. It was hardly surprising then that colour didn’t flow. Mrs Bennet wanted to wear black, scribble all over her pictures and run away. What parent was she to lead a parenting course? And why did she think she could be an artist? Mrs Bennet was clearly not having a good day.
“How would you feel Megan if I kept telling tales of you?” asked an indignant Miss Bennet Number Two.
“Sad,” replied a quietly spoken Miss Bennet Number Three, who after a long pause, added: “But then I feel sad because you hit me!”
Most people had an alarm clock. Mrs Bennet had squabbles as her new-day welcome. After the first ten minutes she just knew it wasn’t going to be an easy few hours. Her stomach was knotted, her head pounded and she did not want to face an hour of battling against wills, detangling hair and scraping squashed cornflakes and jammy toast off the floor or walls. She felt stressed. Mr Bennet had casually informed her last night that he was off to Singapore for five days. His announcement came at a moment when her resources were empty, her brain was scrambled and her body exhausted. She was in a season of change. Not THE change thankfully, but never-the-less, there were various things in her new decade calendar which took her out of her comfort zone farther than she had anticipated. She had embarked on leading her first parenting course, started a year’s art and design course on a Tuesday evening to see if there was anything creative left in her after 22 years and the twins had driven off with a childminder for the first time. Having interviewed some 85 artists over the past 18 months, Mrs Bennet had felt inspired and had decided to throw herself back into her art and this morning was the first of a 10 week pastel course. She thought it would be fun to play about with colour as her young children did so freely. But she was so uptight inside, all Mrs Bennet kept thinking was: “what am I doing here and why did I come?” By lunchtime she bitterly regretted plunging into anything new. The efforts needed to get to such a course, whether it was this one or the Tuesday evening, was such that she felt so frazzled by the time she arrived, it took her almost the entire class duration to unwind. Surrounded by those who clearly knew what a pastel was and had either been to art college, painted regularly or taught art, she wanted to leave before she had even made a mark on the page.
It didn’t help that she was feeling bad at shouting at the Miss Bennets and blew her top because one of them refused to look for a pair of white socks. They had absolutely no sense of urgency to get out of the house and quite frankly Mrs Bennet was fed up in shepherding them to the boarding gate. Like a kettle she boiled over, steam pouring from her nostrils and words flowing uncontrollably. She then suddenly stopped, fell to her knees, burst into tears and apologized profusely to the little Miss Bennets, who immediately threw their arms around her. She, now the child; they the adults.
This morning, the boarding gate was crammed with five lunchboxes, nappy bags, book bags, art bag, shoes, three swimming kits and a gym bag – in case she could run away afterwards. Despite this, due to the emotions bubbling within the Mummy, it was not the smoothest of exits. It was hardly surprising then that colour didn’t flow. Mrs Bennet wanted to wear black, scribble all over her pictures and run away. What parent was she to lead a parenting course? And why did she think she could be an artist? Mrs Bennet was clearly not having a good day.
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