I put on a swimming costume - oh yes - and I got into a swimming pool - I really did - and....... I actually quite enjoyed myself. A bit.
Obviously after lots and lots of swearing about how much I hated Tonbridge and its stupid little roads that- no.......... I shall not burden your sensitive eyes with my foulness.
And maybe there were lots and lots of Marge Simpson noises trying to shepherd two Punch and Judy-esque small boys in and out of changing rooms, toilets and (god!) - SHOWERS - under which it appeared they didn't dissolve.
But I did it. And I hardly got my hair wet. Bonus. Or lost my glasses. Double Bonus. And my ladybumps didn't slump out sideways. Or under. Or anywhere. Triple Bonus.
I did, however, spend most of the time making sure that nothing slumped out - from my 3-piece-chin-to-mid-calf-practically-an-evening-gown-of-a-cossie. Or rode up. Or flopped about. Or fell off. Or even ruckled. Time well spent. And even managed to flip out a few discreet leg swishes in the 2 foot deep water. That's lady exercise that is. In between fish-wife screeching to STOP RUNNING STOP JUMPING DON'T SPLASH WHERE'S THAT BABY? STOP-oh you're not mine........carry on then sweetie..... GET BACK HERE D O N ' T R U U U U N !!!!!!!!!!!!!...........
It was all going soooo welllllllll. It was really. Happy (and now clean) little faces. Seal Boy (having passed for 10 in pulled-down baseball cap) swooshing off into the depths of the Big Pool unfettered and wild; little Thuglet wetly cute in his Goo-Goos (goggles to humankind) on the crocodile slide and with Big Sis being all nice and sing-song bobby-up-and-downy. Even little Rock Godling being sociable and giggly without needing to show anyone his willy (well - not IN the pool anyway - and it was only to Big Bruv when he yelled outside the changing cubicles trying to get lock-on coordinates for us - that's fine - only cost me £3 to buy his silence). You see? All going (pardon me but....) swimmingly.
And then we had to get dressed again.
I can't even begin to dredge back up to the front of my poor damaged mind the horror - the HORROR......
I have consigned it to the place where I discard 96% of my child-rearing experiences:
The Fathomless Pit of Apocalyptic Lament
The Eternal Abyss of Tearing Anguish
The Sunless Chasm of Damnable Despondency
The Sheer Perpetual Gorge of Unimaginable Howling Despairs
The Bomb-Hole of Sad
The Toilet of Trying
The Chocolate Starfish of Ex-Thought
And THEN there was the cafe.................
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They did not get ice-cream.
But worse was still to come. I had a voucher. From my dear mother. For Xmas. To spend in ............... Marks and Spencers.
This should be joyous surely? No. It is Marks and Spencers. It is big. It is full of ladies' things. I have 3 boys with me. It is the Gateway to Hell. No. It IS hell. IT IS H E L L!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I spend eternity trying to find something to spend my voucher on - determined not to just buy lots and lots of those funny shaped crisps that make your lips sting. I was going to buy something to wear. SOMETHING TO WEAR? Yes! I have a voucher for gods' sake for a shop wot sells ladies' clothes. And I am a lady. I WILL find something to wear goddammit! From Marks and Spencers. ? But I am not 85! I am not dead! I will not just buy a big bag. I have big bags. Under my bulging red eyes. And their biggest bags are still not big enough to stuff boys in and do up the zip. So I am going to strangle boys. If I can find them. I can HEAR them. EVERYBODY can HEAR them.
I buy lots of knickers. Black. And a vest and knickers. Black, mostly. And a drapey over-a-swimsuit kind of dress thing. Black. And flip flops. Black - with sequins - black.
'Over a swim-suit'?
On what flapping planet?