Fanfooky-wookytastic! Yellow egg yolk stain on WHITE trousers. It’s not so much the colour, although yellow stains are never going to look anything less than dodgy, it’s more the proximity to my crotch that bothers me. There is, however, no time to change me (note to self: always pack, and bring change bag for ‘grown up should be able to fend for herself and yet falls surprisingly short on many occasions' mum, as well as kids’ change bag). No choice, I have to leave, I am late picking up the kids for lunch, they eat at the canteen three days a week at school, apart from the Friday, when I pick them all up (WHY??). It ends up being like an Anneke Rice challenge (although hopefully, a slightly smaller bottomed version, no offense Anneke, but it was all we could look at love…), a test of mental endurance. I used to do this everyday right up until I had a physical and mental breakdown, and couldn’t stop myself rocking in corners…Well, not quite, right up until Christmas, then it was all just getting too ridiculous, with picking kids up from 2 different schools, and only just over an hour to enter, lunch, babywipe-up, clean-up, turn back around, chase my arse for a while, then back in the car, and school re-drop off, you see where I am coming from? So now, sorry kids, I do this only on the Friday.
As I leave I see in the back that I have a chicken still doing it’s own thing in the car. I can’t get it out, so Marjorie has to come with me for the ride. This probably wouldn’t have been an issue either, had she not noticed the car was moving, she looks out the window sensing motion, her head cocks one way and then the other, the big red flappy thing on her head flaps from side-to-side too, then terrified, she sh*ts herself, quite literally. This is absolutely brilliant, I suppose at least, though, when I now open the car door and step out with dodgy-yellow-crotch stain, the stench of the chicken sh*t will distract onlookers…? When this is what your *hope for the day* is, you know you’ve got issues.
The public girl toilets were shut, being ‘maintained’. I have visions of a psychologist sat in there, helping the public toilets come to terms with their purpose in life, housing Jo public’s arses. THE worst job ever, having to accommodate the Public’s arses, in such an intimate way too. Anyway, they were shut, and whether a psychologist was in there *maintaining* them, or not, who can say? The instructions were clear however, that the dudes' loos were still going strong. OMG. Urinals. As if? But with 4 kids desperate for a wee, although we had ‘last weed it' before leaving the house, as I am a COMPLETE neurotic when it comes to public loos *borks at memories of smells, and once slipping up on someone else’s wee, and landing in someone else’s squidgy, scrunched up loo-roll*, *borks a bit more*. So off into the boys' toilets we trot. I base my head and attempt to avert my eyes, being the only woman in here (and quite possibly the only woman in the world to be ever) surrounded by dudes relieving themselves. Too rank. There is (thank the lord in the heavens and the singing angels with harps and secret mars bars for harp-playing energy) a cubicle, and I dive in there grabbing their little hands and instructing, well I say ‘instructing’ it’s more of a slightly neurotic screech, telling the kids to touch NOTHING. Mortifying experience. I hope the girls’ loos are back on form next time, maybe it was their time of the month?
So there we go, I am off to make a cuppa, then collate hundreds of leaflets whilst nursing my 4-year-old who had grommets put in less than a week ago, and has another ear infection already, and the *words can not describe her, you have to see her to believe it* terrible-two-year-old. Wish me luck!