Floods
There was always a child in my public grade school, sometimes me, sometimes Katie, whose trousers an inch or two above the ankle. Inevitably this kid had snot coming out of his/her nose, wiped along the arm of an already dirty long-sleeve shirt. Usually s/he ridiculed by his peers. The playground a brutal place , no doubt, but sometimes life lessons learned.
Thankfully this not our Madeleine who makes her 'floods' cool ('floods' BTW suggest highwaters and, though similar to capri pants, they differ in that they appear to be too short to be worn). Michael Jackson thought stylish, too, with his black leggings slyly exposing his white socks. Both natural performers, our Madeleine and Michael, and last night Madeleine plays her trumpet in a jazz-band performance at some public school in Teddington (we get lost en route, even with sat nav, so I curse like an Officer which makes Madeleine uncomfortable, poor child). Her tunes joyous and, though our gal nervous , I don't detect a hesitation once on stage. Sonny Rollins would smile.
Me: "School's on strike. .. "
Madeleine: "Whoopie!"
Me: "It is not a holiday, young lady. We are going to do some work."
Madeleine: "What?! That is so unfair!"
Me: "That is the way it is. I want a three-page book report from you."
Madeleine: "Three pages?!"
Me: "Yes. Single spaced, no pictures. And no large writing this time either. I want it done before Nicki comes over for a play date."
Madeleine: "But I was going to sleep in!"
Me: "Sleep in. Just make sure the report is done by noon. Or no play date."
Madeleine: "Nobody else is going to be writing some book report on a holiday."
Me: "Too bad for you. And it is a teacher's strike. Not a holiday."
Madeleine: "Whatever Dad.. You always have to ruin it."
