Mother of the Tramp

Don't let my Mum catch you laughing at my uniform.

She's a total psycho and she'll kill you with her laptop.

So today was monsoon rain coming down sideways. The bots have to take PE bags in on Mondays which are so large, a small adult could climb inside. They also have huge bookbags strapped to their backs and we are like a band of sherpas making our way across the West Face of the tennis court. I rely on them to let me know if they are missing or have outgrown any bit of kit. I pretend this is good for their sense of responsibility but the raw truth is that I am, as I have mentioned, bone idle. Delegating Uniform Upkeep and Development to the children frees up the node in my brain that can be put to better use researching upcoming developments in employment law. Or thinking about lunch.

Either way, even I could tell that today, something was very wrong. Rose couldn't actually bend her arms, which is quite a handicap if you are carrying the equivalent of a Mini Cooper in books and sports kit. It turns out that apparently I bought her school coat when she was seven. She's now eleven and as tall as me. I have more chance of finding Narnia then getting to the on-site uniform shop during its ridiculous opening hours, so tonight I have resorted to using the on-line school uniform supplier. I forgot my top-secret password, but luckily both children shouted it through several times from where they are sitting in front of the wrestling. I was then subject to intense on-line interrogation as I have not ordered any uniform in two years, nor updated either child's measurement in three. Eventually, the site believed that I was indeed the mummy of two naked and non-growing children. There are three identical-looking styles of coat, one of which will be correct and two of which will result in immediate expulsion, if not public flogging or death by shocked stares. Anyway, I have picked one, chosen a size, chosen to have it delivered to work, lost all the credit card details and therefore the order as the two addresses didn't tally; I have just re-entered all the previous information and resisted the thought of a colossal vodka as it's only Monday.

The supplier has just emailed me to say that the selected item is out of stock. Please will I allow up to eighteen bloody years for delivery. Rose has just remembered that her school skirt ripped. It is pleated and therefore un-mendable by anyone who is not Yves Saint Laurent. I am going to hang the sodding expense and order her another one online. But I think first I'm going to need a colossal vodka.