My Secret Lover

trouble with being plain is
that people don’t observe the rules like they do with an attractive person.
When people greet Joanna, they say ‘Darling, you look wonderful!’. (Not tramps
obviously, but even they would probably manage something like, ‘Gord bless you,
pretty lady.) When people greet me, they say, ‘Lydia! That’s a nasty spot.’
    I’d hardly got through the ticket
barrier, when I noticed him trying to get a cash refund on the baguette.
     
    Traffic’s very bad this morning.
     
    I shall be nicer to my mother. I’ll
ring her up more often. I’ll agree to lilies in my wedding bouquet if that’s
what she really wants. I may even suggest we look at sheltered housing
together, if the moment seems right.
    I shall trade in my car for a
smaller, more ecological model. Or at least switch the engine off in the queue
for the temporary lights.
     
    *
     
    Why don’t they just make them
permanent lights? They’ve been temporary so long, but the permanent ones still
seem to know the traffic conditions better. It’s a bit like supply teachers.
     
    I shall start speaking to Richard
Batty again.
     
    I’ll join the witches’ Sponsored
Jubilee Weight-Loss Relay, which will help me win friends, lose weight and do a
little bit extra for charity, even though it is the Prince’s Trust, which I
object to in principle. Until he turns over all his profit from the Duchy of
Cornwall, I don’t see why people on public-sector salaries should donate a
single penny. Or buy his Organic Lemon Biscuits, for that matter, which are
twice the price of Sainsbury’s Lemon Thins and don’t taste all that different.
     
    I will give up trivia. Or at least
try to cut down.
     
    New Andy’s boyfriend Jasper is a
producer on the local news bit that comes on after the main news, which I
usually turn off, unless there’s a film premiere in Leicester Square or Madonna
in a West End play or something.
    ‘So?’ says Mrs Vane.
    She can’t abide show-offs.
    ‘So he’s coming along today with a
crew,’ says New Andy.
    ‘You mean we’re going to be on
television?’ Miss Goodman touches her hat, which is fine lemon straw with a
white satin band, and looks at her feet. She’s cursing herself for not wearing
the lemon pumps that match the outfit, but heels can be a problem in the
playground, especially when it’s been raining.
    ‘I think the headmaster might have
something to say about this,’ says Mrs Vane, who has on her usual taupe slacks
and sweater with the simple addition of pointy ears, a tartan choker, and a
stubby tail.
    ‘Yes,’ says New Andy.
    ‘What?’ She’s rattled now. Usually,
she’s a stickler for ‘I beg your pardon?’ and her tail’s waggling.
    ‘That’s what the headmaster said.
Yes.’
    Mrs Vane hurries out of the room.
    ‘She wouldn’t have come as a corgi if
she’d known,’ says Miss Goodman, patting her flounces.
    ‘She does look a bit of a dog’s
dinner,’ says Mrs Wates, who’s a vision in aquamarine.
    Witchy cackling.
    ‘A saucer of milk for the ladies!’
says New Andy, with a little theatrical, ooh-aren’t-I-awful look. He tosses his
head so violently his tiara slips, then minces towards the door in his white
stilettos.
    The witches smile at his neat little
bum. They’ll forgive anything from a man in drag.
    ‘Who are you?’ I ask him.
    He looks at me from under heavily
mascaraed lashes.
    He has blond streaks in his floppy
fringe.
    ‘Have you forgotten me already?’ he
asks in a wounded little voice.
     
    ‘When you’re writing your stories,
try to remember what you put at the beginning of the sentence. We put a capital
letter, don’t we? And a full stop at the end.’
    ‘Miss, why is India fighting with Pakistan?’ asks Nikita.
    ‘What does your father say?’ I ask
her. He’s Indian. I’ll probably learn more from listening to his views than I
ever would from Radio 4.
    ‘He says they’re on the brink. What
is a brink?’
    ‘It’s when your telly’s broken, dur
brain.’
    ‘No, that’s on the blink, Robbie.’
    ‘Why’s England going up against Argentina?’ asks Robbie.
    ‘That’s a football match.’
    ‘Is India having a football match
with Pakistan?’ asks Nikita.
    ‘It would be more sensible, wouldn’t
it? Why don’t you write your name in the Happy Book?’
    She looks startled.
    ‘Can I write my name in the Happy
Book?’
    ‘No, Robbie. I’m afraid people who
call other people dur brain are not allowed to write their name in the