I've allowed myself to become embroiled in a dispute at the school gate. It isn't pretty. Over the course of this year a clique of mothers of a certain type has emerged. Before this I considered myself to be a friend of one of the said clique who, like me, was not adverse to a spot of irresponsible drinking, smoking and the liberal use of expletives. Then Polly Perfect got her jewel encrusted, regularly professionally manicured, nails into her. Polly changes her BMW sports cars and Chelsea Tractors about as frequently as I buy new shoes. I have wondered whether she tells her spouse when he returns from work in the Gulf States "what, this old car - I've had it for ages - you never notice me - sob" as I do to spouse when his eyes turn skyward and accuses me of buying new footwear.
In any event, I've been sufficiently irritated about giving a shit that Polly Perfect clearly doesn't consider me yummy mummy material, that I've only very recently shared my feelings with another reject. It turns out she feels exactly the same way so I consider my churlishness to be vindicated and I'm prepared to share it with you.
Polly decided recently that her charitable act of the year would be to invite some of the slummy mummies to an end of term meal at a smart restaurant in town. She probably considered the mothers that actually have to work for a fucking living don't ordinarily get to visit such establishments and would kneel down and worship at the shrine of scrummy yummy mummyness. However, she has standards to maintain, and clearly undertook a vetting procedure. The slummy mummies that have professional occupations passed, and the blue collar workers remained in exile. The clear injustice was exacerbated by the claim that the reason that only certain individuals were chosen was because Polly wanted the evening to be "more intimate". I found this as lame as a duck, and not just a metaphorical lame duck either; a duck that that's just stepped on a roadside bomb in Afghanistan.
This afternoon, with the back of another slummy mummy invitee, we rebelled and said we didn't wanna play. Instead of going out for posh nosh we're spending the said evening crawling pubs, smoking like a boy-racers first set of low profile tyres, and maybe taking in a curry before taking it out again in the back of a taxi. What really fucked me off though was that when we informed Polly Perfect that we wouldn't be joining them, she beamed her smile spa'd super straight gnashers at me. I overcame the breathtaking urge to remove them. Plastic Poo-tangs.
I've just shared the debarcle with spouse. He said: "mothers-care, fathers-don't-give-a-fuck."
I would like to acknowledge the assistance of my buddy Sam for the slummy mummy label which I wholeheartedly embrace, and Anna for Plastic Poo-tangs, cause that's what they are. xxx
