This afternoon Annabelle (a work colleague of my husband’s) and her son arrived for a play date with my munchkins. Annabelle lives in Chiswick, and cannot usually be convinced to visit us as we live in South East London. Annabelle’s son Hugo (a pale boy with a constantly runny nose) is the same age as Max, and the two boys have forged a firm friendship, meeting regularly at birthday parties.
Annabelle always seems to vying for supremacy with me regarding parenting, showing off about the organic/free range fare that she succeeds in convincing her poppet to consume. Hugo hasn’t yet had a single immunisation (so I naturally consider him to be an infection hazard) and he is constantly popping homeopathic tablets into his mouth (e.g. for shock, runny nose, general exuberance, bad manners, an allergy to camels fur etc).
Max had described the delights of Telegraph Hill Park to Hugo, and so we set out to spend the afternoon there in my Audi Q7. I happily volunteered to drive for 20 minutes to reach our chosen location, tunes from the sing the times tables CD providing entertainment for the journey.
Telegraph Hill Park really is a super play area, with an amazing slide set into a hill – the children are not required to negotiate any precarious steps to reach the top. The swings and play frames are all imaginatively built, and it really is super special.
When we parked on a side road, I suddenly noticed Annabelle’s mouth was hanging open.
“Whatever is the matter Annabelle,” I enquired innocently (I feared she had suffered a stroke).
“OHMYGOD!” She shrieked, “tell me you have not taken us to the London borough of Lewisham … please, please tell me, we are not in ...New Cross, OHMYGOD” she howled clutching her chest.
“Well I really don’t know which borough we are in, it is next to Peckham I think, but I have kept the doors locked the whole time, I was being careful,” I soothed.
“You have gone too far,” she bellowed. “You are quite simply too blasé with regard to your children’s welfare,” she said. “Living in South London is one thing, but this, this is the front line!”
“This is a conservation area Annabelle, I am sure that some perfectly lovely people live around here” (although I must admit, I do know a real minx that lives just up the road…).
“You will be holding your children’s birthday parties in MacDonald’s next, and wearing imitation Ugg boots” – she accused. “The presence of crumbling Victorian housing stock, the odd blue plaque and the absence of net curtains does not a respectable area make!”
At this point I suddenly became aware of the dialogue between our six year old boys in the back of the car.
“I have, yes I have,” shouted Hugo, “I have seen a grown up horror film. I have a TV in my bedroom, and the nasty man made a dress out of ladies skin. The film is called something to do with sheep…” asserted Hugo enthusiastically.
“Indeed, I shall take you home immediately,” I conceded. “I am so sorry for exposing you to such horrors. The film is called Silence of the Lambs Hugo, and yes Max, Hugo has evidently seen it, and no you may not as you are only just six years old…”
I would imagine that Annabelle was ashamed and embarrassed; she didn’t say another thing all the way home. It is terribly difficult to evaluate her non verbal communication; her face rarely moves after all, it is choc full of toxins!
