in the bathroom sink. This one has been going for five years.
‘Bonnie, you’re going to come with Mummy to the shops.’
‘NO, shops are boring. I want to go to nursery.’ She crosses her arms, stamps her foot and pushes out her lower lip.
‘Bonnie, if you’re good I’ll buy you some sweets.’ She is in her buggy in under thirty seconds and waits patiently as I put on her shoes. Are sweet bribes how the other mothers control their kids? I think of all Bonnie’s vomiting last night and groan. But she does seem a lot better.
We finally get walking and I push her buggy into the Marks and Spencer’s food hall, letting her choose a few different items of confectionary to keep her occupied.
‘Take four things,’ I tell her. ‘If you’re good, you can have it all.’
We then head over to the hosiery department where I pick up six pairs of eighty-denier black tights, the ones that apparently regulate my temperature, and a few bras that look about the right size. In the dressing room I leave Bonnie on the other side of a curtain eating a Rocky Road bar so I can try them on. But as soon as I shut the curtain, she goes apeshit.
‘Mummy, Mummy!’ she screams, drawing the attention of all the old women trying on bras. About four grey hairdos poke out of changing rooms to witness the child screaming in distress.
‘Bonnie, stop it,’ I say firmly. ‘I’ll be twenty seconds.’ I shut the curtain quickly, and she screams again. I have no idea why she suddenly has separation anxiety; usually she kicks me until I leave her alone.
‘Mummy! Mummy, no!’
I tear open the curtain.
‘Bonnie, please pack it in. I need to try these on.’
I hear a ‘tut’ from the cubicle next door. A little old lady pokes her head out and looks at Bonnie sympathetically.
‘Poor girl, she’s frightened,’ she says, in that annoying way that old people do. They were parents to toddlers so long ago that they have forgotten how awful it is. They remember the sweet bits, the cuddles, the playfulness, the stories. Mother Nature has rid their memories of the turbulent mood swings, violent meltdowns, sleepless nights and their own stress-induced outbursts. Of course that is what happens – if all adults and old people were like me then we would horrify younger generations into never reproducing. It is imperative that humans forget the turmoil of birth and parenting small children for the evolution of the human race, but dearie me, when you come face to face with it in a Marks and Spencer’s changing room, it’s hard to accept it as natural.
‘She’s not frightened, she’s being silly.’
‘Ahhhh, give her a cuddle,’ says another of the set-and-perm brigade.
‘She doesn’t need a cuddle,’ I say, whipping the curtain shut again. I just need to try on some bras, then we can leave.
‘Oh dear, is your mummy very angry?’ one of them asks, seriously testing my tolerance levels.
‘MUMMY. MUMMY,’ Bonnie screams. What the hell is she playing at? She never does this.
‘Bonnie, wait,’ I say, sternly. She has to be patient. And I peep my head through the gap so she can see me whilst I try to blindly to put on a bra on the other side of the curtain.
‘Ahhhh, poor baby,’ the first old lady says, bending down to Bonnie. She is only wearing a bra. It’s weird and creepy and Bonnie doesn’t like it any more than I do. I rip a bra off its hanger. I just need to try them on.
‘Oh dear,’ the old lady says. ‘Do I smell poo poo?’ Bonnie screams louder as the old lady invades her personal space by putting her hand on her crotch and giving it a very hard squeeze. What the hell does she think she is doing?
‘I feel a poo poo,’ she says, as Bonnie kicks her right in the face. I only have one boob in the bra when the old lady falls through the curtain and into my dressing room.
‘NO!’ I yell, as I see blood pouring from her nose.
‘Help me, help me,’ the old lady screams. I look at her on the floor. Despite my half naked state, I feel a surprising lack of self-awareness. I’d take my body over her decrepit old one any day. It’s unusual for me to feel one-upmanship on anything involving my physical appearance. I rather like the feeling. I cover myself before multiple other old ladies rush to her aid. I get myself dressed, grab all the bras and tights and quickly leave the changing room. I’ll pay for them all, and try them on at home.
‘You need to teach that child some respect,’ one of the grannies shouts after me. I turn around and march straight back over to the cubicle.
‘Some respect?’ I repeat, to the three-strong gaggle of geriatrics nursing the perverted one’s nose. ‘You grabbed my daughter’s crotch and she quite rightly kicked you in the face.’
‘I was checking her nappy,’ she says, all breathy, hurt and offended in that way old people get when they are out of order but think everyone should let them off because they’re ancient. Well not me.
‘I’ve told her since she was old enough to understand me, that if anyone she doesn’t know or likes goes anywhere near her crotch she is to do whatever it takes to get them off. Old men, young boys and nosey old bags included. You deserve that bloody nose and I hope you’re sorry,’ I say firmly. The women stare at me as if I am a dinosaur and running for their lives is pointless.
‘SECURITY,’ calls one of them, like a damsel in distress who can’t fight her own battles. Stupid old ladies.
‘I didn’t touch you,’ I say confidently. ‘You touched my daughter and she defended herself. What are you going to do, have them arrest her? Or will I tell them that you grabbed my little girl’s vagina?’
‘How dare you,’ the bloody-nosed old witch says to me.
‘No, lady, how dare you! Up yours!’ I say.
When we eventually get in the queue to pay, a pungent smell of poo lingering around us, Bonnie has calmed down. I kneel down to her level.
‘Bonnie, I am proud of you for kicking that woman in the face. If anyone ever tries to touch your vagina and you don’t want them to, that is exactly what you do, OK?’
She looks at me as if she has no idea what I am talking about.
Then she kicks me in the face.
Lauren Pearce – Instagram post
@OfficialLP
The image is of Lauren sitting on the edge of a bath, one leg lifted and her foot beside her. One hand has a razor in it, the other is holding her phone. She has a black silk robe on.
The comment reads:
Body hair, why do we even have it? I mean, I know it was supposed to keep us warm when we lived in caves, but we have clothes now. I love having silky legs (Gavin likes it too;). Did you know that if you run out of shaving
