Tuesday 20 February 2018

Demented Mum: Wolverine's woeful wardrobe choices now come back to haunt her

SHE will not be going with the family on holiday, the Wolverine proclaims.

She'd rather die than spend a week plodding up and down the Shannon in a yellow canoe.

There's, like, this brilliant over-18s disco on that week. You get to wear body paint and everything!

I point out that the Wolverine is not over 18. Actually, she is not over 17. In fact, she's not yet even 17. And anyway, she has nowhere else to stay.

Her friends have fake IDs and sleep over at each other's houses for days on end, she grumbles.

"Really?" I inquire coolly.

"Really," she says insolently.

"Well," I say, "you're coming with us to Clare and that's the end of it."

The Wolverine stamps upstairs. I turn up the radio to drown the distant but persistent wails of fury.

Her father mentions wearily that maybe she could stay with granny for the week that we're all away on holiday. Perhaps she could go to the disco and then sleep over in her best friend's house?

All we have to do is make sure that granny insists the Wolverine wears something decent. We have to start trusting her to behave herself, he points out. After all, she's nearly 17.

"Oh, really?" I say, "wait a minute."

I go up to our bedroom, and, from a drawer, remove the tiny scrap of blue, stretchy, denim-look cloth that I found myself hanging out on the line with the rest of the Wolverine's washing.

I unearth the unfamiliar, totteringly high scarlet heels that, following her last outing, had been kicked off and left thrown on the floor.

In the kitchen I hold up the bit of blue cloth for my husband's delectation.

"What's that?" he asks.

"It's a skin-tight micro-mini," I say, pulling it up over my leggings to demonstrate how it barely skimmed the buttocks.

"Christ," my husband says, and blanches, "what did you let her buy that for?"

"I didn't," I say, fastening the four-inch hooker heels.

He averts his gaze as I wriggle around in front of him.

"I never saw it before. I presume she got it somewhere for the last disco and left it on the floor of her room when she came home. I must have picked it up with the rest of her dirty laundry."

No, no, my husband groans, he definitely made her change into something decent before the last disco, remember?

Yes, I say, but that was before she was dropped off at the best friend's house, where she presumably borrowed this ensemble.

"She's coming to Clare," he says grimly.

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