Wednesday 25 April 2018

Diary of a demented mum: Work in a shop for the summer? Are you mad?

The summer holidays are looming and, oh me, oh my, the Wolverine still hasn't found a job.

"There's a recession on," she whines, when you mention this, "nobody's hiring."

But haven't most of her friends managed to find part-time employment of some kind? you ask.

How can you expect her to get a decent job, she bridles, marooned as she is deep in this awful countryside, with no public transport and two incredibly selfish parents who are neither willing nor available to bring her to the places she needs to go?

If you and Dad had bought a normal house in the town like normal people, she'd definitely have a job.

Hanging on to the last ragged shreds of your patience you suggest -- yet again -- that she try the village supermarket just 15 minutes walk away.

Pshaw! the Wolverine says, dismissing that one with an airy wave; she wouldn't work there for a million euro. They're weird.

You think of the bright, busy shop with its army of cheerful teenagers stacking shelves and your heart sinks.

Why, you think drearily, couldn't you have a daughter like that?

Shuddering at the thought of a summer of Wolverine grumpiness, you do the very thing you swore you wouldn't -- you get on the phone and beg your friends to give your daughter a job.

When the offer arrives, the Wolverine is delighted.

"How did they know about me?" she asks, immensely flattered.

You shrug.

Then she frowns.

"But this is a crèche. You know, Ma, I'm not sure I'm really cut out to work with, like, little kiddies and nappies and stuff.

"I was thinking about, like, waitressing. In, y'know, a top hotel. Imogen says the uniforms are class and you get great tips."

Your hands clench into small, hard balls. You notice that you are starting to hyperventilate.

The small hairs on the back of your neck prickle. You imagine your eyes turning werewolf yellow. Just as you are about to launch at her to possibly rip her throat out she smiles.

"You know," she muses, "they must think I'm pretty good to just, like, phone me up out of the blue like that. They must have heard about me from someone."

They sure did, you think.

"They want me to start on Monday. I definitely need a whole new wardrobe for this," the Wolverine declares and skips upstairs to find something to wear.

Later she parades her child-care-assistant look.

Big, big hair, back-combed to the last. Big, big earrings.

Skimpy low-necked top. Denim micro mini-skirt. Uggs.

Say nothing, your inner angel advises.

Oh God.

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