So Lucky. Dawn O’Porter
‘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 foam you can just use your conditioner? Oh, I know … such a good beauty hack. You’re welcome. #beauty #selflove #nohairylegsthanks #LaurenPearce #womensupportingwomen
@jemmajubes: No way?? Doing that tonight
@garflib: GENIUS. I don’t know how he is the one with the empire when you are this brilliant (eye roll)
@daveyodavey: Take that robe off next time.
@betterthangoodfor: I bet your mum is so proud, seeing you half naked on Instagram. I bet its all she ever wanted for you. #Getarealjob
@sesememe3: Your skin is like china. You’re perfect, keep being you.
@mellisaheart: Has Gavin got a big dick?
Ruby
Small victories are all you can cling onto when you are as terrible at parenting as I am. I sometimes wonder if I have any positive impact on Bonnie at all, but I’m experiencing a rare moment of elation at the thought that maybe one of the things I have told her has gone in. It’s a terrible shame I have to enjoy this triumph with a black eye of my own, but it is what it is.
When we leave Marks and Spencer I take her back to the park. It’s a lot easier than having her at home, and if we spend an hour or so here, then I won’t have to feel so bad about her watching TV for the rest of the day while I work in my office, hiding from the mouse. When we arrive, I see the man again. He is sitting on the bench holding a packet of baby wipes. The bench is pristine.
I find comfort in knowing other people are hurting. I have a habit of telling myself that I am worse off than everyone else. When I meet someone else with a physical or emotional defect, I feel connected to them. I guess that makes sense.
Bonnie is playing happily alone, kicking leaves and running in circles around a tree. I sit next to the man. He doesn’t seem to have a problem with me being on the bench now that he has cleaned it. His hands are clasped together, his elbows resting on his knees. He is looking out into the park, those memories replaying for him again. As if stumbling on a particular moment, he smiles to himself. It brings him out of his trance and he notices me beside him.
‘Your daughter?’ he asks, pointing towards her.
‘Yes. Her name is Bonnie,’ I tell him.
‘That’s a beautiful name.’
‘Thank you.’ I don’t tell him I regret it, he doesn’t need to know. ‘I’ve seen you here before,’ I say. He could shut this conversation down if he wants to, I almost certainly would.
‘Yes, I’m here every day.’ He turns to acknowledge the plaque. ‘This bench is dedicated to my daughter, Verity. She died when she was seven. We used to come here all the time.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Yeah. Thank you.’
We sit for a few moments and watch Bonnie. Her sweet, innocent energy captivating us both.
‘How old is she?’ he asks me.
‘Three and a half.’
‘Ah, that was my favourite age.’
I have a feeling that I could have said Bonnie was any number of years, and that this man would have said it was his favourite age. But if anyone has the right to romanticise about parenting, it is him.
‘Lovely that you’re with her during the week. My wife insisted Verity went to a nursery even though she didn’t work. Then she went to school. If I could go back I’d quit my job and be a house husband, but you never think like that when they’re alive.’
‘I guess you don’t,’ I say, choosing not to tell him the truth: