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Wednesday, August 7, 2013

The Perils of Pinky Poinker Part Two


When I was four my parents erroneously believed I was a genius largely due to the fact that at the age of three I could recite the poem Vespers by A.A. Milne. A tape recording of my lisped recitation was made by my proud Grandfather and sent to all of our relatives over in England. 

(It later became clear to everyone that wee Pinky was not in actual fact a prodigy of any kind, but at the age of four I was still managing to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes.) 

Kindergarten was deemed too low-brow for an intellect as lofty as Pinky’s, so a suitable school was sourced and before long a diminutive albeit fraudulently-gifted Pinky was accepted into a private Anglican school complete with terrifying nuns dressed in long black habits.

(If you have read this post 
Are We Mollycoddling Our Kids? you will recall that my mother removed me from the Kindergarten I was attending because the Kindy teacher had threatened to chop off my fingers due to my mucking up a succession of paper lanterns with my lame fine motor skills. Perhaps my mother merely wanted to get rid of me for five days a week and didn’t really believe I was a genius at all.)

If you look at the photograph in yesterday’s post you will notice a cheeky little girl sitting two to the right of me. Her name was Heather and she was as naughty as me and my best friend at school. She was five years old and worldly-wise in my four year old mind.

Pinky! Mummy said I’m allowed to have a friend over for a play on Monday afternoon. Do you want to come? I have a caravan in my backyard I use as a cubby!” Heather asked me one Thursday at recess.

I knew very well my overprotective mother would never, even if hell froze over, allow me to go on a play date, especially when she didn’t know Heather’s mother from a bar of soap, but all I said was, “Okay! I’ll ask Mum.”

The next day as soon as I saw the excited Heather she asked me, “Did you ask your Mum? Can you come over?

Yes. I’m allowed.” I replied positively.

I spent the weekend silently agonising over what I should do. I desperately wanted to see that caravan more than anything in the world.

Monday afternoon quickly arrived and Heather and I sat on the concrete school steps waiting to be picked

Heather’s mother arrived and we eagerly jumped into the back of the car. Although I pictured my mother arriving at the steps in our Citroen and finding me missing in action I didn't give it too much thought.

As Heather’s mother drove along the main thoroughfare I saw my own mother’s car parked outside the shops.
I didn't say a word.

There’s your Mum!” shouted Heather espying the easily identifiable car.

Yes,” I replied indifferently, “She’s probably on her way to pick me up from school.

There was a screech of brakes as Heather’s Mum (somewhat dangerously) pulled over to the side of the road.

Pinky!” she shrieked in alarm, probably contemplating the ramifications of kidnapping. “Does your mother know you are coming over to our place this afternoon?

So anyway… Heather’s Mum urgently swung the car around back to the shops, accosted my shocked mother and apologetically explained what had happened. Put on the spot, my mother begrudgingly agreed to my going on the play date. 

 Heather and I had a delightful afternoon drinking cordial and eating ginger nut biscuits in Heather’s caravan. 

But the entire visit was marred by an underlying certainty I would be getting a stern talking to when I returned home.