Left a good job in the city

Last week was my son’s first ever school concert. His role? Child one. His only line was the first line, and after that we sat through a jazzed up version of the Christmas story as portrayed by 4 to 7 year olds. As always, the parents provided me with the greatest entertainment. This being Cape Town, there was a fair sprinkling of ageing hippy chicks in the kind of outfits that are going to embarrass the crap out of their wearer’s offspring in a few years time. Then there are the crop tops and low cut pants – some low enough to show Caesarean scars, which is probably not what the world’s fashion police had in mind. It’s an indictment of the cokeheads and fuckwits who run world fashion that the ideal body for a woman is the one that only a few had when they were 15. Any group of people who considers Sophie Dahl a bit porky needs a good slap.

Then there was my favourite among the mums – M’s mum. She is a 30 something Afrikaner with a figure that is testament to the skill of a surgeon somewhere, and a good head of blonde hair. The only snag is that she dresses like a hooker. She drops the little one off at school in outfits (hers, not the son’s) that can most kindly be described as impractical – all skin-tight cleavage and big sparkly belts. The boy’s only four, but I think he’s starting to get an idea that maybe this isn’t quite normal. Maybe he’s had a word with her – the other day she looked much smarter. She looked like a classy call girl. Thanks Mum.

I wonder what they think of me?