Dear Man in the cafe,
I am truly sorry that my son announced “Look Mummy, that man doesn’t know that too much food and no exercise makes you fat” whilst staring at you this week. I can only apologise and assure you that if I could have ordered the ground to swallow me up right then and there I would have done so. A hasty exit was my next best alternative so, being possible and all, I opted for this.
An embarrassed mother.
Dear Little Miss,
I love you dearly, I promise, and I do REALLY love to spend time with you, but not at three in the morning, every morning, when you decide to announce you’ve had a poo, which you invariably haven’t but you know it is enough to make me come and investigate, where I find you grinning like a demon as you have once again managed to get both arms out of your pyjama top and insert them through the head hole like some kind of deranged stuntman.
It was (almost) funny the first time.
Now, not so much.
Your exhausted mother.
Dear Retired Lady in the queue,
Whilst I understand that you have no need to rush, you are retired after all, do you really need to spend twenty-seven minutes packing your shopping at the check out. A quick glance at the ever increasing queue behind you must have given you an inkling that the rest of us poor shoppers actually ARE on a limited timescale, needing to get back to work and had only popped in for an emergency item.
I completely understand that you need to pack your items in EXACTLY the right order and, of course, that your husband clearly keeps getting this wrong, but was the five minute discussion with the shop assistant about the new traffic lights really necessary afterwards?
A working mother.
I am becoming increasingly concerned at the number of rogue spikey hairs you keep producing at random intervals. I am taking action. Prepare to be lasered.