Right that’s it. We can never come back. And not just because we’ve rented the house indefinitely and gone and resigned. Nor because the tories are about to come to power and I am standing on principle (because lets face it I don’t have many of those). No. We can’t come back because Lula in doing her best impression of Kevin from ‘We need to talk about Kevin’ has driven a small child and her mother from our home in floods of tears. I am so embarrassed I need to put several continents between myself and them as quickly as possible. If we could bring forward our leaving date I would be on my way to Heathrow right now and not writing this blog post.
The mother (who until about half an hour ago was a really good friend) was of course gracious and kind to my face after Lula had tried to force her daughter into her ‘pink fairy palace’ and told her daughter that she was ‘RUDE’ (in capital letters) when she wouldn’t go. She then added to this by telling her that her picture was ‘not cinderella it’s a scribble’ in much the same sneering tone that Malcolm Tucker employs when confronting the opposition. I wonder where she is learning that from.
I apologise profusely having failed to get Lula to do so.
‘It’s just that Lula is a natural leader. One day she’ll be Prime Minister or something,’ my friend says.
‘No I think Prime Minister would be impossible, that would require skills like consensus building and diplomacy…a Dictator maybe.’
‘And her little pink book.’
We laugh. But inside I’m dying. I am thinking I am the worst mother in the world. I’m worse than octomum. At one point I am on the floor rocking back and forth staring into blankness as the screams and wails of two toddlers rail down from above like hailstones. I wonder whether we should just park Lula with the monkeys in Bali’s sacred monkey forest and let them raise her – they’d clearly do a better job.
‘Do what I say!’ Lula yells.
‘NO!’ her friend yells back.
‘She won’t do what I say,’ Lula bawls to me.
‘Well that’s because we have free will and you can’t make people do stuff Lula.’
She looks at me like I’ve just told her pink is a crap colour. Like it’s an impossibility or I’m talking ewok or something. It is totally inconceivable to her that she is not God. That she cannot command and be obeyed. We really have messed up these last three years I realise.
‘She just wants to play. I feel sorry for her,’ my friend says.
‘Why? Would you feel sorry for Pol Pot?’ I reply.
And so they leave in a hurry. Alula refuses to budge from the sofa to say bye. She is busy strangling the cat. I say sorry and bye on her behalf then march back upstairs to tell her to start packing. She’s got a date with some monkeys.