Foreign Ways

I am becoming rather intrigued by the stunna momma from school. Particularly since I saw her running in the park the other morning.

She ran totally like a girl, you know, elbows out, feet splayed, a bit like a duck under pressure. But it wasn’t that which caught my interest. It was the fact that she was running at all. You see, she belongs to the sort which decides, in its mid-twenties, whether all efforts will be going into salvaging the face or the figure. This is absolutely an either/or thing – everyone knows you can’t keep both.

The theory is that losing weight, while asthetically more pleasing, will inevitably lead to wrinkles, whereas putting a brave face on things means, basically, sharing your old age with a big fat arse.

I had assumed she was going for the face, as she is freshly plucked and beautifully made up no matter how early the hour. Indeed, when the school misguidedly offered parents’ morning meetings with the teachers instead of an old-fashioned parents’ evening last term, she was the only one amongst us who managed to deploy her mascara in the 7am November darkness. I’m sure I did not imagine my youngest child’s teacher’s sudden intake of breath when I stuck my totally undecorated face round the door at the crack of a particularly horrible, grey dawn. No surprise, then, that we’re back to evenings for the next round of meetings.

Anyway, discovering Stunna had actually gone for figure, not face, was a terrible shock. Another comrade lost to the horrors of the gym, or, in this case, the deep ridiculousness of pounding round Dulwich park clad in garments containing lycra. I feel a bit let down. And piqued. I have been enjoying other mummies’ tales of Stunna’s refreshing take on parenting, allowing children on playdates to get in touch with their inner homing pigeons by finding their way back from the park using only bits of string and the light of the moon, screening Kill Bill after tea and other gems. Now I find she’s just a jogger like everyone else in Dulwich!

And how did I spy her running, I hear you ask? Well, I was in the park myself. But walking, you understand, just walking. I need my fat arse. I can’t afford cushions any more.

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