Encounter of the squeaky clean kind

Press, 5 November 1984, Page 10

Encounter of the squeaky clean kind

Helen Brown

I have burnt my rubber shoes and the foul-smelling socks that went with them.

I gave up jogging long before the man who wrote the book collapsed and died at the side of the road. It was unnerving to pound around the block with my heart pulsing in my ears. Besides, people were always walking past me. I was pleased to get rid of the shoes and socks. But I can’t bear to part with the bulky blue track suit I used as an aid to selftorture.

It’s old now, and covered with fuzzy white lumps from the washing machine, but it’s too comfortable to throw away. It is specially useful on the mornings I have to do the school run. We belong to the footless child era. They can’t walk further than the distance between a cinema and the nearest hamburger bar. Maybe they’re in the process of evolving wheels at the ends of their legs.

When it’s my turn for the school run, I roll semiconscious out of bed into the track suit. Then it’s breakfast and out at the astonishingly early hour of 8.30 a.m. The other morning, I needed to drop some work off at a smart city office. I reckoned if I moved fast with the school run, I’d be able to sneak into town afterward and slap the papers on the appropriate desk before the impeccablygroomed secretary arrived. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not scared of this secretary. It’s just that I don’t like to feel conspicuously scruffy. I didn’t see why I should go through the grind of putting on a dress, make-up,

and ladderless stockings just for her. The kids piled into the car, filling the air with wafts of toothpaste. “I’m sitting in the front,” our kid said.

“He sat there last time,” someone wailed.

“It’s the danger seat, anyway,” I said. ‘You’re far more likely . . .’’

The front seat was immediately vacated and four 'small bodies fought for space on the back seat. “Who’s going to shut the front door?” Silence. I leaned over to slam it when a huge white rug dived into the front seat. The dog. She exposed her yellow teeth goodnaturedly and let me know the meaning of halitosis. She didn’t care about danger seats.

I issued the usual threats about what happens to people who pinch or call people names, and: turned the radio up full blast to blot out request like “Can we go back? I’ve forgotten my spelling list.” Four ungrateful kids

spilled out at the school gate, leaving me and my foul-breathed companion to speed into town. 8.45. With my luck, Td still be able to drop the papers anonymously and fly. I found a park and ran into the building — to find the secretary waiting at the lift. She was smarter than ever. Not a winkle onher stunningly fashionable dress.

Her make-up was earlymorning fresh and her hair had been combed to perfection. She held an intimidating leather briefcase. As she passed a cool eye over my track suit, I wished more than anything I had stayed at home. Hired a messenger. Anything but this.

I nodded good morning, and we stepped into the lift. Just as the doors were closing, a three-piece suited businessman pushed his way in. His face was gleaming with aftershave.

I stepped back into one corner, hoping they would ignore this blot on their crisp, early morning landscape. The lift seemed to take about 10 minutes to get from ' floor to floor. I glanced up to see the man smiling admiringly at the secretary. Maybe they would get engrossed in each other.

The secretary bird smiled back at the man. She turned to me, her mouth still broad with a smile. I was relieved to see she had red lipstick on her teeth. Even the perfect secretary wasn’t immune to mornings.

It made it easier to forget my track suit long enough to smile back. ,-f