Free Knit One Pearl One by Gil McNeil

myself a special umpire’s armband. Or a blue helmet, like the UN use for conflict zones. I wonder if bloody Mimi had one. Probably not. Too busy sleeping with my husband. But I blame him for that; she probably didn’t even know he was married, not at first; he never wore a wedding ring, he thought they looked silly on men. But once she knew, she should have put her blue helmet on and posted herself somewhere else. Actually, I’ve never liked the French; they’re far too snooty about food, and they don’t seem terribly good at laughing at themselves, which is a pretty vital life skill as far as I’m concerned. Although that might be just my life.
    Connie yawns. “I am so tired; this baby never sleeps, not at night.”
    “I’ll give you a lift home if you like; it’s a long walk up that hill.”
    “No, Mark is coming, with the biscuits for tonight. Lemon shortbread, I think.”
    “Lovely. But make sure you don’t overdo it tonight okay?”
    They’ve got a group booking in the restaurant, a design firm from Whitstable who’ve just completed a big job, so Connie can’t make our Stitch and Bitch group tonight.
    “I will be fine. Don’t be fussing.”
    Cinzia says something in Italian, and Connie mutters something under her breath which makes Cinzia laugh.
    “What?”
    “She is reminding me, she was talking to my mother last night, and she made her promise. If I am tired, she must ring her, and she will come and make me stay in bed all day.”
    “Sounds good to me.”
    Cinzia nods. “Yes, and I will do it.”
    “You will not.”
    “Yes, I will. And you cannot stop it, because La Mamma, she always wins.”
    “Not round here they don’t, Cinzia, I don’t know if you’ve noticed. Pearl, please don’t do that.”
    She’s bored with saucepans now and is trying to open the cupboard under the sink, where I keep all the cleaning stuff. Reg has put a child lock on the door, so it only opens a few centimeters. It’s a bugger to open at all actually, but at least it means I don’t have to race across the kitchen every time she toddles toward the sink.
    “More.”
    “No, love, we can’t open it now. It’s nearly suppertime.”
    She stamps her foot. “More.”
    “No, Pearl, we can’t open it now.”
    She hurls herself on the floor and starts shrieking. Great. Time to launch Operation Tantrum, again. Fortunately, Cinzia knows the drill and goes into the living room to watch telly with the kids while Connie and I sit ignoring Pearl, pretending not to hear the earsplitting shrieking. Only another mum can really pull this off; with child-free people there’s always that slight tension, where you know they think you should have some magic trick to stop the yelling, and if you don’t you’re clearly a crap mother. I’m giving Pearl the occasional arms-folded, have-you-finished-being-silly-yet look, which she’s ignoring. It’s quite hard not to laugh at my little princess with her tiara askew, throwing such a major stop, although I’m sure it’s a scene repeated in palaces around the world. But at least in my kitchen I get to be the Queen.
    She’s running out of energy now, but still furious. This is the crucial bit. If I get the timing wrong, as I often do, she’ll launch herself straight into round two.
    “Have you finished, sweetheart? You can carry on being silly if you like, but the door has to stay shut. But when you’ve finished, I’d really like a cuddle.”
    She hesitates, and looks at me as I cross my arms again and try to look Determined. She gets up and readjusts her tiara. Trying to pretend nothing has happened, she saunters over for a cuddle, but she’s still doing that hiccuping breathing they do when they’ve gone straight past being cross and right into hysterics.
    I pick her up, and she snuggles into my shoulder, and her breathing starts to calm down as I pat her back.
    “Brava.” Connie winks at me.
    I’m just about to make a start on supper when the unmistakable sounds of