Thursdays are dancing days.
A long drive with school wearied children.
Their faces lunch smeared,
Their hair adrift from braids
Arrive.
Always late.
Rush! Rush! Rush!
"Quick out of the car.
Yes I've got your bag
Just lean on me while you get on your tights.
Wrong foot.
Yes I've forgotten the hair brush.
Oh your faces are so dirty."
Look around at the perfect coiffured mummies.
Their perfect painted nails,
Expertly arrange hair.
Their ballerinas immaculate.
My jealousy is palpable.
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