Nit Picking 'Nan'

PoshMum walked slowly along the grassy verge to the school without the customary spring in her step or bounce in her stride. And despite their humungous size, her Oliver Peoples sunglasses did not obscure the distracted, withdrawn expression on her face, and the tension lines around her mouth. As she made her way through the gate she spotted her pal Lucinda, who looked just as frazzled as PoshMum felt. Lucy was deep in conversation with the Form Teacher, always a bad omen. PoshMum tactfully positioned herself alongside, slightly out of earshot, ready to offer support when the conversation came to its end (but really to find out exactly what was going on!).

“Blast it!” said Lucy, walking over to PoshMum with a frown, “I’ve just been well and truly told off!”

“What’s the matter sweetie?” asked PoshMum encouragingly.

“Nits!” said Lucy tersely, “Apparently Alfred is heaving with them, and I have been given two ‘demerits’ and a ‘detention’ for having failed to deal with them. Honestly, people make such a fuss – it really isn’t that big a deal! He must have caught them from Lily; girl’s schools are positively rife with them, there is a letter in the book-bag every other week. It’s all right for the schools to get ‘heavy’ on us parents but they don’t have to spend hours every night with a vat of tea-tree oil, a wailing child and a fine toothed comb at bath time! It is such a bore – Lily’s hair is really long and it takes absolutely ages. With the home work, swimming, ballet and supper, life is frantic enough as it is!”

At this moment Alfred came bounding up and threw his arms around Lucy’s waist for a hug. PoshMum took an involuntary step backwards and vowed to boil all the bedding from Alfred’s last sleep-over with Child One.

“If she keeps getting them wouldn’t it be easier if you cut her hair? And you could wash it more frequently.” she ventured, as the little boy frolicked about, tossing his long blonde curls.

“Are you mad?” asked Lucy incredulously, “Cut her hair, she’d kill me! And she’d make my life a living hell! You wouldn’t understand, darling, you have boys! And I do wash her hair frequently, thank you very much Nurse Posh! Besides, lice prefer clean hair.”

“My two have never had them, not even once.” said PoshMum (with a palpable sense of satisfaction), “But if everyone read the letter and used that pink stuff from Boots then it would all be gotten rid off, wouldn’t it?”

Lucy (who had detected that note of self-satisfaction) fixed PoshMum with an appraising look.

“Well, aren’t you the lucky one!” she said tartly, “Your boys must be the only head lice ‘virgins’ in the whole of London! And I most certainly will not be putting that Derbac M solution on my poor child’s head – it contains malathion, an organophosphate! I draw the line at putting neurotoxins or pyrethrins on my children! Conditioner and combing work perfectly well. Come on Alfred, you, Lily and I have a date with nit comb!” And with that she swept off with her nose in the air, as Alfred bounding along beside her.

“Hmmph! Conditioner and combing probably do work perfectly well . . . if one can be bothered to sit down and do it! What a cheek!” thought PoshMum, “Now she’s in a mood with me! Oh well, I’ve got my own problems - where are Children One and Two? It’s time to drive down to Hampshire.”

PoshMum was in a less than sanguine mood because they were spending that weekend in Liphook with PoshHusband’s parents, who lived in an enormous rectory in this choice village in Hampshire. ScaryMotherInLaw was a truly formidable woman – her family had been notable in the county for generations. Beautiful, spoiled, with inherited money, she lived a charmed existence and had never worked a day in her life (child rearing included) - unless you counted her political fund raisers which had garnered her an M.B.E. She was utterly ‘U’, terribly posh and very proprietorial with attractive females that ventured near her three sons. She had had seen off all unsuitable matches for Sons One and Two, who eventually hitched their wagons to pale carbon copies of their mother; county ‘gels’ with family background and little formal education. PoshMum had been a much trickier proposition – an academically clever, grammar school kid who had studied the ways and means of the landed gentry with the full intention of joining them, ScaryMIL knew she was a kindred spirit and a force to be reckoned with. On the day that they were introduced by a happy, florid PoshHusband (then still touchingly surprised that such a pretty girl consented to sleep with him on a regular basis) they had sized each other up, recognized the spark of rapier-like intelligence within and agreed to an unspoken truce. But ScaryMIL had the advantage – one that she could not resist using as an occasional stick with which to prod PoshMum when the mood overtook her (usually after her second glass of Bordeaux). PoshMum was working class; her knowledge of the mores of the upper classes was acquired in the same way that she acquired her 2(I) Honours Oxford Law degree – through meticulous study and practice. Despite having schooled herself to say ‘what?’ instead of ‘pardon’, ‘drawing room’ instead of ‘lounge’, ‘riding’ instead of ‘horse riding’, ‘napkin’ instead of ‘serviette’ and the jokey ‘loo’ or ‘bog’ instead of the dreaded ‘toilet’; having also learned which way to pass the port (to the left) and deduced how to correctly eat fruit (cut up with a knife) or an artichoke (leaf by leaf) ScaryMIL still seized remorselessly on any working class lapse, thus requiring constant vigilance. For PoshMum these weekends (or ‘Friday to Mondays’) were never relaxing.

The evening was still golden and beautiful when they arrived; PoshHusband came down on the train, the children were bathed and popped into stripy pyjamas, after which they all repaired to the ‘patio’ (oh, sorry - terrace!) overlooking the parterre for pre-prandial G&T’s.

“Isn’t this lovely?” asked ScaryMIL. “Amazing weather; my lilacs and magnolias have been quite early this year. PoshMum, you look very well – and so do the boys; come and give your Grandmama a hug before bedtime!”

Full of glee at the invitation, Children One Two rushed over and swarmed on ScaryMIL’s lap. She kissed them fondly and ruffled their hair with genuine affection (“A brief moment of emotional weakness for the old bird! It was off to boarding school at seven for her boys!” thought PoshMum snarkily as she observed the scene). One more hug and ScaryMIL ushered the two boys and their cousins off to bed. Then she flicked back her (chic) grey bob, lit another cigarette and fixed PoshMum with a calm and limpid gaze.

“PoshMum darling, you might want to make sure that your boys don’t sleep in the same bed as Cousins One, Two and Three this weekend”.

At this unexpected sally PoshMum’s two sisters-in-law sat bolt upright and all eyes focussed on ScaryMIL (exactly how she wanted it).

“Why ever not? Is there a problem?” enquired PoshMum, wondering when and where the other shoe would drop.

“Not really,” drawled ScaryMIL, “It’s just that their hair is rife with nits, for which Daughters-in-law One and Two probably will not thank you. Is this a London thing?”

Said daughters-in-law immediately dashed off, to supervise the sleeping arrangements. All remaining eyes were now on PoshMum, whose cheeks were flushed with unaccustomed embarrassment.

“Umm, no, of course not.” she stammered, “What a nuisance – they do so like clean hair you know!”