There are few secrets sacred in the playground,
where we all compete, all
bitch about each other, silently
ungenerously, unwomanly: how that one is too
posh to wash; how this one flirts outrageously with the
First-Team coach; how she shows her
Botox to the world, but wouldn’t show her
husband her arsehole.
And me? Quiet me, trying to look
inconspicuous? What are they all
thinking of me as I avoid their looks,
scan the heave for my children as my
lover’s sperm drips by the million into the
gusset of my Marks and Spencer knickers?