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| Picture this - for my sister Vicki |
Picture this ...
We giggle, you and I, as we strip to singlets and knickers
And step into Mum's skin coloured pantyhose which we hold for one another.
We pull them slowly and surely up to shoulder height,
Then another pair is placed on each of our heads.
We tuck our elbows in and our hands stay out in front of us.
Then we hop around, what silly giggly rabbits we are.
Picture this ...
We shush each other, you and I, as we mix the powdered paint
Into the water and stir it with the paintbrush.
Should we, could we? Probably not, but we do just the same.
The poor dolly, with eyes that close when we lay her down
And open when we sit her up, is given yellow eye shadow
and bright pink lipstick. But her eyes never work properly again.
Mum wasn't happy, was she?
Picture this ....
Space Hoppers on Christmas morning, one each for you and I,
Round the sunroom we go until chased outside.
Up and down the driveway and onto the road we bounce.
The cousins arrive and show us how to "do it".
Until one space hopper makes a break and careens down the hill
into Mr Grumpy's rose garden.
Dad fixed it a couple of days later with a big orange patch.
It was never the same, and we couldn't decide whether it was yours or mine.
Picture this ...
You and I are picked up from school at lunchtime and taken home.
We get into the empty bath where fake tan is rubbed into little bare legs.
Then we sit and wait while it drys enough to stop it rubbing off.
We endure the torture of hair being brushed, combed and put in curlers.
You handle this a lot better than I.
When tight little curlers cover our heads, Mum insists we sleep
"For at least a couple of hours." How do you manage this, I never did?
Finally we are allowed out of our room and Mum makes up our faces.
Then we travel to the concert.
Your hair comes neatly out of the curlers and falls in ringlets around your face before being
pulled back into a curly ponytail.
Amid many protests and tears, my hair fights the attempts to dislodge the curlers, clinging desperately to each prickly little tourture device.
Eventually it disgorges its prey, looking like a demented swallows nest before Mum coaxes, tugs, pins and sprays it into submission.
We pull on our costumes and run onto stage under the direction of whispering coaches.
And then we dance.
Sue
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Posted by Keep_Left on 2009-07-29 08:02:16 | Rating: | Views: 50
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