Prinkle Karma

“My tights are too tight,” she wails, “They’ve got prinkles!”
Legs thrashing she lies on the floor. Distraught with discomfort.

What are prinkles? you ask.

Fucking karma, that’s what it is.

Invisible fucking botherances which require an hour of smoothing and stretching and un-stretching, and taking on and off and on and off of tights and boots and socks and shoes looking for a magic fix. And humour and ultimatums, and alternatives and every other fucking trick in the book.

And all the while remembering another little girl lying on the floor, almost three decades ago, thrashing, hating my clothes. And my dear mother doing the best she could. Morning after morning. Keeping it together, most of the time. And I channel that love and patience, and memory and compassion for my five year old self, and keep it together… most of the time.

I never wore trousers till I was 8 (and I still rarely do!) I hated ANYTHING tight, or scratchy. I had one pair of baggy blue knickers that I wore endlessly, which must have been silently washed and dried at night in secret, much as we now do with karma child’s favourite pink (now nearly grey) dress that she wore for the ENTIRE summer holidays. I was happiest running naked, and every picture of me during the summer from baby hood to aged 7 is entirely naked. I thought that was the norm in the 80s… until I noticed every other child, in every other picture was clothed. Karma child would be happiest in her pink dress, no knickers and flip flops. Even in the middle of winter.


We try as best we can to find compromises. And I have told her that come adulthood she can emigrate somewhere year-round sunny, so she can live in her outfit of choice. But till then we have to find a way of getting round school uniforms and Irish winters that doesn’t kill us all.

Ah karma. My butt is well and truly bitten. EAAAAAAARGGGGGHHHHHHHHH IT PRINKLES!!!!!

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