We don't argue . . .well we don't 'fight' we often have heated discussions and lively debates. I'm in the habit of returning from work and screaming like a banshee because someone's left a dirty cup in the sink or hasn't hung their wet towell over the shower rail. But apart from that . . .we have a very harmonious household. DrummerBoy knows to avoid me when I'm on a tyrade and once I've cooled down, we discuss things rationally. ClareBear is so even tempered that she either ducks for cover or obliges straight away to keep the peace. However . . . there is one thing upon which we do not see eye to eye . . .most times she goes out on a Saturday, dressed to kill - attractive, slightly sexy but tasteful . . . sometimes when she goes out . . .she looks like a tart. She thinks she looks like a sex bomb. OK could be the jealous, grumpy old woman in me but this girl is petite, pretty, good natured, intelligent . . . so why tonight, ready to go out and about clubbing in the city's red light district of all places, did she look like a street walker. Grey suede calf length boots, a piece of denim wrapped around her hips that was a poor excuse for a skirt, a skimpy black singlet top and a purple wide leather belt and enough eye makeup to make a transvestite proud. Everything was too small, too short, too tight too over the top. Am I just jealous because it's been years since I'd fit into, let alone dare to wear, something so provocative? I gave her the 'look' and was quickly repremanded and told to pull my head in but . . . sorry sweetheart, you're better than that, you're a beautiful girl and you don't need to dress to attract Sydney's sleaze bags . . . time we went shopping.
Aha, so maybe that's her cunning plan . . .