Digging For Diamonds.

I have, by my most faithful belief, been leant a truly magnificent child. It is she, alone, who confirms my faith in God because she is, in the true sense of the word, awesome. Flat out. In every aspect of her little being. She is kind and courteous. Loving and caring. She has a sense of humour to rival the majority of adults with whom I'm forced to interact. She's witty. She has not one mean bone in her body. And, generally, she listens to her Mom.

Generally.

The other day I found our humble abode devoid of a single tea bag. I like tea. A lot. So when the tea is finished, I am in my car quicker than grease lightening. And I'm in a tea-selling store in whatever attire I happen to find myself when the disaster strikes. On said day, I was possibly looking my least fine.

I've been on exceptionally long leave, again, and so have spent much of my time in "home kit". "Home kit" is very similar in concept to the period panties: Old - so much so that fabric and elastic are worn away so that the efficacy of any garment functions purely on a lottery-type gamble. Baggy, because figure hugging clothing allows one to witness the new pregnant-looking (not being, I might add) stomach made possible by the Easter Bunny. And fugly - because kit this comfy could only have been made in the mid-90's and been worn pretty much every day since.

And not a drop of make-up. Not one teeny tiny smidgen. Not even left over eye make-up from the evening previous.

Anyway, I was looking like a right poor white. And so was The Daughter. (She likes playing dress-up - which translates into: the-teaming-of-highly-unflattering-and-slightly-too-short-garments-in-an-extremely-mismatched-fashion-to-piss-my-mother-off.) We would not have looked out of place at Walmart.

And because we looked so scruffy, I chose (of course) to go to possibly the hoitty-toittiest Woolies in Durban. Obviously.

So there I was, trying to be obscure. I adopted the slouched shoulder posture of many a street-dwelling bag lady, and tried with earnest commitment to hide my face amongst packaged yoghurts or individually sealed baked goods when a hottie hot pants walked past. I'd forbidden The Daughter from in-store conversation - we're not always aware of how loud our voices can be and so I didn't want to take any chances of possibly drawing attention to ourselves.

All was going well. Apart from sniggering teenage girls, I thought we'd achieved shop-side anonymity better than had been expected. And the operative word is thought.

I was in the (insanely, effing) long queue, immersed in a You magazine (ahem, only to hide the face), when a woman behind me started giggling. I lowered the magazine sufficient to allow my shifty eyes to soak in the object from which this woman derived such pleasure. And then I saw her: The Daughter, with her finger stuck so far up one nostril that only the elbow on the same arm was visible.

The Pant: (in an urgent hushed tone) Stop it!

The Daughter: (in a less hushed tone) What?

TP: (more urgent, as hushed) Stop picking your nose. It's disgusting.

TD: (louder now) But I've got a snolly and it's bothering me.

TP: (with a tone I thought might scare the bejesus out of her) Stop. It. Now. Do that at home. It's revolting.

TD: (with a volume I thought was only possible with the lubrication of several thousand tequilas) But I'm not going to eat it!

It's fair to say that at that moment, The Daughter was indeed lucky that a) I love her and b) she's so many different types of kiff. Because if she'd been a friend, she'd have been ceremoniously de-friended.