The Angel of Death
One of the things I’m thinking about as I pack the last of my kids off into the school system is that it’s end of the baby era for us.
Meester and I are closed for business on the baby front and the Flying Martinis are a permanently fixed and complete unit.
One of the more positive knock-on effects of this decision is that we will no longer have to endure visits from our Child Health Visitor, known to us as, The Angel of Death.
The Angel of Death has no kids herself, but knows everything about bringing up a kid since she learned it at college. Apparently.
She manages to do her job despite the fact that all children and their parents are visibly terrified of her.
She is broad country Aberdeenshire farming stock and looks like a big knitted bag that is filled with runny porridge. She has unrestrained, unsupported, massive, pendulous breasts that end somewhere around her waist. The upper front part of her body is not so much a décolletage as flesh-mountain landslide. It’s truly remarkable and may be visible on Google Earth.
Whatever the weather, she always wears jumpers, with a pattern that looks like the vomit you see on a Sunday morning beside a lamp-post outside the pub. She must knit them herself as I have never seen the like on sale in a shop anywhere.
Moving past the jumper area and up to her head, she has a haircut like a bloke, a bit like Roy Castle’s before the chemo. She wears those horrible Reactolite tinted specs. You know the sort; they instantly make someone look sinister. The more light there is the darker they go. They lack the coolness factor of sunglasses and retain all the geekiness of wire-rimmed specs with an ever changing gradient of brown insipid tint. My gran also has a pair and they make her look like Dr Strangelove.
There’s a whole catalogue of incidents with the Angel of Death, but I think our first meeting gives the most succinct impression of her. It’s the occasion of Indy’s 2nd birthday and hence his 2 year developmental assessment. We’ve just moved into the area and have not met the Angel of Death in the flesh yet. Of course, being as it is the day after Indy’s birthday, I have forgotten that she is scheduled to come round.
At that point, I was the only one of my friends to have a kid, so Indy’s birthday party had consisted of our friends coming round for a barbecue, getting pissed and watching the wee fella do cute things for our entertainment.
So at 10am Indy and I are sitting in the debris of all yesterday’s parties eating leftover birthday cake for breakfast in our jammies watching Clifford the Big Red Dog on telly, with me nursing a slight headache and all the barbecue dishes still in evidence.
I spot the not inconsiderable frame of the Angel of Death lurching past my living room window. It’s too late to do anything about the situation. Hiding is futile as she has already glanced through the window giving me quite a start. And as it’s particularly sunny, being May, the Reactolites are in sociopathic full tilt tint.
I have to let her in. Stopping her from entering would look even worse.
Once in, she starts to “assess” my boy, whilst no doubt making a mental note to contact social services as soon as she leaves.
Her assessment is frankly odd. For one she does not speak directly to me when Indy is in the room, she talks through Indy like he’s some kind of parent medium. She also shouts at Indy the way that ignorant people shout at deaf people or foreigners.
“SO HAS MUM STARTED TOILET TRAINING YET?”
“SO IS MUM THINKING ABOUT ENROLLING YOU IN PLAYGROUP?
I have done none of these things. A cross is indelibly marked somewhere on an official sheet as my failings as a parent are recorded forever.
The most hilarious thing about her is her accent; it’s not just broad Aberdeenshire, which is impenetrable enough. No, the Angel of Death appears to have her own language.
“Aye jist wait, we’ll hae Thunner and Lichhtnin‘” she says by way of small talk about the weather as she arrives.
Lichhtnin‘? How does one get from light to liccchhht via making the sound of a cat bringing up a hairball? This is taking Scottishness too far.
I wonder if she wears tichhts on her legs.
If she goes on holiday, does she go to the Isle of Wicchhht?
Does she wear the Reactolites to compensate for her failing sichht?
Is her favourite Elton John number, Saiturday Niccht’s alricchhht for Ficcchttin’?
To this day, if we hear the faintest rumble of thunder we say,
“Aye jist wait, we’ll hae Thunner and Lichhtnin‘”
The Angel of Death goes on to test Indy’s development on ridiculous things that can’t be part of any recognised programme. She gets some little Thomas the Tank Engines out of her big black bag. She then asks Indy to point out which one is “James” and which one is “Henry” .
Now, we don’t like Thomas the Tank Engine in our house, so Indy knows none of these characters and is unable to identify the line-up of our locomotive Ringo Starr-voiced friends. I demand a recount. But given that I’m in mismatched jammies, reeking of Chardonnay, un-showered, hurriedly shuffling around trying to collect what seems like hundreds of wine glasses with chocolate fudge on my face, I haven’t a leg to stand on.
“We don’t really know the Thomas the Tank Engine characters,” I say, “I couldn’t even tell you the answer to that one!” .
She looks at me blankly and puts another mark down on another official form that probably says something like,
As the years went on I had another child to offer up to her. She would give me advice on breastfeeding, despite her ample bosoms never having seen a hungry baby. She would talk me through childbirth, despite never having possibly even seen a grown man naked, never mind getting pregnant. I am unsure if there is a Mister Angel of Death; I suspect not.
So goodbye Angel of Death, we won’t miss you. But as I sit here, I’d like to think of her on her way right now, to terrorise a family with a new baby, trundling along a street in her Vauxhall Vectra and looking out her windscreen at the skies and weighing up the possibility of “thunner and licchtnin”.
******
Over on the Spontaneous Production blog this week, I’m looking at Little Films That Made it Big. It’s got a podcast attached and everything. Now off you go..shoo! Click here
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Carry on up the Khyber
PROMISE TO ALL: An embargo on this kind of thingwill be in effect from the 9th of July
And then I remembered why I started the Misssives in the first place. It was to record my travels. I wanted to let my friends and family hear all our holiday/travel stories without having to: A: Actually speak to them
I solemnly make this promise to you: whilst in India I will not go all spiritual and hippy trail on you, I will not sit in the Lotus position even once, I will not adopt a brown baby like Madonna or Jolie, and I will most certainly not ever utter the words, “This place is magical”.
B: Be arsed to send postcards
C: Clock up international phone charges
*Finnish cuisine can be summed up by the dish “Egg Butter”. Fact: Egg butter is the reason the Russians or the Nazis didn’t invade Finland.
Meanwhile over on hot new blog (hint hint…) Spontaneous Production, I’m telling people to stay out of the cinema. Click here
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The Charm Offensive
Ah the natural curiosity of children. Isn’t it a beautiful thing?
Ha! Only a fool would make such a claim! It is, in fact, an unpredictable hair trigger waiting to ping mud all over the faces of the parents who were foolhardy enough to parade their children in public.
Children will point. Children will exclaim. Children will stare open mouthed. Children will drop you right in it.
Yesterday my son, Indy, who is old enough to know better, exclaimed sharply “Mum! Look!” and made me turn round and look straight at a little girl with quite extreme birth defects.
All of a sudden I unwittingly turn into one of the legions of people who gape and stare at this little girl and her mum.
Indy realised what he’d done as soon as it happened, especially when I turned sharpish back to him with the face that instantly says:
“Shutuprightnowwemighthavegotawaywithit
butyouareinbigtroublemakenomistake”
You know the one.
Once the coast was clear I realised that Indy was starting to tear up a bit, about what he had just done, so I said, “It’s OK, it’s OK you just can’t do that to me OK? You can’t stare and whisper at people. That poor woman probably has to put up with people staring at her little girl all the time.”
“I know, I’m sorry” he said, cheeks flushed and lip trembling slightly. I could tell he felt pretty bad and I suppose yesterday will have marked the point where he realises you can’t blurt out like a banshee every time you see a dwarf, midget, hunchback, Rastafarian, excessively tall person* or any other remarkable character that the two of my children have routinely shrieked at throughout the years.
Life lessons, eh?
Sadly for Meeester and I, we’ve got years of this still to come in the form of one four year old Junior Misssy, though.
One incident happened quite loudly and recently.
There is a woman who works in a local department store who is no bigger than Junior Misssy. She was stationed at the changing rooms when we went in.
“Mummy, why is that wee girl working here?” she bellowed like Brian Blessed in a high wind.
Understand folks, the “wee girl” is standing right in front of us, giving us our tag for the changing area. The woman smiles and says hello to Junior. She also remarks on how cute Junior is, presumably to dissolve my embarrassment. I suppress the urge to haul the still staring Junior away by the scruff before more damage can be done and Jnr Misssy returns the compliment to her.
In the changing room it goes on, “But Mummy how come that wee girl works here?”
“She’s not a wee girl she’s just a lady who is tiny” I whisper, not sure if I am being any more PC than my daughter.
Loudly (please note all of Junior’s dialogue is LOUD in this scenario) she says, “But why is that tiny lady working here?”
It’s like she’s actually questioning why the woman has a job here, and she doesn’t. I am also instantly regretting using the phrase “tiny lady”.
I whisper an explanation of the woman being very tiny as a baby and not growing very big as she got older but still able to work and fine in all other respects. After some further key questions are answered, I am happy that Junior Misssy has understood and will be quiet for the next five minutes until we can escape.
Junior is indeed quiet. So quiet that I when turn round to see what she is up to, I see she has poked her whole head out the curtain and is full on staring at the “tiny lady”.
We have to get out.
Jnr Misssy talks about the tiny lady all the way home. In fact she talks about her still, when we’re in town. “Will we see the tiny lady?” “Why does that tiny lady work there again?”
Jeeez. I can never go back.
And it’s not just tiny ladies that have found Junior Misssy’s radar. On holiday, we were sitting down to breakfast when a 3 year old Junior Misssy shouts, “Mummy, look at that fat lady eating!!” as a poor innocent chubby woman tucks into her buffet breakfast.
Junior’s proclamation is loud and pointy enough for me to have to apologise to the woman, probably making it all worse.
Mind you, I bet she just had a grapefruit the next day.
* All actual occurrences. Apologies to all concerned.
Fairly Bobbins
Sometimes I do not fit into the established mould of a Mum. There are things I do and things I do not do. My kids do seem to like me though, so I figure I’m doing OK so far.
However, I am being called to conform slightly. It is Junior Misssy’s 5th birthday in three weeks and she is angling for a party. And when I say angling, what I really mean is she’s spearheading a saturation PR campaign worthy of Hilary, Obama and McCain put together.
I swear she’s got spin doctors in her pay.
This last night:
“Mummy, have you noticed, you’ve not had to give me a row all day?”
I swear she’s got a campaign tune as well. She loves the Flight of the Conchords* and has been parodying the delightful “Cheer up Murray” at any given opportunity for our entertainment, replacing Murray’s name with family members names as appropriate.
I love that little beast, it goes without saying, but I hate kids parties. I hate being invited to them, I hate having to RSVP to invites for them, I hate having to buy trash presents in order to go to them. I hate they way Junior Misssy seems to be invited to one every bloody weekend.
But most of all I hate being coerced into holding one.
Reasons? Oh you want REASONS? I’ll give you REASONS!
1. Other people’s kids bug me. OK I like my friends’ kids and my nieces but other than that, they’re a bunch of unreasonable minibeasts.
2. I will have to tidy my house to showroom standards to pass the examining eyes of other mums who will cruelly judge me, if I appear slattern in any way.
3. My tidiest-it’s-ever-been-house will need rebuilt 30 minutes into the party.
4. Everyone will bring presents that will fill Junior Missy’s little bedroom to bursting. She’ll get far too much and when I try and siphon some off to charity shops or recycle them etc, she’ll notice. (This disdain excludes Boden and White Company offerings…please note).
5. Someone will buy her something horrifically messy, noisy, or requiring parental participation.
6. I have no small talk capabilities for the sea of mums that will appear at my door. I’ll have to pretend to be normal somehow. Some suggestions for key phrases I could use are greatly appreciated. There’s even the possibility that some of the clingier, fretful mums will stay for the duration. Aaargh! **
7. It’s not form to have alcohol at a kid’s party.
8. I will have to think of some party games to keep them from trashing the house, but on the day you can bet I’ll have forgotten to buy prizes and will have to run to the corner shop to buy a gazillion crème eggs during pass the parcel. I just have to hope nobody notices and keeps passing til I get back.
9. At least one kid will cry and it’s not really on to shove them out in the garden until they’ve stopped.
10. I’ll have to do really uncharacteristically organised things like, making invitations, sending invitations, sending thank you notes and remembering I’ve organised a party and not go out that day by mistake.
11. Junior Missy will have such a great time, she’ll want another one next year.
* Yes yes, she’s only five and I know there are some choice lyrics in there. Can I help it if my kids prefer “Flight of the Conchords”, My Name is Earl” and the “Mighty Boosh” to “In the Night Garden” and “Lazytown”?
** Maybe mums that have read this blog and are concerned about their child’s wellbeing
Elizabeth and Me
I should never be allowed a library card and I am henceforth putting myself forward for voluntary life ban from all libraries.
Something in my psyche makes me unsuitable for membership.
This month I have been sent the final reminder to pay for the books I have borrowed back in May or else some librarian heavy mob is going to sweep by, bundle me into a black mariah and kick the crap out of me.
And I didn’t even want to borrow the book in the first place; it’s that “One for my Baby” Tony Parsons book. I don’t even like Tony Parsons, I think his books make even Ben Elton look like a flipping literary genius. I’d happily help Julie Burchill out in a bar room brawl involving him just because he’s so unbelievably smug. As you know I am handy in a bar room brawl and I reckon squeaky Julie could use me.
Yet here I am with Julie’s ex-husband’s hardback edition unread by my bedside, a £25 invoice for the unreturned book and a mortal fear of walking past the local library in case my face is on a poster inside.
As with most things, I think this goes back to my youth. My dad used to take me every week to the Clydebank Public Library to choose a book. It was a weekly highlight.
One day, I was in my folks’ bedroom trying on one of my mum’s dresses (I was going to write negligee there just to spice things up a bit but in all honesty I just can’t do it. My mum has never been a negligee wearer. Not even in the Seventies when everyone was at it. It would be unfair to brand her one).
I was pretending to be Elizabeth Taylor. I so should have been a gay man.
Anyway, there I was in my mum’s dress, a good quota of her makeup on and I was approached by some adoring fans called Rosie and Cindy (both of the plastic and nylon persuasion) and they simply HAD to have my autograph. I had just split up from Richard Burton and was needing the adulation.
“And where would you like me to sign, ladies. Oh on this Doctor Seuss book? Really? You won’t get into trouble for defacing it? No? OK then…
“Oh I don’t have a pen, my dears. Whatever shall I do?.
“A lipstick, you say? Well, I do believe I have one of those”
So there I am, clutching Avon’s top-selling “Pink Sensation”, camply flouncing about the bedroom signing my Best Wishes to Matel’s finest young ladies. Autographing my little heart out I was, because once I signed one, then a crowd appeared and…well, I couldn’t disappoint loyal fans, could I?
The book was ruined.
Once I came out of my heady celebrity stupor, I realised that I was going to have to come clean and tell my mum what I had done. This wasn’t going to be easy, since I had already drawn on her wedding shoes with felt tip pen some days previously.
On his return from work that day, my dad said he would have to take me to the library and explain what had happened to “the library lady”. I was utterly terrified. He kept me believing this for a day or so, but when the Library Night came I meekly asked him if I could just sit in the car.
He agreed, and I guess he thought my terror was enough of a lesson learned, as he went in alone to pay the price of the book. Looking back, he was probably laughing at me, the way I do when I have to give my kids a row to teach them a lesson, but am secretly laughing my ass off at them.
So here I am, too chicken to just go to the perfectly lovely library ladies with the stinking Parson’s volume and just hand it over, pay the fine and get it off my conscience. I am actually seriously just thinking of paying the invoice and keeping the book, to avoid embarrassment.
I don’t know. What would Elizabeth Taylor do?
The Golden Girl(s)
In the last few days, Junior Misssy has been talking a lot about being a grown up. She’s obsessed with what she’ll do when she’s a mummy, what make-up she’ll wear when she’s a mummy, what shoes she’ll wear when she’s a mummy and how many babies she’ll have.
She starts every such conversation with,
“Mummy, when I’m a mummy….”
Conversations starting this way are usually primo gold-dust. You know you’re in for a treat.
Today’s went like this:
Junior Misssy: Mummy, when I’m a mummy, what will you do?Misssy M: ( I’ll be getting new furniture to replace all the stuff you’ve trashed) Well, I’ll probably be a gran.
Junior Misssy: Will I live with you?
Misssy M: (Jesus, I hope not) No, you’ll have your own house.
Junior Misssy: Mummy, but I’ll miss you!
Misssy M: But you’ll still see me. You can give me a phone and I’ll come straight round.
Junior Misssy (actually a little bit distraught) : But I don’t have your phone number!
Later on I tell Meeester about our little chat and he tells me that she’s been talking this way for weeks. He’s been having to tell her that we’ll all be living in one big Walton’s style house, because she doesn’t like the idea that we won’t be living with her. Bless her. That little memory will be keeping me warm at night in twelve years time when she’s threatening to leave home and live with a wholly unsuitable chap.
Better than that though, I am now rigging up a tape recorder for the next “Mummy, when I’m a Mummy…” session. I’m going to tape her saying that she wants me to live with her when I’m a gran, and then I’m going to lodge the recording with my lawyer.
No old folks homes for me!
He!He!
Run Misssy Run!
Yesterday: Scenario One
08.57am: Misssy wakes up, looks at alarm clock. “Fuck!” is her first word of the day.
08.57 and 3 seconds am: Wakes sleeping Indy with the bad news, “We’re late, you’re going to be late for school! I’m sorry! Get dressed! No time for breakfast! Just put this on! I’m so sorry!”
Indy starts to cry. “Why did you sleep in? Evil Mrs S will give me a row”
08.59am: Misssy, whilst shoving still sleeping, weeping, breakfast-less, packed lunch-less Indy out the door, “Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry…Here’s some dinner money!”
Throws some coins in Indy’s direction.
09.00am: Wake Junior Misssy . Junior Misssy refuses any clothing Misssy chooses and fight ensues.
09.15am: Jnr is flung into Nursery wearing God knows what.
9.16am: Misssy rushes back to computer. Misssy has deadline today and her script has been passed to lovely L in the company she is working for to be proof read. Which is a good thing as regular readers of the Misssives will testify to typo filled prose.
09.30am: Misssy also has phone meeting with her project manager. It’s supposed to be at 9.15. Also still no sign of proof-read script for her to double check, accept millions of changes and have delivered in plenty of time to client that she is meeting at 1pm that day, giving him time to check over it and approve it before the day is out.
10.05am: Misssy has shower. No time to dry or straighten hair. Misssy looks like Alice Cooper, except not as good.
10.30am: Proof-reader emails “Sorry my computer crashed. Will get script to you ASAP. It’s a nightmare here”
11.30am: Run to get Jnr from nursery. Misssy forgets to bring money for Nursery trip tomorrow. Bugger.
11.45am: Script arrives but L has changed a lot of terms that the client wants left in. Misssy has to go through the lot and retype them. She also has to get Junior to sister’s 6 miles in the opposite direction of where she is due for her meeting at 1pm.
11.46am: Misssy stupidly thinks she can check over a 60 page script and email it all sorted to client before setting off at 12 noon.
11.59am: Misssy realises she has no hope of sorting any of this out and abandons project in favour of keeping appointment instead.
12.15pm: Misssy flings Jnr Misssy at sister barely stopping the car to do so.
12.17pm: Misssy remembers that the petrol light has been on since yesterday. She thinks she should be able to run on fumes the 16 miles to town. Before meeting will stop into get petrol. Prays to God for assistance in this.
12.50pm: Stuck in traffic at bottom of so called ringroad. See petrol station over the road. Realises she’ll have to get petrol after meeting. Will run on fumes to meeting. Prays to Vishnu for assistance in this.
1pm: Misssy is still on ring road. Why can’t anyone else but her drive properly?
1.15pm: Misssy arrives at client’s reception, sweating. Receptionist gives her message from Project Manager. Can Misssy phone her before going in? Results of call unimportant to story but Misssy is set back a further 3 mins.
1.18pm: Misssy has meeting. She nods a lot and pretends to understand algebra being spoken like it is English. She is in a constant state of thinly disguised panic. She must be out of meeting before 3. Client knows this but of course she is 20 minutes late so she doesn’t press the point.
3.05 pm: Misssy gets back to badly parked car. Indy is out of school in 10 minutes. He knows to come straight home as he has dentist appointment. But Misssy must get petrol. She decides she will get it on other side of town. She will run on fumes ‘til then. Prays to Ganesh for assistance in this.
3.30pm: Indy is now out of school and heading home to empty Misssyless house. “Mum is really fucking up today,” he thinks, except that boy would never swear.
Misssy is heading toward petrol station unaware that in her haste this morning she has left her purse on the hall stairs. She’ll just have to go on fumes back home 7 miles way. Prays to Buddha for assistance in this.
3.45pm: Grabs Indy from front garden barely stopping car. Hands him toothbrush (Yes, she remembers toothbrush but not purse. What is that about?). Phones Meeester illegally on mobile whilst driving. “Dentist 4.30pm, right?”
Apparently not. It’s at 4pm. No time to go to petrol station. Will get to town where dentist is (and where sister looking after Junior also is) 8 miles away on fumes. Prays to Jesus for assistance in this.
3.55pm. Dentist town visible on horizon. Car says, “Phut!” Lurch! “Phut!” Lurch. Misssy takes car out of gear and coasts hoping that no car in front will turn off necessitating her to brake and lose valuable momentum. Prays to Mohammed for assistance in this.
Indy is looking at Mum with absolute delight. He has stopped hating her for the morning’s trauma, and now worships her as a superhero.
3.57pm: Car dies on edge of town. Misssy prays to Father Son and Holy Ghost as she turns ignition and the car manages to locate molecule of fuel from somewhere and starts. She coasts into town, past lots of parked cars. Silver Audi waits ahead for her to pass so that he can then go past said cars in opposite direction. Car dies half way past parked cars. Audi bastard helpfully starts sounding horn. Misssy loses it:
“Yes, you utter bastard I’ve just stopped here because I fancied it. I’m stuck here because I thought it would be a bit of a laugh! Arggghghghghghghgh!”, she shouts.
Misssy prays to flipping L Ron Hubbard and his alien monster guys for assistance as she turns the ignition once more. L-Ron comes through and the car sputters into life. Audi bastard cheerfully sounds horn once more as Misssy goes lurching past, obviously to cheer her good fortune and not because he is a stupid ignorant fuck wit.
Indy runs out of car and shouts, “I’ll run to dentist. You get Jnr”. Bless him, he’s back on side.
End of day: Misssy and kids come home after Meeester M rescues them. Misssy flakes out on sofa and writes shite blog about her shite day. Nobody can be arsed reading about her shite day as they’ve troubles of their own. Misssy goes to bed exhausted, unread and on the verge of nervous collapse, just to do it all again tomorrow.
Yesterday: Scenario Two
8am: Meeester M says goodbye on way out. Misssy wakes, showers, gets kids up.
8.15am: Kids dress and eat breakfast.
8.45am: Misssy takes kids to school. It’s a beautiful day. “I love you, Mum,” says Indy as he waves her goodbye at the school gate.
9am: Misssy packs her things ready for her meeting. “Must remember to put petrol in car.”
9.15am: Misssy has phone meeting with Project Manager.
11.10am: Misssy collects Jnr from nursery and, smiling, delivers her to Auntie. Her hair looks great as she’s had plenty of time to style it. The sunlight catches her highlights as she heads back to her car.
11.45am: Misssy heads into town.
12.15am: Misssy stops off to buy petrol.
12.45pm: Misssy arrives at office and is given message to phone Project Manager
1pm: Misssy has meeting with client. Everything makes sense.
3pm: Misssy heads home
3.20pm: Misssy picks up Indy, checks on dental appointment time with husband.
4pm: Misssy successfully delivers children to dentist. Whilst chilling in waiting room she comes up with magic idea for a blog.
6pm: Kids out in garden. Meeester is cutting grass. Misssy writes amazing blog.
9pm: Blog is so great that word spreads of its brilliance and an unprecedented amount of people read it.
Week later: Misssy is asked to expand blog further in the form of a book by top publishing house.
Months later: Book sells millions
Next year: Misssy retires to South of France where she does nothing ever again for the rest of her life except drink cocktails, buy frocks and lounge about.
Which one do you think happened?
The World’s More Full of Weeping
Where is Madeleine McCann?
Like everyone else I’ve been switching the news on every morning hoping to God that this four year old girl has been found. Madeleine is the same age as my daughter. Is there anything that strikes at the heart of society like the story of a missing child?
In today’s society we are still holding onto dreams and hopes that Madeleine has been taken by a person desperate to have a child but who is essentially looking after her. Maybe a mother who has lost their own child has taken Madeleine out of deranged grief. Maybe she has been taken by someone who has sold Madeleine to a childless couple. We hope that although stolen she is being cared for at the very least.
Out of those hopes we pray that the person who has taken her might come to their senses and leave her somewhere to be found by the police and be returned to her parents. But of course underneath we all fear the worst, but we don’t even want to say the P or the M words, as if it’s tempting fate. We just can’t go there yet.
The McCanns’ attempts to keep the Madeleine “story” on the front page is all they can do to have some measure of control over the situation. The more they do to get the cameras clicking, the more column inches will be devoted to their daughter and the more her image will stay in the public eye. They have been orchestrating press conferences, daily photo opportunities masquerading as walks along the beach and to church.
Yesterday they generated even more press by visiting the Pope. Visiting the Pope, of course won’t directly help find Madeleine ,but it will guarantee that the McCanns stay on the front pages for another day at least.
It is a brave step they are taking in conducting this massive media campaign. Keeping it together whilst watched by the media must be incredibly difficult. Having to face the undoubted questions about their actions on the night Madeleine was taken must be even worse. We have all asked ourselves the question, “Would I have left my three children alone in an apartment?” Some people have been less than kind in their responses.
If the person who has stolen Madeleine ever thought about giving themselves up, the intense media coverage may just be the reason they have decided not to come forward so far. What if this person realises they have made a mistake? What if they are ill and mentally unstable anyway?
See the Madeleine McCann site here:
