Let’s do this together

After a tricky few weeks blaming me for the entire modern education system, faking illnesses and losing brand new sports kit – even a completely unworn sweatshirt which is some sort of record – The Dark Lord was excited to get together with her old school mates at the weekend. Well, when I say excited, I mean she wasn’t entirely miserable.

Getting ready to go and hang out on a rainy high street took several changes of ever-more gothic outfits and a trail of disaster between her bedroom and the bathroom, but eventually The Dark Lord was ready.

We have a bit of a joke between us – she wears as little as possible, and I ask: “Are you going out dressed like that?”, and she says, “What? Too much? I can always take the jeans off…”

But this time she seemed to have taken the grim weather into account and settled on black fishnet tights under grunge jeans that were more hole than material and a black T-shirt which, naturally, said: “I hate you.”

“I see you’re channelling your personality through your clothes again,” I nodded at her abusive top. “Although it’s a bit uncomplicated for you.”

“Yeah, well, they didn’t have a ‘I refuse to acknowledge your existence’ T-shirt, so this’ll have to do,” she shrugged.

While all this was going on, The Dark Lord’s phone kept pinging and the name of the WhatsApp group caught my eye. B.A.P.S?” I enquired.

“D’uh, it’s an acronym, Mum!” as if I wasn’t the one who taught her what an acronym meant nt only a few months earlier.

“You know baps is a joke word for boobs?” I told her. She laughed despite herself, and said: “No I don’t – it’s just an acronym of our nicknames. Your generation are very dodgy – you ou make rude words out of everything.”

“I do not. I mean, it’s not like I said you lot are e getting your B.A.P.S. out. Hello? Hello?” I called d after her as she ran out the front door.

Send your stories, memories and photos to siobhan.mcnally@mirror.co.uk or Community Corner, PO Box 791, Winchester SO23 3RP.