The Omens

The kids have been at school in Cairns for a week and shoes are still a problem.  A big problem.

     I should have known.  There were signs.

     Had I been living in Ancient Rome, I would have engaged a professional omen reader to advise me about moving to Cairns.  He (they were only men) would have disembowelled a fish since other animals are in short supply on TI (actually, he could have used a roaming dog), interpreted the entrails and divined against the move.

     The signs were:

     First sign: Kibby despises wearing shoes and Seffy will, under duress.

     Second sign: Late last year, Kibbim, Seffy and I were returning to TI after three weeks on the Gold Coast and Atherton Tablelands.  We had left the Horn Island airport on the McDonald’s bus and were heading for the wharf. 

     “What is it you most like about coming back to TI?” I asked the kids.

     “I can’t wait to cuddle Ziggy and Gina Rose,” said Seffy.  Ten year old girls are delightful!

     I turned to Kibby. “I don’t have to use shoes.” 

     Third sign: Kibby refused to participate in his school’s cross-country race in May because, “Mum, we gotta wear shoes.  We can’t use bare feet … white kids can run (in shoes).  But us black kids, we can’t run in shoes.”

     Fourth sign: Every time we have ever been to the Federal Hotel for dinner, we walk out the front door and when Tony or I first notice Kibby is in his Sunday best complete with bare feet, we go through the routine, Kibbim you need shoes – I don’t have any – Just get some thongs – I don’t have any – You’re not coming and so on and so on till he finds one left thong from a black pair and one right brown Croc.

     None of these signs augured well.

On the first day at their new school, Holy Cross, Seffy hated her shoes.  The were too big and too tight.  I know.  The National Curriculum should teach ten year olds about contradiction.

     Kibby’s shoes were too big. 

     “Get the inner soles we bought with them.”

     “I chucked them out.”

     Stay calm, I told myself.  I went through the kitchen bin.  No insoles.  I went through the wheelie bin, combing the kitchen waste like slimy dog bones, yesterday morning’s uneaten Weat-bix, last night’s dinner scraps and so on.  Twice, because the insoles had apparently vanished.  Another sign?

     The minutes were ticking away.  I didn’t want to them to be late on their first day.

     “I want to go back to TI,” said Kibby. “I hate Cairns.”

     Stay calm, I told myself.  The insoles were here yesterday.  They have to be here today. That’s when I went through the wheelie bin a second time, including the recycling bin.  People have two wheelie bins in Cairns! One for recycling which I am still trying to fathom.

     I had to consider Plan B.  Murder.

     “Kibbim, listen to me very carefully.” I even got down on his level which is what the parenting and teaching literature says when addressing children and spoke like my friend, Julia who is a Montessori teacher.  “I need to get you to school on time.  Which means you need those insoles.  If you don’t find them, I am going to …” Actually, Julia wouldn’t say that last bit.  She’d say “I will help you find them,” but I would be busy wringing Kibbim’s neck if he didn’t find his frigging insoles.  And checking his scalp for a 666 mark.

     “They’re on the lounge in the sunroom,” he said, with a faint smirk.

     Stay calm, I told myself. 

     The insoles were on the lounge in the sunroom.

     “But I hate shoes.  I’ll wear thongs.”

     Apart from a few mild swear words, the kids got to school on time and in shoes.

     After a week, Seffy is no trouble, but every morning, Kibbim and I go through the charade, Kibbim, where are your shoes – I hate wearing shoes – you’re going to wear shoes – I’m not going to school – I need you to put on your shoes …

     The signs are still there.

     I want to go home to TI.

     Since I am ‘between careers’ at the moment and am struggling with my new life in the fast lane, I have been thinking seriously about returning to TI and reinventing myself as an omen reader.  Of course, I would call myself a Presage Consultant.  Omen reader sounds a bit pedestrian in the way Accountant does versus Financial Controller and Sea Freight does compared to Marine Logisitics.  Women can do blokes’ work these days and I already have an ABN.  

     And it would be an effective way of dealing with the dog problem on TI. 

     Hell, this is auguring really well.