Shelley Wright's wry look at life

FORGIVE me if I seem a little below par today but I feel like I've been Tangoed twice in the last week and it's all thanks to a little girl I shall refer to only as East Lancashire's answer to Baby Spice.

And five days after seeing the six-year-old eighth member of S Club Seven in a double Saturday night Sunday morning whammy, all I can say is I still feel totally and absolutely knackered. It's not good.

In fact, I actually feel like I've run three consecutive marathons in record time only to be whacked full-belt in the face with a cast iron frying pan on the finishing line.

And if you've got kids you probably know what I mean. Now for those of you unfamiliar with the particular blonde smiler I'm talking about, the girl destined to have her pick of the Blackburn - or should that be Backstreet - Boys and undoubtedly the best Baby Spice lookalike I have ever seen, let me explain her to you in five words or less.

Crackers, crackers, crackers and more crackers - or is that six? You get my point though. Basically, she's totally mad.

It all began when her mum and I both found ourselves at home, fed up, skint and with only supper to look forward to on Saturday night, if you can believe that.

We couldn't, but I'm afraid it's true.

So we decided to get together, pool our resources and cut down on delivery charge and, I'm sorry, but three gorgeous girls home alone on Saturday night with only Jim Davidson for company? Is it really any wonder we called for an emergency kebab? Anyway, no sooner had I said two large chicken with garlic sauce and three portions of chips than, hey presto!, matching mother and daughter appeared at my door.

Now I say matching because they look exactly alike, though you can always tell Baby Spice apart by the Barbie pyjamas and teddy bear slippers which have ears that come up to her knees and make her walk like she's on the moon.

Under her arm we have another bear, the appropriately named Pink Ted, and enough felt-tips to keep a small primary school going for a year.

I was just glad they got here in one piece because, should anything have happened, I'd have liked to have seen her try and make it over the moors from Blackburn dressed like that.

We settled down like we were guests on Walton's Mountain, you know, child colouring dangerously close to the cream sofa by the fire, two red Bacardi Breezers and a bottle of some similar looking cherryade, popcorn, Pringles, Twiglets and chocolate to keep us going until the food arrived.....

Only problem was I'd forgotten the Waltons get up at the crack of dawn. Nightmare. And especially when you're already knackered from spending five hours the night before eating and drinking loads while simultaneously talking ten-to-the-dozen about absolutely nothing whatsoever and pausing only to accept text messages or for toilet breaks.

You see, as I told the little darling when she poked her head around my bedroom door at God knows what time it was, we don't do Sunday morning on Grane Road.

We don't do "Shelley, are you getting up and coming downstairs?" anytime before lunch thank you very much - and we definitely don't do quizzes about imaginary detectives, right?

I mean, what was that all about? Can someone tell me because I still don't know to this day.

"Does he have a hat on?" she chirped.

How the hell would I know? I thought. "Does he have a wig on?" she continued in her best Magnus Magnusson mode.

Well, I must have openly looked confused at that point because she felt the need to clarify the question with the qualifying: "Now by that I mean a black curly wig that goes down to his waist, OK?"

Sorry? Have I missed something here or is it me? Does he have a curly wig on? What? It's eight o'flippin'clock on a Sunday morning! Hello! Are you totally insane?

But no, she's six, bless her Blackburn-based cotton socks. Mind you, if I listen carefully enough, I'm sure I can hear her from here.

Thank goodness I've got plans for tomorrow eh?

Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.