By REBECCA SPARROW
It’s possible I over-reacted. It’s possible I’m an uptight prude of Esme Watson proportions*. Maybe I’m just tired and irritable. Or maybe I actually did the right thing. I’ll let you be the judge.
So I currently live in a suburb that is teeming with kids. They’re everywhere. And frankly, I suspect they’re secretly running the suburb whispering into their Dora walkie-talkies as they sail past on their skateboards and scooters.
All of which I love.
Consequently, we routinely have a house filled with neighbourhood children. Again — I love this. I’d rather see Ava and her 7-year-old cousin (who lives with us) outside making club houses and treasure hunts and doing something weird with the hose, some sticks and leaves and a bucket then have them constantly sitting on the couch playing Plants versus Zombies on the iPad.
But I’ve hit a glitch.
I’m not lovin’ one of the neighbourhood rascals. She’s less rascal and more Heatlher Locklear on Melrose Place circa 1995. Put it this way, she comes over and it’s like a 7-year-old Sharon Osbourne is visiting.
The first time “Codename: Heather” came over to play, Ava asked if she’d like to go back down to her room to play with her dolls house. At which Heather adopted the bored and slightly irritated look of a supermodel, RAISED HER EYEBROWS and said in a withering tone, “No. I’ve seen your dolls house and it’s really small.”