Odd Socks by Ilsa Evans

‘Always the last to know.’
    From my position in the far corner, I can barely see any more of Sherry than her pink bunny-rug. I raise myself on tiptoes and peer over the heads of the various visitors in front of me. This has two immediate benefits. One is that the knee-sucker loses her grip and falls backwards, landing with a solid thump on her behind. And the other is that now I can see the top of Sherry’s bald little head.
    Diane dives forwards and collects her daughter just as the infant limpet opens her mouth and begins screaming with anger. I don’t take much notice because I’m still stretched out and focusing on a glimpse of pink scalp across the room. As my ankles start to send distress signals up towards my thighs, I lower myself down, smiling in amazement as I remember what it was like when I first saw her properly about twenty minutes ago. Who’d have thought that I, of all people, would have such an extreme reaction to a baby? All I want to do now is get rid of these people, sit down with her on my lap, and spend a few hours admiring her in peace.
    The child in question, who has been remarkably well behaved so far, now begins to fret and Rose picks her up expertly and pops her up on one shoulder, with her hand behind Sherry’shead for support. Then, in answer to yet another query from my mother, Rose turns slightly and suddenly I’m rewarded with a complete facial view of the object of my devotion. For a brief instant it’s almost like her eyes lock in with mine and I get a thrill of connection that echoes through my bones and turns my stomach to porridge. I know, on a sensible level, that not only can the baby not see me, but that she’s really only interested in where her next feed is coming from. And, in that regard, I’m totally useless. But rationality doesn’t matter, and logic doesn’t count.
    Because I’m in love.
MONDAY
1710 hrs
    I flick my right-hand blinker on and slow to a halt while I wait patiently for a learner-driver, and the long line of cars trailing her, to pass by on the opposite side of the road. I congratulate myself on my patience because, really, I haven’t had a good day at all.
    After finally dragging my mother away from the hospital, I discovered that I’d left my car lights on and the battery was flat. It took three-quarters of an hour for roadside assistance to turn up. Three-quarters of an hour spent leaning against the car in the freezing cold, listening to inane chitchat from the person who was responsible for the lights being on in the first place. At some point I tuned out but apparently during that period, or so she informed me later, I promised I’d take her grocery shopping as soon as we were mobile again. But first, because we hadn’t had lunch and she couldn’t possibly shop on an empty stomach (apparently this is an economic no-no),we had to visit the pub for a counter lunch. And it had to be the pub because after eating she likes to play the pokies for half an hour or so to settle her food down. It certainly didn’t work that way for me. After watching various elderly gentlemen push my mother’s buttons while I lost twenty bucks in ten minutes flat, my food was anything but settled.
    Then, by the time I dropped her off with her twenty-five bags of groceries, it was late afternoon and she insisted on supplying me with coffee and biscuits as a thank-you for running her around all day. So I sat and yawned and ate dutifully while she filled me in on the goings-on of my brother, my uncle, my cousins and each of their families as well as all the gossip from the old neighbourhood. Which, if even half her stories were true, certainly makes my current neighbourhood sound incredibly dull by comparison. Thank god.
    The long line of cars continues to crawl by and I idly glance past them and down my street, immediately spotting the rear of Fergus’s distinctive yellow panel van parked against the