The wheels on the bus go round and round. And round we go except we’re not going anywhere. Trapped at playgroup, the one with the shrieking soft play area. Like the outer circle of fucking Hades.
There are big windows letting the sun in. Its teasing rays remind us of a free life outside. The lady with the keys never opens the windows; some need to trap that ripe nappy perfume for us all to savour as we sip our weak tea.
A child sneezes on a ball.
Another licks it.
Neither are mine. I’m glad for that at least.