To appreciate this story, you need to know that close to my daughter’s primary school there’s a small playground a ground and a group of shops.  The whole area is  known as The Deli (the name of the coffee shop) or the IGA (for obvious reasons).  Every Friday afternoon much of the school terrorises the area and strips the IGA of lollies.  My 11 year old told me yesterday that she had missed out on something important at school because she had been sent to a creative writing class:

Hey Mum, guess what, there’s a pedo at the IGA, but don’t worry we’re all still going.

Um, What? (negotiating traffic)

At assembly, that I missed out on, they told us that there was someone suspicious with binoculars at the Deli and to maybe not go for a couple of weeks.  But we’re all still going.

They told you that at assembly?

Yeah, and then straight away Richard went Pedo and  now everybody knows.

OK (still negotiating traffic while contemplating the vision of the whole school chanting Pedo, Pedo)

And, weirdly enough, bad mother that I am, I have the words There’s a Pedo at the IGA stuck in my head to the tune of Cover of the Rolling Stone.

Strange, but true:  if it was an online stalker they’d all be freaked out.






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