Panic

Silky used to like to listen to the radio in her kitchen. She’d given up on watching day-time TV, it was impossible to do any of the household chores when the TV was on. Spending time in the kitchen reminded her to eat, cook and wash up, instead of collapsing on the sofa with a bottle of wine, which she‘d done far too many times.

She was listening to a radio phone-in, laughing at other people’s follies, when the programme was interrupted by a news flash. “We’ve just heard that a tiger has escaped from London zoo and is said to be running amok. The tiger is said to have escaped just over an hour ago. Zoo authorities say that the tiger has not been fed recently and should not be approached. Nick Clegg, the Deputy Prime Minister, has told Londoners not to panic, but not to go outside unless it is absolutely essential.”

“Oh my God,” thought Silky, in fact she said it out loud, such was her shock. “London, that’s where I live.”

She hadn’t planned to go outside that day, anyway. Her biggest worry was Darren, her son. Darren was at school, out of her sight and protection. She tried to remember the glossy brochure the school had sent her, it had said something about school safety, but should couldn’t recall what it said about tigers. What would happen if the tiger tried to get into the school?

I should phone him, she thought, tell him to come home immediately.

That’s no good though, there’s a tiger on the loose. I’ll tell him I’ll come and collect him. I can get the bus, there’s a timetable by the phone, I’ll be there in half an hour.

I can’t ring him though, he’ll have his phone switched off in lessons. I could text him though, tell him not to worry, tell him I’ll soon be there to protect him.

I could just turn up, storm into the headmaster’s office and demand to see my son, and take him home.

The school would complain though. They’re like that. They don’t care about things like escaped tigers. They want “Attendance to be a norm not an exception.”

Why the hell have they let a tiger out? Tigers should be in cages, it’s what I pay my taxes for.

Bloody Clegg. I thought he’d be better than bloody Labour, but first he releases all the prisoners and now he’s let the tigers loose.

Maybe we’ll be lucky and the tiger will eat all the fucking paedophiles Clegg set free last week.

Oh, what should I do? Phone, or text, or just turn up?

My poor Darren. Paedophiles and tigers queuing up outside his school waiting to pounce on him. What can I do?

She looked for the bus timetable, but couldn’t find it. She started a text to Darren, but gave up. What do you say to a child that’s in danger from escaped tigers? If it was lions it would have been easier, Darren understood lions.

Silky was in such a state she didn’t know what to do. It had been months since she’d been in a panic like this.

Darren arrived home that day at his usual time, but unusually excited.

“Mummy, mummy, I’ve just seen a tiger. A tiger! A real live tiger!”

But mummy was fast asleep on the sofa, so he didn’t wake her. There was an empty bottle of ‘mummy’s drink’ on the floor beside her, which meant that she might wake up in one of her moods.

He texted his friends about the tiger, but they didn’t believe him. Prove it, they said, show me a photo.

I’ll show them, he thought, and went back to where he’d last seen the tiger, so that he could take some photos of it on his mobile. Mum’ll be proud of me, he thought, catching photos of a real life tiger.