'It's called the Pink Frog,' says Esme's mother.
We are in our daughters' dorm, trying to locate lost hockey socks and school fleeces in other girls' drawers, under the bed, etc, while simultaneously exchanging the usual stories of frustration at our ailing memories and faculties.
Slow, heavy footsteps on the stairs. Mattie's mother staggers into the dorm and, breathing heavily, flops on the nearest bed. 'Urhhh,' she groans. 'That was embarrassing. I just asked Saskia's mother if she'd tended any casualties lately. She looked at me as if I was a mad woman. I thought she was the new nurse. They both look like lambs with their crimpy hair.'
'The Pink Frog strikes again,' I say knowingly.
'Pink Fog!' laughs Esme's mother.
I thought it was an incongruous name. I'm in a Pink Fog league of my own.