Her skin was a greasy grey fungus.

Yet Mrs Foster wore a sugary pink jumper.

Like an airy plump cake stuck atop a lumpy psychotic Iceberg.

A tyrannical middle-aged Tiger Shark of an iceberg.

All the children wondered, clinging to their desks jut to make it to lunchtime.

Why would a rhino wear a lamb’s hide?

Perhaps she had eaten one.

Or more likely both.

Or seven hundred.

From the bottom up.

And forgotten to remove the skin.