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.