If anyone had had a camera to take a photo of my face at the precise moment of discovery, it would have travelled around cyber-space for a century or more.

Pure shock, horror, and disbelief.

“Who did this? Who the hell did this?” I muttered over and over, my eyes flitting between my colleagues trying to see who looked the guiltiest.

None of them did, but they were all laughing. And laughing. Because it was me, the mum of the show, the fifty year old prude, the one who doesn’t like to mock or tease or talk about anything ‘naughty’.

So if it wasn’t one of them, who was it, goddammit?

“Someone on the bus” my clever colleague remarked. And of course he was undoubtedly right.

Some snotty kid, sitting right behind me, pencil-case to hand, a felt tip pen at the ready, waiting to have its cap removed and trailed across my jacket with the quick flick of an experienced wrist. My drooping hood at the perfect height for his hand. The fake fur inside that hood just thick enough to prevent me from feeling even the slightest scratch of the artist’s tool. Crafty. Little. Git.

I do now remember a lot of hilarity going on in the bus that day. And it was no bloody wonder.

Drawing an almost prehistorically naive picture of a very small part of a man’s anatomy on an ‘old woman’s’ jacket must have made their day. It certainly made my colleagues’ day.

Not mine, however. It took me many long minutes of insistent scrubbing to take it away.

But naturally I couldn’t let it disappear without leaving some evidence of its existence, in true Grotte de Lascaux style.

So let me now make your day too, dearest punks. Cast an eye over this magnificent piece of modern artwork upon textile, circa 2017.

Priceless.

One colleague suggested it may be a double scoop ice cream cone. Nah, don’t think so…