Bad Mother's Holiday - Hilarious Summer Holiday Reading! Page 19

  Monday 11th June

  Had an interesting conversation with Althea today about gender pronouns.

  I can’t work out if the postman is a man or a woman, so I needed advice re: how I talk about him/her in front of Daisy.

  Do I say, ‘They’re bringing the post’ or take a stab at gender and say, ‘He’s bringing the post’, but risk offending a woman with a facial hair problem?

  Althea is usually very good at gender-neutral language because she has so many transsexual friends. Asked what she’d do in the circumstances.

  ‘Use the universal ‘she’,’ said Althea. ‘And if a man gets offended, tell him to stop being sexist.’

  Althea was in a rallying mood, because she’d just confronted a bigot at the supermarket.

  The ‘bigot’ had complained about a shirtless football fan.

  Althea shouted at the bigot about freedom of expression and the right to nudity. Then she shouted at the shirtless football fan for his racist British Bulldog tattoo, and the fact he was buying ‘shit quality’ Carling lager.

  Buoyed up by these small victories, Althea is emailing the supermarket about body prejudice. And also their poor selection of gluten-free cakes.

  Tuesday 12th June

  Shift in the pub tonight. I really don’t mind working there at the moment – I’m sort of like an agony aunt/wise old woman of Africa. Everyone tells me their problems.

  I’ve got some stock phrases now.

  ‘Life isn’t always fair.’

  ‘Women are complicated.’

  And most important: ‘Whatever it is, you’ll have to tell me tomorrow. It’s closing time.’

  Wednesday 13th June

  Visited Nana Joan today to help with her new iPad.

  It’s quite nice helping older people with technology. They believe the younger generation are computer geniuses, just because we can move our contacts from one phone to another.

  Made the iPad text big, so Nana could read her emails. It took a while for Nana to understand the ‘no keyboard’ concept, but we got there in the end.

  Nana had a few emails from old friends, and also a random message from a would-be scam artist:

  Hello,

  I'm pleased to write you after I came across your profile when I was

  searching for an old friend that bears the same last name with you on

  Facebook. I am glad to see you on there and you caught my attention, I

  sincerely appreciate your good looks. I am a widower living alone. I

  have been thinking seriously about us being friends. I will really

  appreciate knowing you. I will tell you more about myself when I get a

  feedback from you.

  God bless you,

  Regards

  Christmas Sunday

  Nana had already replied:

  Dear Mr Sunday,

  Thank you for noticing my good looks. So few people do, now I’m getting older, but I like to think I’ve still got it.

  Women are beautiful no matter what their age, and if you’ve got it, flaunt it.

  You sound like a cheeky chappy.

  Perhaps you’d like to send me a picture and we can go from there?

  Joan

  Told Nana not to reply again.

  Deleted the email, but worried now. I always thought those scam emails were transparent to everyone. But I don’t think the older generation understand how easy it is to message random people.

  Thursday 14th June

  Alex called.

  He said he’ll be back in Great Oakley this week, overseeing some urgent renovations on the Dalton estate (new swimming pool and spa area), and asked if he could see Daisy and I.

  Said no.

  I understand he still wants to see Daisy from time to time, but coming round the house is a bad idea. It’s too close for comfort.

  Friday 15th June

  Fish and chips at the pub.

  Nana Joan joined us. She gave Callum and Daisy five pounds each, folded up in little jewellery boxes, and shared her saveloy sausage with them. Then she raged about Carmen Akawolo and her perfect white teeth.

  Nana and Carmen have made a tentative truce. They’ve both promised not to hit each other, if the following terms are met:

  Carmen stops giving banana puff puffs to Nana’s boyfriends.

  Nana stops driving her electric wheelchair over Carmen’s flowerbeds.

  Saturday 16th June

  Sadie and Nick have split up again.

  It’s real this time – Helen has confirmed it.

  Nick phoned early this morning, saying he had no breakfast cereal or toilet roll and had been left alone with a screaming infant.

  Felt extremely sorry for Horatio and agreed to come over and help out.

  ‘Can you bring a loaf of bread?’ Nick asked. ‘And some milk. And laundry tablets – the hypo-allergenic ones. And fabric softener. And toilet roll – soft toilet roll. And some recycling bags.’

  Told him to sod off and do his own shopping – the Co-op is only down the road.

  When Daisy and I arrived at the Gables, Helen was there, mooning over her little prince. She was re-arranging Nick’s cupboards, talking about the ‘impossible order’ Sadie had put things in, and making Nick some ‘real Columbian coffee.’

  Had forgotten what a nightmare Helen is as an in-law. The first time I met Nick’s mother, she walked in on Nick and I in bed together.

  The second time, Nick and I went round to Helen and Henry’s house for Sunday lunch and an ‘official introduction’.

  Helen said, ‘You must be Juliette. I didn’t recognise you with your clothes on.’

  I said, ‘You must be Helen. I didn’t recognise you when you weren’t sticking your big nose in your son’s bedroom.’

  It went downhill from there.

  Sunday 17th June

  The weather forecast predicts sunshine for the next fortnight, so it looks like the family camping trip will be going ahead.

  We’ll be leaving Nana Joan behind, so I visited her old people’s home to sort out medicine.

  Nana is on blood-pressure medication (which she claims has increased since Carmen Akawolo joined the old people’s home), plus anti-inflammatory tablets for her arthritis and a few other general old person bits and pieces.

  Retirement seems to necessitate a good handful of daily prescription meds. At Nana’s care home, pill containers are common enough to be a fashion accessory. This year, the trend is English garden designs and country flowers. Last year, it was renaissance paintings.

  Nana was quick to mention that Carmen Akawolo had a ‘flashy’ gold pill container box with ‘garish’ flowers painted on it.

  Monday 18th June

  What is it with the British weather?

  One day chilly, the next BOILING hot.

  Summer arrived this morning, and we’re totally unprepared for it.

  Dad had to rush out and buy a giant parasol for the pub garden, and he and Callum spent the morning cementing it into the ground.

  Worried about Daisy in the burning sunshine, but not sure which sun cream to buy.

  When I was growing up, we only ever used sun cream on holiday. Even then, it was Factor 8 or 15.

  Nowadays, everyone uses Factor 50 on their children – a level of protection that mimics concrete walls.

  Seems a bit extreme. I mean, surely Daisy needs some sunshine.

  Need to obsessively Google.

  Tuesday 19th June

  Have just been terrified by Superdrug and Boots the Chemist websites.

  Apparently, ALL sun exposure increases the risk of skin cancer.

  Ordered Factor 50 lotion, baby sunscreen lip stuff and a sunhat with neck panel.

  Mum laughed when I informed her of my safety conscious purchases.

  ‘Kids need a bit of sunshine,’ she chortled. ‘Sun cream is all a big con.’

  Phoned Laura and Althea for alternative perspectives.

  Laura said life is about balance. She advise
d using a little sun cream in very hot weather but going without if it’s a mild day.

  Althea said sun cream was a capitalist plot and should be avoided. Her philosophy is to let Wolfgang gain gradual sun exposure, so he can build up his own natural protection.

  ‘There’s no way I’m covering him in chemicals, the long-term effects of which are unknown,’ Althea declared. ‘For all we know, Ambre Soleil causes bowel cancer. The human body is designed with its own sun protection. It’s called melanin.’

  But Wolfgang is dark-skinned like Althea. He’s never going to have any trouble in the sun.

  With the exception of Callum, our family have that terrible, pale English skin that goes red in May.

  Brandi calls Callum’s orange-brown skin his ‘all year suntan’ and claims he’ll save a fortune on sunbeds and Fake Bake when he’s older. Callum sees advantages to his skin tone too, claiming that as a ‘black man’ he’ll be more likely to be picked for premier league football teams.

  None of us have the heart to tell him he’s not very black.

  Wednesday 20th June

  Helen asked me to lunch today at the village deli.

  Suspected she wanted something because Helen has never, ever invited me to lunch – even when Nick and I were together. But I was intrigued, thinking she must have some important news/gossip about Nick and Sadie.

  I rarely visit the village deli, because they hate children and you can get a cheaper lunch in the café if you’re not fussed about olive quality. But went along with it, because I know Helen is as flexible as a table leg.

  Agreed to meet Helen at 12.30pm, but Daisy and I were a little late (Daisy’s fault – she refused to put on socks).

  I could tell Helen wasn’t happy about our time keeping. Her lips were pursed when we arrived, and she made a patronising comment about the difficulties of motherhood and punctuality. Still, she tried her best to be nice, forcing a vulture-like smile onto her thin lips, and requesting a high chair for Daisy.

  The deli owner snapped about the cost of child facilities, and told me if I needed to change Daisy, I’d have to leave.

  There were no child meals, so Daisy made do with wholemeal toast and unsalted butter.

  I had homemade beans on toast, which were disappointingly worthy and sugar-free.

  Helen decided to ‘live a little’ and try an organic celeriac and beetroot soup, with toasted pumpkin seeds and crème fresh. (Although she regretted her choice, because the beetroot horribly overpowered the subtle taste of the celeriac.)

  Asked why Helen wanted to meet me. She said she wanted to see Daisy. Asked why, if that were the case, Helen never, ever got in touch to see her granddaughter.

  ‘For goodness sakes, Juliette,’ said Helen. ‘Are you always going to rake over the past? Why can’t you let things go?’

  Told her there was a lot to rake over.

  Then, out of nowhere, Helen started crying.

  It was the strangest sound I ever heard – a cross between a squawking bird and a donkey.

  I didn’t know what to do. It was like seeing Margaret Thatcher or Hitler cry. You want to be compassionate, but at the same time you feel they’ve brought their problems on themselves.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said, trying for a kind smile. ‘Whatever it is, I’m sure it can’t be that bad.’

  But knowing Nick, it could be.

  ‘I just can’t bear it,’ Helen snapped, becoming angry. ‘Something has to be done.’

  ‘About what?’ I asked.

  ‘Sadie. She’s ruining Nick’s life. Horatio is passed from pillar to post. Sadie doesn’t want the responsibility of motherhood. Nick and I have to pick up the pieces. I’ve had Horatio five times this week. Can you imagine? I’m close to retirement age. I need a break.’

  ‘Well what can I do?’ I said. ‘This is all down to Nick.’

  ‘You can help me, Juliette,’ said Helen. ‘Nick still loves you. If only you’d take him back.’

  ‘We’ve been through this,’ I said. ‘It’s not going to happen.’

  Helen ate her soup with ferocity then. After some angry spooning she said, ‘You know, I expected more of you, Juliette. I thought you wanted a family.’

  ‘I have a family,’ I said. ‘And we’re doing just fine.’

  Thursday 21st June

  Got home from Nana Joan’s to find John Boy on the roof, hopping around on one leg, trying to replace some broken tiles and clean out the blocked guttering. His prosthetic leg was propped up by the side of the ladder.

  Was nervous about John Boy hurting himself – especially when he admitted there were loose tiles everywhere and he wasn’t sure if he could get down. Got really worried when he starting talking about ‘army rolling’ off the roof and landing on his shoulder.

  Mum and Dad were in London seeing Laura, so I couldn’t phone them for help.

  Was so panicked I phoned Alex, knowing he was in the village for his ‘essential maintenance’.

  Alex answered on the first ring and said he’d be right down. He arrived within five minutes, his fancy MG squealing as he pulled onto the grass. Then he leapt out of his car and look up at the roof, shielding his handsome face from the sun.

  ‘Hallo there,’ Alex called up the ladder. ‘That’s a little dangerous, don’t you think?’

  John Boy hopped along the roof and shouted down, ‘Mate, you’re talking to a man who got shot at for a living.’

  ‘Do you need a hand down?’ Alex asked.

  John Boy refused help at first, so Alex climbed on the roof. The pair then postured over building knowledge.

  I’m not sure either of them really knew what they were talking about, but they were trying to outdo each other with terms like ‘render’ and ‘soffit’.

  When they’d finished word posturing, Alex helped John Boy down, then came in for a cup of tea and a Jaffa Cake.

  Daisy was delighted – about both Alex and the Jaffa Cakes.

  ‘I really appreciate you coming,’ I told Alex. ‘I hope Bethany doesn’t think it’s too disrespectful, but honestly I had no one else to call.’

  ‘Why do you keep bringing Bethany up?’ said Alex.

  ‘I’m just trying to be considerate,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t want my boyfriend seeing their ex all the time.’

  ‘You have a boyfriend?’ Alex asked, looking angry.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m speaking hypothetically.’

  ‘Bethany isn’t my girlfriend,’ said Alex. ‘She has no claim on my time.’

  ‘You’ve broken up?’ I asked.

  ‘We were never together,’ said Alex. ‘Is that what you thought? That Bethany and I were seeing each other?’

  ‘It’s what she told me,’ I said.

  Alex stood up then and began furiously pacing. ‘She said that?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Outside the church when I was stalking you.’

  ‘That is totally unacceptable,’ Alex barked. ‘To imply … what did she say exactly?’

  ‘That the two of you were ‘doing well’ or something like that.’

  I’ve never seen Alex look so angry. ‘That is absolutely untrue,’ he shouted. ‘A total fabrication. Bethany is a family friend, nothing more. She was accompanying my mother to church, not me. It was outrageous of her to suggest we had any other sort of relationship.’

  Alex stopped pacing then and said, ‘No wonder you were so unreasonable.’

  ‘You’re one to talk about being unreasonable,’ I said. ‘You believed that terrible rumour.’

  ‘And I apologised.’

  ‘But you still believed it. You were that jealous.’

  ‘And you believed I was seeing Bethany. You were jealous too.’

  ‘She told me you were together,’ I said. ‘What did you expect me to think?’

  ‘I would expect you to think the best of me,’ said Alex. ‘And that I wouldn’t move on so quickly.’

  I suppose he had a point.

  ‘So what do we do now, Juliette?’ Alex asked.
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  ‘I honestly don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’m a bit sick of going round in circles.’

  ‘Maybe we could spend some time together. No expectations.’

  ‘We’ve been there before,’ I said. ‘We’re a car crash.’

  ‘There’s a lot to think about,’ said Alex. ‘You need time.’ Then his phone bleeped and he said he’d better be getting back. The infinity pool dado rail had arrived, and he wanted to make sure it was installed the right way up. Apparently, few people understand which direction the grain must run in.

  Friday 22nd June

  Callum’s school sports day.

  Mum, Dad, Brandi, Nana Joan, John Boy, Daisy and I attended for moral support.

  Callum’s house were the underdogs, so Mum volunteered for the parents’ events to win points.

  Mum single-handedly won the tug of war through brute strength and intimidation, shouting the All Blacks’ Haka rugby chants before taking up the rope. Three would-be tug-of-war mums scampered back to their picnics at the sight of Mum slapping her elbows and bellowing.

  When the tug of war started, Mum easily pulled the remaining five mums over the line, dragging their flailing bodies a final victory metre.

  Callum was extremely proud of her.

  ‘She’s just awesome, isn’t she?’ he said.

  Saturday 23rd June

  It’s Nick’s visitation day, but he hasn’t been in touch.

  Waited at home until 11am, in case Nick came here to see Daisy. He didn’t, so we went to the pub for family brunch.

  I don’t know if Nick is still with Sadie, or what’s going on, but I’m definitely not chasing him. Let him sort his life out, then come to us.

  The family brunch was good – we had a chat about camping, working out who got the extra bed with Mum and Dad in the caravan (John Boy) and what we’re going to eat (mainly sausages).

  Mum has already bought hot dogs, marshmallows and five catering cans of baked beans. This provoked a family discussion (argument) – are baked beans healthy or not?