Bad Mother's Holiday - Hilarious Summer Holiday Reading! Read online

  Laura informed us that tinned baked beans are full of sugar, and offered to make us a healthy, homemade version.

  This resulted in a lot of swearing.

  Even Dad said, ‘Oh come on love, it’s a holiday.’

  ‘Baked beans can’t be unhealthy,’ said Mum, looking distressed. ‘They’re a vegetable.’

  ‘The beans themselves are a good source of fibre and protein,’ said Laura. ‘But they’re also full of salt and sugar.’

  The mention of salt intake started another row, with Mum exploding about the two frozen pizzas Dad gave away to one of the neighbours yesterday.

  This was a double insult, as far as Mum was concerned. First, the pizza she wanted to eat was gone. Second, Dad gave it to the neighbour who steals pint glasses from the pub.

  Told Laura about the Alex/Bethany confusion.

  ‘I always thought it was strange Alex got a new girlfriend so quickly,’ said Laura. ‘He’s not that sort of person. He’s very loyal.’

  ‘And jealous,’ I said.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Laura. ‘But isn’t that better than indifferent?’

  Sunday 24th June

  Althea phoned this morning to rant about hair removal. Specifically, she wanted to complain about hair removal adverts, and lack of hair therein.

  ‘The women in those razor adverts always hold a Gillette quadruple blade razor to a leg that’s already been shaved,’ she raged. ‘Since when did female body hair become so repulsive that we can’t even show a woman authentically removing it?’

  Althea’s feminism is a bit like her vegetarianism, in that she does shave her legs and spends too much money on clothes (self-expression!), just like she’ll occasionally eat a bacon sandwich from a burger van. But her heart is in the right place.

  Althea is custom-decorating wellies for camping next weekend. I’m not sure what she’ll come up with, but she mentioned silly string and Lady Gaga.

  Althea offered to make me a pair of fun, crazy wellies, but I politely declined.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ she said. ‘I forgot. You’ve got wellie trauma, haven’t you?’

  She’s right about that.

  The last time I wore wellies was at Glastonbury festival, pre-Daisy. I bought a cheap, leopard-print pair from EBay, which fitted extremely snuggly on the calves. So snugly that they got completely stuck.

  The combination of slippery mud and an air vacuum created a lock-tight bond that even the strongest, fattest, soberest man at the festival couldn’t break.

  I had to keep the boots on for two days, sleeping with my feet outside the tent.

  After the festival, Althea cut me free with her tin snips.

  The relief was incredible.

  I suppose my calves just aren’t willowy enough for standard boots, but I resent paying three times as much for custom-sized ones. I mean, half the population are over size 14 now. It can’t be that bloody specialist.

  Althea and I had a laugh, remembering my two-day welly prison and all the drunk men lining up to pull my boots free.

  ‘It was like the sword in the stone,’ Althea reminisced. ‘But without King Arthur.’

  Althea had to go then. ‘Wolfy’s got hold of the Gorilla Glue,’ she explained. ‘He’s smashing the tube on the floor and making ape noises. This could get messy.’

  Monday 25th June

  Have already started packing for the camping weekend, even though it’s five days away.

  I’m not usually this efficient, but experience has taught me that preparation is key when it comes to the great outdoors.

  As a feckless, drunk twenty-something, it was okay to forget a sleeping bag and tent pegs. But now I have Daisy, I need to be organised. Responsible.

  Took me AGES to write the camping list. I don’t know what’s happened to my memory. I just can’t seem to retain information these days. Maybe it’s because I’m so tired all the time.

  Having said that, I remember lots of pointless things that have absolutely no use at all. For example, I know every word to the Sesame Street and Family Ness theme tunes.

  John Boy helped me get my old festival camping gear down from the loft. It consisted of a dented aluminium frying pan, a tobacco tin containing a tiny rabbit’s dropping of dried-out cannabis, a huge lantern that takes all day to charge up, a velour inflatable pillow that was never comfortable (even before the puncture) and a mouldy air bed. I also found a large hunting knife sheathed in leather, lent to me by Mum for cutting streaky bacon.

  As I packed up the car with old, crap camping equipment, Mum came over to drop off a spare sleeping bag. She offered to lend me a hand ramming things into the car, and I gratefully accepted.

  ‘What’s this?’ Mum asked, spotting the tobacco tin on the breakfast bar. ‘John Boy’s not smoking again, is he?’

  Told Mum it was Althea’s old cannabis from years ago.

  ‘That could be just the job for my back pain,’ said Mum, popping the cannabis ball into her mouth. Then she noticed the hunting knife and told me off for owning a dangerous and possibly illegal weapon.

  ‘That’s a ten-inch, double-sided blade,’ she said. ‘If the police catch you with that, you could do time.’

  Pointed out that Mum had given me the knife.

  Mum gave the cannabis a thoughtful chew and said, ‘Oh yes. I remember now. For the streaky bacon.’

  Not sure I’ll sleep very well on this camping trip.

  The Go Outdoors website makes camping look so cosy, showing families snuggling up together in tents. But Daisy can literally do a 180-degree turn whilst sleeping, smacking me in the face several times in the process.

  Tuesday 26th June

  Nick and Sadie have both changed their Facebook statuses to single and put up new profile pictures.

  Sadie’s profile is now a black and white shot of her pulling a fedora hat over one eye, cheekbones tilted to catch the light.

  Nick has a sad picture of himself on a country path. He’s changed his wallpaper to a shot of him and Horatio.

  Knowing Nick and Sadie as I do, I’m not ruling out a passionate, romantic reunion – possibly captured by Hello Magazine. But the mutual status change is a big deal.

  Maybe they really mean it this time.

  Evening

  Nick called round after tea.

  Wasn’t surprised to see him.

  Helen was looking after Horatio so Nick was, as usual, childfree.

  For once I didn’t lecture Nick about parenting copping out – he really did look and smell terrible.

  Invited Nick in.

  John Boy took one look at Nick’s distraught, tear-sodden face and threw him a can of Stella Artois.

  Nick broke down at this kind gesture and took a seat on the sofa, crying and sipping from the frothy can. His high-pitched, womanly sobbing woke Daisy up, and she toddled downstairs to tell us she’d heard an ‘angry lady ghosty’.

  Nick cried even harder when he saw Daisy and cuddled her for a long time.

  Daisy accepted the cuddle, then turned the situation to her advantage. ‘Sweets Daddy?’ she said. ‘Daddy ice cream?’

  Which I thought was quite an advanced form of social manipulation.

  We let Daisy sit with us for a bit, while Nick behaved like a schizophrenic lunatic.

  One minute he was laughing with relief, telling us how pleased he was to be free, how much better things would be for Horatio and Daisy. How Sadie was an ‘effing nightmare’, and he could finally close the door on the worst few years of his life. The next minute, he was sobbing about the betrayal. Hadn’t she loved him? Had it ever been real?

  Seemed a bit mean to mention karma while Nick was in tears, so just gave the occasional pitying noise and let him go on.

  Learned lots of things I’d rather not know – one of which being that Nick and Sadie haven’t had sex in over six months.

  Apparently, Sadie said she was too tired. But she wasn’t too tired to have sex with an actor ten-years younger than Nick, with a naturally brown beard.
>
  Nick tentatively suggested that we might give things another go, now the Sadie nightmare was over.

  Told him no way.

  He cried again.

  Ended up feeling really sorry for Nick.

  That’s the thing about karma.

  It always happens when you don’t care anymore.

  Nick stayed way too long and ignored all hints to leave.

  In the end, John Boy took him to Mum and Dad’s pub for a few pints.

  They’re still not back, so I hope Nick doesn’t feel too ill tomorrow.

  It could be a very messy night.

  John Boy lives the army machismo drinking culture, ridiculing any male who doesn’t have a whisky chaser with their pint of strong lager. And Nick likes to get drunk.

  Wednesday 27th June

  Helen came round this morning with baby Horatio.

  The sun was boiling hot, but Helen wore a long-sleeved white blouse tucked into tight black jeans, completing the look with a billowy chiffon scarf.

  Helen told me once, during the village sailing regatta, that women over thirty shouldn’t show bare flesh, no matter what the temperature. It was an implicit criticism of Mum, who wore a nautical-striped Lycra bandeau top that threatened to spill boobs every time she waved at the boats.

  Asked Helen to what I owed the unexpected pleasure of her visit – with great emphasis on the word ‘unexpected’.

  ‘Please don’t ask me to get back together with Nick again,’ I said. ‘I’ve told you and I’ve told Nick a hundred times now. It’s not going to happen.’

  Helen whisked a confused-looking Horatio out of the pram (he’s so blonde – like a Nazi prison guard) and held him to her cheek.

  ‘I was at a loose end with little Horry,’ she said, ‘And I thought Daisy and her half-brother should get to know each other better. Spend a little quality time.’

  Invited her in, thinking the whole time: What do you want Helen? Come on. Out with it.

  Helen took a seat at the breakfast bar and slagged off Sadie for twenty minutes. Then she asked if I had any filtered water.

  Horatio wriggled on her lap as Helen bad-mouthed his mother. His squinty blue eyes assessed his captor, sizing up the potential for a jailbreak. But Helen clamped her claws tight around Horatio’s chubby forearms.

  Helen told me again about the Hermes scarf ‘episode’. Then she detailed an ugly facelift argument, and I learned about Sadie’s disrespectful attitude to good-quality Fired Earth tiling. Finally, Helen turned her rage on Sadie’s lack of parental responsibility. Apparently, Sadie walks out on Nick regularly, leaving Helen to pick up the pieces.

  ‘For a mother to abandon her son …’

  I asked why Nick wasn’t taking care of Horatio today.

  Helen said Nick had a stomach bug and was convalescing.

  Considered dropping Nick in it and telling Helen about his bender with John Boy last night, but knowing Helen, she wouldn’t believe me anyway.

  ‘I expect Nick’s immune system is very low,’ Helen said. ‘He’s under so much stress. And I am too. I feel like the world is closing in on me. I can’t take Horatio anywhere I want to go.’

  Helen has been barred from the village deli apparently, because Horatio threw up last time they visited.

  ‘So I can’t even get a decent cup of coffee. And Horatio is too young to sit still in restaurants, let alone a Royal Ballet performance.’

  While we were talking, Horatio threw up over his little sailor suit.

  ‘Oh, Horry,’ said Helen, holding Horatio at arm’s length. ‘Not again.’

  With great dexterity, Helen dived into her patent leather clutch bag for a slim packet of wet wipes, whilst keeping Horatio away from her clothing.

  ‘I’m certain he has a dairy allergy,’ said Helen, dabbing at Horatio’s clothes. ‘It’s just not normal for reflux to go on this long. He’s a year and a half now. And he doesn’t sleep at night.’

  Apparently, Horatio sleeps in the second guest bedroom at the far end of the house when he stays with Helen, so she can ‘put as many doors between us as possible’.

  ‘That sounds a bit dangerous, Helen,’ I said. ‘You should be able to hear him cry.’

  ‘They call it survival, Juliette,’ said Helen, angry and wild eyed. Then she asked if we could have a ‘play appointment’ with Horatio this morning. ‘It would really help to ease my stress,’ said Helen. ‘Horatio vomits much less when there are other children around. I suppose they’re a distraction for him.’

  Had no intention of spending the morning with Helen, but decided it would be nice for Horatio and Daisy to have time together. After all, they are half-brother and sister.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘How about this? You leave Horatio with us today, and the kids can play together.’

  Helen’s face crumpled with relief.

  ‘Would you? Thank you, Juliette. I appreciate it. We are all family, after all. We help each other in times of need.’

  I snorted at that. ‘When was the last time you helped me out, Helen?’

  ‘That’s unfair, Juliette. I’ve been caught in the middle. You haven’t made things easy.’

  Told Helen to leave before I changed my mind about having Horatio.

  ‘Yes, I should be going.’ Helen checked her slim, gold watch. ‘Would it be okay – you know, I have a lot of errands today. Perhaps I could pick him up after supper?’

  ‘Don’t push it, Helen,’ I said. ‘Pick him up at four o’clock. I’ll see you then.’

  ‘I can give you an allowance,’ said Helen. ‘If you need to buy him lunch or have things dry cleaned.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘He is family, after all.’

  ‘I’m so glad you see things that way,’ said Helen. She looked like she was about to say something else. Something kind. But she only managed, ‘Juliette. If you need to wash his clothes, you will use a low setting, won’t you? And don’t tumble dry. That outfit is from Fenwicks.’

  Horatio gave me lots of big baby smiles when Helen left.

  ‘Bugger,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Brother,’ I corrected her.

  We put Horatio in the bath and let him splash around for a bit, while Daisy blew bubbles over the water. John Boy wandered into the bathroom while we were doing this, did one of those loud roary man yawns, weed at length in the toilet, cleared his throat and spat in the sink. Then he noticed us all watching.

  ‘WAHEY!’ John Boy shouted obscurely, staring at the little blonde baby in the bath. ‘Who are you, mate?’

  John Boy reeked of beer, so I’m guessing he and Nick had quite a session last night.

  Horatio stared at John Boy with his little peepy eyes.

  ‘He’s Nick’s son,’ I said. ‘Horatio.’

  ‘Morning, mate,’ John boy said. ‘Don’t shit in that bath, will you? I cleaned it yesterday.’

  ‘My bugger,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Oh, your brother, is he?’ said John Boy. ‘Shall we make him a bacon sandwich with golden syrup, Daisy-waisy? I’ll put the grill on.’

  Daisy nodded in happy agreement.

  ‘Love you, On Boy,’ she said.

  ‘I love you too, mate,’ said John Boy, ruffling her hair. ‘Bacon sandwiches all round, yeah? And then we’ll have a little play.’

  Couldn’t be annoyed at John Boy’s noisy bodily clearing after that. Agreed to a bacon sandwich and felt very lucky to have him living with me.

  Late evening

  Just finished my pub shift and VERY tired.

  It was hard work looking after two kids. Lucky Helen kept her word and picked up Horatio at 4pm. Otherwise I’d have been wiped out.

  Horatio is at that age where he has a toddler body but a baby brain. He doesn’t understand things like not opening fridge doors and smearing peanut butter all over himself.

  On the positive side, Horatio and Daisy entertained each other. Daisy had a great time pretending Horatio was a Baby Annabelle doll, and trying to stuff toy milk bottles into his mouth. />
  John Boy was helpful too – he loves kids and enjoyed chucking Horatio around and teaching him how to commando crawl.

  ‘I should crack on and start my own family, really,’ said John Boy. ‘I was planning on this year, but then things went tits up with Gwen.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’re a bit young?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m twenty three,’ said John Boy, like this was totally ancient. ‘I need to get a move on. As soon as I find someone to marry, we’re gonna try for kids on our wedding night.’

  John Boy then went on to describe his ideal wedding day. He plans to wear a white suit (no shirt) and ride a white horse like Prince Charming. His girlfriend will be dressed like Stephanie Seymour in the Guns and Roses ‘November Rain’ video.

  I hope John Boy does find a nice girl. Someone who appreciates what a good person he is and doesn’t find tattoos too scary.

  The pub was a bit rowdy tonight – I think due to the summer heat and the Cranberry cider Dad was trying to get rid of.

  Even Mum lost her cool at kicking out time, shouting at Mad Dave to ‘get the fuck out now’, and eventually giving him a cautionary belt around the head with an open hand.

  I think Mum’s a bit stressed about camping this weekend. She has a phobia of running out of food and is worried the small campsite honesty shop won’t meet our requirements.

  Mum also claims to have post-traumatic stress after our last family camping trip (over twenty years ago) when we ran out of eggs.

  ‘It wasn’t the end of the world,’ I said, after the fifth time she mentioned it. ‘We had bacon sandwiches without a fried egg. So what? Hashtag-first-world-problems, Mum.’

  ‘Don’t come all high and mighty with me,’ Mum fired back. ‘You were as upset as any of us not to have a fried egg. And you kicked off because you only got one rasher of bacon.’

  Really need to discuss tent/sleeping arrangements with Althea.

  Althea might not be coming camping now, because a ‘cowboy hat man’ she met on Tinder has invited her to Morocco this weekend.