Kidney.

“Alice”.
“Mmmm” I slumbered.
“Alice!”, Hubby’s voice was more urgent and he put his hand on my buttock. I slapped it.
“Not now”, I groaned, “I’m fast asleep”.
“I need you”.
“That’s all very flattering”, I mumbled into my pillow, then squinting up at my clock, saw that it said 5.55. “But it’s the middle of the bloody night. Later.” and I pulled the duvet over my head.
“Alice please”. God, this man was persistent, was the poor chap that desperate?
In an act of ultimate benevolence, I capitulated. “Come on then”, I said, “Get on with it” and puckering up, waited for the beast to pounce.
“Alice what are you doing?” I opened my eyes. Hubby hadn’t moved.
“Waiting for you big boy”, I drawled sexily, or so I thought.
“Why are you talking like some 70’s hooker? I’m not after your body. I’m in agony; I think I’ve got kidney stones or cancer”.
“Huh?” Why was he waking me in the dead of night to tell me this?
“You’ve got to help me. It’s excruciating. Go and Google the symptoms.”
“Are you completely off your head?”
“Please. I can’t stand it” and as he rolled towards me to make his point, he let out an almighty “aaargh”.
“Where is the pain?”
“Here, just under my ribs on the left side of my back” and as he once again groaned, I sat up.
“I’ll be back in a minute”, I said wearily, pushing off the duvet cover. Hubby rolled to his right, as he did so, I saw something silver lying on the mattress.
“For God’s sake, you haven’t got kidney stones; you’ve been lying on the nail clippers all night. Look” I brandished them at him.
“Oh”, he said, crestfallen. “You sure Alice?”
“Quite sure. Feel for yourself,” as I showed him the indentation of the clippers in his back.
“Well bugger me. It was agony. I’ve been lying awake for the past couple of hours, too terrified to move. I had to wake you in the end”.
“Evidently”. I flopped back on my pillow.
“The thing is Alice, now that I’m so happy to be given a second chance at life, well, it seems churlish not to celebrate, if you get my gist”.
“Forget it. Keep your hands to yourself”.
“Spoil sport” and he rolled over in a huff. Just as I felt the delicious balm of sleep once more envelop me, one of the children stood by my bed. I couldn’t figure out which one it was and was loathe to open my eyes again, lest they think, ‘Hurrah mum’s awake’. Eventually and for the second time that night I gave in. Without opening my eyes I growled, “Which one of you is it?”
“Me”, said the second daughter, “Is today the prince day?
“No darling, there are three more bed-times until we meet Prince Charles. Please go back to bed.”
“Can I watch Cbeebies?”
“Yeah Cbeebies”, her little sister had joined her. I poked Hubby very firmly in the kidney, “Your turn. Put the TV on for them”.
Groaning, as though fast asleep the fraud, he dragged himself out of bed.
“Prince Charles?”
“Yes daddy. He’s going to walk about with a duchess.”
I pity His Royal Highness. There must be little schoolgirls everywhere, who, brought up on fairytales and promises of dashing princes, are bitterly disappointed in the real thing. My own daughter’s was palpable. Looking at her face I knew she was expecting the Prince look: cape, cod-piece and crown.
“Where is he?” she kept asking, jumping and down, the rain sluicing down her kagoul.
“Over there love”, I pointed out. A medium sized man in a suit, albeit bespoke, was not her idea of castles and love everlasting.
“Where Dutch dress mummy?” asked the Red-Head. I was at a loss.
“She means duchess”, explained her sister.
“There sweetie”, I said, “The lady in the blue coat and see-through umbrella.”
God bless Camilla, how many mere mortals, weeks after strenuous gynaecological surgery, could be found traipsing around a soggy Cornish fishing village, trying their best to look coiffed and delighted as yet another small boy, who would be far happier to meet Dr Who, presented her with another cellophane covered posy?
The entourage was low key and we were not herded behind barricades by bolshi policemen. In fact, these policemen, having a day off from apprehending drunken sailors looked quite excited by the novelty of it all and were therefore quite encouraging to the schoolchildren. Then again, with the weather being awful there wasn’t exactly an unruly mob in Cawsand Square and we were able to get a good look.
“Where is her fur with the dots?”
“They keep their ermine for state occasions darling” I tried to explain. One of the teaching assistants standing next to me was getting more and more agitated.
“Are you nervous?” I asked.
“Just realised we haven’t got anything for the kids to present to Camilla. What shall we do?”
“Something from the shop on the square?”
“I didn’t bring my bag”.
“I did” and I shot into the shop and spotted the perfect gift: a box of Cornish fudge with Cawsand written on it. She wouldn’t forget where she’d been that day at least. I got it to my daughter just as Charles and Camilla walked past. In her pink, squelchy mac she stepped forward and proffered the gift.
“This isn’t fudge is it?” asked Camilla smiling.
“Yes”, whispered my daughter, “I’m sorry about your hysterical tummy”. Camilla smiled quizzically.
The teaching assistant looked at me, “Did she just say hysterectomy?” I shrugged my shoulders, “Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings…”

Picnic.

Lying on the sofa the other morning, revelling in the fact that with the Red Head at pre-school I could lie there and look out of the window and very decadently just ponder, I pulled out from under one of the scatter cushions – the very same cushions that Hubby has deemed ‘pointless’- an old copy of the Sunday Times Style magazine, unwrapped a Turkish Delight and sunk my teeth into both.
Inside the magazine was an article on celebrity mothers and their ilk and I was told in no uncertain terms that ‘shabby chic’ is the look one must adopt if one is ever to be considered a ‘Yummy Mummy’. From what I could gather from the fashion journalist, to achieve this look, which must be thrown together as though one has not bothered at all, when in fact one has bothered an awful lot, is that one has to wear a holy trinity of garments: a cheap or high street item, something vintage and something designer. I sighed and looked at myself, my skirt – from Tesco’s was certainly cheap and most definitely high street and the pink t-shirt I had on, which I bought when breastfeeding my first born 14 years, was unarguably vintage. Two out of two so far; I looked down at my feet which were shod in Birkenstocks – ha result, ‘designer’ flip-flops, sadly however, also cheap and vintage having been bought second hand on eBay last summer. I closed the magazine in despair, jostled with my stomach, prodded it, squeezed it, held it in but whichever way I looked at it, neither it nor my clothes could ever be considered yummy.
Sighing I dragged myself off the sofa, picked up my keys and handbag and went to retrieve the Red-Head. It being a glorious day I couldn’t bear to go home and sort out the airing cupboard or scrub the skirting boards, nor did I really want to spend the afternoon saying no to Cbeebies or chastising my child for making a mess every time my back was turned, so, instead of driving straight home from pre-school, I drove over the Tamar Bridge, up the A38, across Marsh Mills roundabout, through Plympton, stopping to visit my brother at his car show room before driving on up to Saltram House.
As my tyres crunched on the stately gravel as I pulled into my parking space, a feeling of doom was cast over me. The car park was heaving, and spread on picnic rugs around the grounds were a host of golden mother’n’kids, beside the pond, beneath the trees, fluttering and laughing in the breeze. Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their highlights in sprightly dance.
My own child, having been in pre-school all morning, looked, as my brother rightly pointed out, eccentric. Skinny at the best of times, she is recovering from yet another vomiting bug that has rendered her ‘fragile’. Her arms and legs are like sticks, her bottom totally flat, yet she is very tall so clothes literally hang off her – (the fashion journalist would be rubbing her hands in glee). On this particular occasion she had on a paint encrusted t-shirt, a pair of her elder sister’s leggings and her hair, beautiful always, was today, up in a crazy bun on top of her head whereas some stray tendrils, curly and sticky with marmite were dangling down either side of her face like an orthodox Jew.
“Sit on a blankie mummy”, she demanded pulling at my skirt for me to sit down.
“We don’t have a blanket darling”, I said.
“Me jumper”, she suggested. There was no getting out of it, she wanted to mingle with the Golden Mummies and their children, so with a heavy heart, I went to the boot, unearthed an old fleece jacket that had seen far better days and lay in out on the grass. I lowered myself down and watched the ease with which little children make friends. Within seconds she was playing with a group of boys and girls, picking daisies with them and shrieking with giggles and pretending to hide when a helicopter flew over. Of course I was now in the unenviable position of having to make small talk with the mothers. Their rugs without exception were Cath Kidston, as were their picnic bags and flasks. One woman, I kid you not, had brought her golden retriever, who very regally hung out of its Cath Kidston floral dog basket with a very superior expression. After twenty minutes of excruciating chit-chat where I gleaned that they all worked part-time in something noble or at least interesting, they called their Boden clad kids over for their picnic. Now as a girl of the 60’s, the picnics I was brought up on and thus attempt to replicate for my own family are cheese-spread sarnies, hard boiled eggs and a twist of salt, sausage rolls, a flask of tea and some crisps. If we were lucky, a Penguin biscuit would be lurking somewhere at the bottom of my mother’s duffle bag.
Not so these picnics. The mothers removed from their floral oil-cloth bags items of food that would have had my own children recoiling in fear and dread. The woman on my left took out a Little Trading plastic tub wherein lay some spelt bread and in another plastic container was a tangled mass of sprouting mung beans and celery. The other mum opened a tub of organic, roasted red pepper hummus and a packet of sunflower seeds. Peppermint tea was the drink du jour. My own child looked bereft. “Me lunch too mummy”, she said.
“I haven’t got a picnic sweetie”, I said quietly.
“Would she like some seeds?” asked one of the mums graciously.
“Yuck”, said my child rather too emphatically, “Not me seeds, me Quavers”.There was a gasp. Had she said Turkey Twizzlers they couldn’t have been more shocked.

Shirley Valentine

“But without me?”
“Without you”. This conversation was beginning to sound like a Nilsson love song yet it was the ‘but’ in Hubby’s question that made him sound so pitiable.
“You don’t like holidays”, I tried to explain, “You go mental every time you see me look at a brochure. The words ‘half board’ and ‘all inclusive’ make you shudder, hey even our honeymoon had to be booked in secret and resulted in us traipsing around the flea bitten Chambres d’hotes of Brittany. It was never an auspicious start to this marriage.” As always, our conversation is conducted on the telephone, only this week even that has been sporadic due to Hubby being on a course somewhere where there are few mobile phone masts, excellent for the environment, rubbish for the domestic nirvana of Mr and Mrs Band.
“We’ve never got any money Alice”.
“You’ve been saying that since the mid 80’s. Had I not insisted on a week here or there over the past twenty years both you and I would be burned out shells”. He went quiet for a minute, maybe to actually digest what I was saying, after all his agenda is a killer. Night after night he finishes work way past 8pm, by the time he arrives back at the Wardroom dinner has been cleared away and so he returns to his cabin to heat through a carton of Covent Garden soup. This is not an occasional event but a nightly routine. On a Friday afternoon he drives that God-awful journey from Portsmouth to Plymouth only to find a wife chomping at the bit for adult company and a share in the domestic workload. Four children jump on him and badger him with their various emotional and monetary demands, then, once he has sorted out his laundry on a Sunday evening and packed his bag, he retires but not before setting his alarm for 4am to make the return journey to Portsmouth.
Last week was even worse. He left Portsmouth late on Thursday night, arrived home after midnight, succeeded in having breakfast with us before setting off to a local Naval establishment for a day’s debriefing, on his return, extraordinarily, we managed a brief sojourn to the pub. This was tempered however by the fact that on Saturday morning he was once again awoken by a 4am alarm call, this time to travel somewhere near Swindon for a weeks residential degree course. How can anyone sustain such a gruelling schedule? It’s totally bonkers but will he have any of it? Nope.
“Where do you expect this money for holidays to come from? How many times must I remind you about the mortgage, the bills…” I sighed, I’d reached stalemate. Like I said it is a fruitless argument, one that I have never succeeded in winning in all these years which is why, for the first time I have made an executive decision and have booked a holiday without him. At Whitsun.
It seems a perfect opportunity. Hubby will be away at work, my dear old Dad, having taken the eldest daughter last October to Egypt, feels it is her brother’s turn for adventure and so, whilst they are happily ensconced in Rome – perfect for both, plenty of culture (Dad), fashion (Son), pretty girls (equally), my girls and I will be in northern Brittany in a mobile home – with decking, on a campsite.
“But it’s abroad Alice”. The phone line was so bad I could barely make out what Hubby was saying.
“I won’t be board. I’ll have the kids to keep me busy”.
“ABROAD”, he yelled down the line.
“So?”
“Anything could happen to you and how would I know?”. For the love of God. I was going to Perros Guirec, 47 miles away from Roscoff. I explained as such.
“It’s nearer than Exeter”. He was slightly mollified by this, until once again he remembered the finances.
“Tell me you haven’t paid for this with our joint account.”
“I haven’t”. He sighed in relief. The fact that my credit card was in meltdown I chose to ignore. That wasn’t the last of it though and I thought it best to tell him then and there, strike while the iron’s hot, make hay while the sun shines, etc.
“By the way, I’ve also booked a weekend away by myself”. I waited for the outraged reaction but it eluded me.
“Alice, I only have one minute’s credit remaining. I’ll call you later.”
So, I had a day in which to compose an explanation of how, after having my haircut, I’d been inspired to spend a weekend in the South of France in August – totally and utterly alone. My opportunity came as I was dishing up the children’s dinner. I find it hilarious to shout out “Table 2 away” as chefs do in restaurants when plates are ready to be carried into the dining room. The children find it far less hilarious and so grumpily, they came into the kitchen to receive their dinner. I took the call from Hubby.
“What did you say earlier?” Here we go. “Diana was cutting my hair and happened to mention that her father runs a B&B in Southern France with his friend. I looked at their website. It’s fantastic. I did something spontaneous. Booked a room for a weekend, and then booked a flight.” Attempting to soften the blow I added, “I got a flight back from Standsted to Newquay for 99p!” There was an ominous silence.
“Is this a Shirley Valentine moment?”
“Only if I don’t come back”. There was a pause. “You need a break. You could come too”.
“To France? In the middle of August? Ten euros for a bowl of fish soup?”
“Bouillabaisse”, I corrected.“Whatever. Nah, give me Cornwall any day”. So, this time I have.

Cereal.

We never did manage to make it perfect. There are such high expectations of ‘leave’ that it is almost impossible to achieve and one can not but feel a mite disappointed when that bloody ‘grip’ is packed once more and all those things you were longing to do, such as go to the pictures together one afternoon, pub meal, mid week quiz, watch a movie together, go for a walk, have sex on a Tuesday will now not happen until summer leave comes round with its equally high hopes. Last Sunday, as Hubby checked that he had everything packed, my lip trembled when I realised that I wouldn’t see him on a Wednesday again until August. He tried to be sympathetic and ruffled my hair accordingly but his loyalties are torn between his young officers and his family.
“There are a lot of people looking forward to meeting me next week Alice. They’ll have been wondering over Easter leave where I’m sending them. Don’t be wet now there’s a good girl. Have you seen my shoulder boards anywhere?” I sighed and went into the dining room, opened a drawer where miscellany gets stuffed and returned to the hall.
“Here you go. Will you miss me?” I knew that I was being pathetic and I only seem to be like this on the last evening when he’s been home a while.
“Alice love, get a grip. I’ll be home next weekend.”
“I feel needy”, I said in a quiet voice.
“Nerdy more like. C’mon chin up” and lifting my chin up with his hand, he kissed my forehead. “Don’t forget about that electricity bill now will you? I’ve turned the central heating off. Just put another layer on if you feel chilly in the evenings”.
“That’s all very well for you to say. You’re in a warm office all day and a cosy cabin all evening.”
“It’s hardly cosy Alice. The MOD don’t do cosy” and rooting through his bag he said, “Right I think I’ve got everything. My mobile is charged but don’t ring me because I obviously can’t afford any more points. I’ve got three just racing back to you all at the weekend”.
“That’s not true. I wouldn’t call going down Holden hill at 85 miles per hour at five in the morning racing. Besides you were going back to work”.
“Oh yeah”, he said distractedly. “Anyway bye darling. Keep up the good work” and with another kiss, this time somewhat more lingering, he left.
Of course the following morning, all hell broke loose. The youngest children, realising on rising that their father had gone back to work again, were monsters. Frosties littered the kitchen floor as the Red-Head got crosser and crosser, “Me want Daddy no go work. Me not want Frosbies”.
“Frosties”, corrected her brother. “F.R.O.S.T. I…..”
“Oh shut up”, said the 11 year old.
“Mummy”, said the 5 year old, as smugly as one can with a mouthful of bagel, “She said ‘shut up’. We’re not apposed to say that are we?”
“You’re not supposed to speak with your mouth full”, retorted her sister. In the meantime the Red-Head really didn’t want her Frosbies and upturned the whole box.
“Dear God”, I sighed, clutching the dustpan and brush more for moral support than anything else.
“Could you all please just be nice to each other or, at the very least disregard one another?”
“Simple Ma”, said my son, taking a full to the brim bowl of Coco Pops with him into the sitting room.
“Not a good idea”, I called after him. Too late. A Barbie roller skate that had been lying in wait by the sofa, escaped its subterfuge and emerging from the skirt of a Snow White fancy dress, suddenly sprung to life and tripped him up. Profanities railed from his direction, immediately followed by the Red-Head’s recent talent for parrot style mimicry. Luckily, her language skills are not yet sufficiently developed and so what would have been appalling to hear from the mouth of an infant was diluted, “Thuckit”, she exclaimed loudly. But I was far more incensed with my son.
“Bloody hell. Look at this mess. We have a perfectly decent dining table and now I have half a box of Coco Pops and a gallon of milk awash on my sitting room carpet and don’t you ever let me hear you use such language again. Shame on you”.
“Yes, shame on you”, added his 11 year old sister, “Mum, you should hear him on the ferry on the way home from school”. My heart was heavy. My husband had only been gone hours and already we were spiralling into a black hole of dysfunction with a teenage son adopting the vocabulary of an Asbo. The youngest were performing the Egyptian Sand Dance in the crushed up cereal on the kitchen floor and I was on my hands and knees attempting to mop up the mess on the sitting room floor. My son had left for school without so much as a “Bye love” and my eldest daughter was flicking through the TV channels.
“Is there nothing else you could do?” I asked her, frustrated at my own inability to have produced a more pro-active daughter.
“Like what?” For fear of adding to my son’s profane litany, I uttered not a word, instead pulled her up by the hand and ushered her into the kitchen and handed her a broom and carrier bag. “Get on with it”. The five year old had, in this short space of time, written on every single cheque in my cheque book. “Look Mummy. I’m paying for my school dinners”. Tearing my hair out, I wrested the cheque book from her and announced,
“Look after the little ones I must just go to the toilet”.“Oh mummy, one should never say toilet. Always, loo, lavatory or bog. There’s no hope of me ever finding my prince now is there?”

Beach.

Two weeks of Easter leave is almost over. After a visit to the very same osteopath who was so professionally intimate with my body parts, the same one that Hubby scoffed at and refused to pay for, his neck is cured. Not enough to drive to and fro to Wales mind you but at least he stopped “oohing” and “ouching” every time he turned. Consequently, since he hasn’t been in so much pain, we’ve rubbed along quite nicely and thank God I have been able to put him to work. What is leave after all if a husband does not wield a paintbrush and attend to some very necessary DIY?
I am thrilled to report therefore that the basement has been redecorated, the dining room carpet pulled up, along with the hardboard and two tons of pneumoconiosis inducing disintegrated, carpet rubber. I’ve never seen anything like it – the backing had literally been reduced to a fine, black, sand like substance. No wonder I have been sneezing uncontrollably for months. Good job it has been hoovered and removed or I’d have been putting in a claim to the NCB in a couple of years.
Hubby is never happier than when wielding a paintbrush, Stanley knife or tape measure and so I have been able to leave him for long periods knowing that with the radio on, a pair of filthy shorts and much abused Timberland boots, he is in his element. He doesn’t do ‘days out’, or to be more specific I don’t do them with him. His constant roar of horror of “How much?” with regard to anything from an entry fee for a family, to a few coffees and cokes, to a slap up fish and chip supper has taken its toll on me over the years. I’ve learnt to my cost that it is pointless dragging him to the zoo, Pennywell Farm, aquarium or anywhere that isn’t provided by God. The worst perpetrator and sure fire way of raising his blood pressure? A fairground. God forbid I suggest a turn on the dodgems or Waltzers. He has a very low opinion of fairground proprietors and has been known to withdraw his grinning, bell ringing children from a little fire engine on one of those kids’ carousels because the owner in question has demanded a steep fee. Consequently our few days break to Wales was a low key affair but luckily the weather was fabulous and so we were able to go to the beach in Tenby instead. Hubby plonked himself on a towel, let out a satisfied sigh and lay down, face up to the sun. My little girls stripped off and squealed with joy but my eldest two wouldn’t even sit down.
“C’mon then guys”, I said smilingly and, passing them a bucket and spade, suggested they “get stuck in and dig until you get to Australia”. They used to love the idea that antipodean playmates were only a few shovels away.
“No thanks ma”, said my son, “I hate the beach”.
“This gets everywhere”, said my 11 year old daughter, tipping her green, patent ballet pump upside down as she watched, nose wrinkled in distaste as the sand trickled back onto the beach.
“For God’s sake”, I complained, “We are going to have a very long summer holiday if we can’t go to Kingsand together for an afternoon.
“Well that’s more pebbly”, offered my daughter.
“Yeah and my mates will be there”, added my son.
“And there’s a coffee shop”.
“Speaking of which, we might just go for one now. Coming?” My son so rarely invites his younger sister anywhere that I was loathe to stop them, instead I warned them to be very careful, not look like shoplifters and to be back on the beach within an hour.
At this juncture a comfy deckchair and a chicklit novel would have been most desirable, as it was Hubby was snoring gently and my youngest girls wanted me to collect water in their bucket to put around their moat. With a heavy heart and heavier butt I heaved myself off the beach and walked down to the shore with them. It really was a glorious day. The sea was sparkling and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The girls soon forgot to collect sea water and instead screamed and laughed as they jumped the little waves. They made me smile. It was so innocent, so simple that I forgot about their eldest, moody, more corrupted siblings and tucking my skirt into my knickers, joined in the wave jumping. Eventually I was soaked and weak with laughter when suddenly a voice from my dim and distant past called, “Alice, Alice? Is that you?”
I swung around and almost fell into the arms of my first ever boyfriend.
“Martyn?”, I was incredulous.
“Hi Alice. Looks like you’re having fun” and gently he brushed some sand off my cheek. His hand stayed there. “I wondered what had happened to you”.
“I’m on Friends Reunited”. What a stupid thing to say. I blushed.
“Ah Friends Re-Ignited”, he laughed and pushed his sunglasses on top of his head. His eyes were the still the same colour as the sea. I think my heart stopped beating momentarily because I was sure he was about to kiss me. Instead a wave of water landed on both of us. Shuddering and dripping I looked up. It was Hubby, a plastic bucket in his hand.
“Sorry”, he said, “I meant to get the girls instead” and with arm outstretched he introduced himself, “Alice’s husband, father of four”. Martyn shook his hand, told Hubby he was a very lucky man and took his leave. “It was lovely to see you again”, he said and kissing my cheek whispered his email address into my ear.
Hubby grabbed my hand, tightly. “So that was him then?” I nodded.
“Your first?”
“Mmhm”.
“Seemed a bit of a tosser”. I nodded again.

Toddler

Ever the optimist that a family holiday will for once be an unprecedented success, I am mid-cycle, not menstrually speaking but waiting for the last load of laundry to emerge that I may then chuck it in the tumble dryer from whence it will be thrown into a waiting suitcase. Were my mother still here she would be aghast. Anything not aired for at least three days after drying could only lead to certain death. I have not the time for airing though as I am determined to be on that 8am ferry tomorrow morning. Don’t get excited, I don’t mean the Brittany Ferry – Hubby hasn’t suddenly become munificent and hired a gite in the Dordogne, no, no, no. We need to be on the Torpoint Ferry at 8am to be in time for brunch with friends in Bridgend, South Wales. From there we go further West to Pembrokeshire, where for the next few days we will be camping in the sitting room of yet more friends. My son as you can imagine, is overwhelmed with excitement.
“What are we going to do there then mum?”
“Enjoy the fresh air”.
“It doesn’t come fresher than Cornwall”.
“Well, go for country walks then”
“Ditto Cornwall”.
“Well walk on the bloody beach then”.
“Tut, tut, language mother – but once again may I remind you that we live on the Rame Peninsula. Famed for its glorious walks and white, sandy beaches.”
“You must have some SATS homework to do”. That shut him up, but not for long. Soon, I was able to hear him on his mobile phone complaining that his “ rents (presumably an abbreviation of parents) were gay” and adamant on dragging him away to some well dodgy holiday in Wales, with, worse still his - and this is were he yawned and I stifled the urge to run upstairs and clip his ear – his sisters.
The sisters in question have themselves been a handful. The youngest is a smiling assassin – her red curls and beautiful smile belie an easy capacity for complete and utter destruction. Last week, looking around TK Maxx in Plymouth I lost sight of her for a nano second only to discover her in ‘Body Products’, having liberally applied herself in mango and jojoba bubble bath. It was dripping from the fore mentioned curls and sliming off her hands. Presenting her to one of the staff with a request for a tissue, the young man in question threw his hands up in horror, before very kindly escorting us up several flights of stairs to the staff quarters where he directed us to a loo and sink. Wiping her down was a tricky and slippery job and one that could not be resolved effectively without Swarfega and a hot bath but she did at least smell delicious.
That evening, after the much threatened bath I wrapped her in a big towel then snuggled her up in her floral nightgown; with her hair shining and teeth sparkling she was a sight to behold. She and I cuddled up in her bed, her big sister a foot away and we read a story together. She put her arm around my neck and kissed my cheek, repeatedly. Tucking them in, I bade them goodnight and blew them both a kiss. I left their room on a cloud of euphoric maternal love.
With a light heart I skipped down the stairs to find Mags in the kitchen brandishing a corkscrew and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. “It’s a lovely evening Alice, let’s go and sit in the garden”. For twenty minutes we enjoyed peace and quiet until the figure of a five year old ran out, “Mummy, come quickly, there is a big mess on the carpet.” Mags got there before me, “Alice, it’s an insurance job”, she yelled down the stairs but I was fast behind her and found, to my utter dismay, a two year old who looked as though she been slaughtered, so abundantly was she and my bedroom carpet covered in Chanel’s Rouge Noir nail polish. Mags took her back to the bathroom to scrub her whilst I attempted the same with my carpet. No chance, the more I rubbed, the more it bled and thus is how it remains. Once more I put them to bed (more sternly) and once more I returned to the garden. Mags and I discussed the youngest’s capacity for mischief, winced at the idea of Hubby’s reaction to the nail polish and polished off a glass of wine. For thirty minutes all was quiet until once more, the 5 year old appeared, “Mummy, come quickly, she’s done a poo on the carpet now”. Hurdling the garden wall, Mags ran through the kitchen, grabbed the Marigolds and hurtled upstairs; I was close behind her as we confronted the steaming pile. “Bloody hell”, said Mags, “It looks like a Doberman’s”. Mags picked up and discarded whilst I bathed the youngest once more. Again I tucked them in, consecutively less affectionate than the time before. The following morning, buoyed by a good night’s sleep, the youngest ‘painted’ the cream kitchen wall in black boot polish.
I was extremely glad when Hubby returned for a fortnight’s leave, although most of it so far has been an endurance test. Can there be a greater pain in the neck than a husband with one? I have no doubt that it hurts – did I not recently return from London with a cricked neck? But, if I see him once more walk to the ‘drug drawer’, melodramatically open a packet of extra strong Nurofen, wince on swallowing them, and hold onto his neck forlornly, I swear I will wring it for him. Consequently, I’m packing the car with four kids in various emotional states – two eldest ones moody and belligerent, the youngest overexcited and noisy, and a Husband flinching every time he attempts to pick up a sock. Holiday? I don’t think so.

Actress

I’ve finally found something I’m good at. After inauspicious start i.e rehearsals, my debut on the stage in the role of Lavinia Reader, chav wife and dominatrix extraordinaire, was quite honestly, staggering.
Now this might have had something to do with the fact that the week leading up to the performance had been an anxious one indeed. My 11 year girl, who has been suffering with an inflamed and painful knee for years, recently had an MRI scan to find out the cause. This was quickly followed up by another more intrusive MRI scan, this time involving a dye injected into the blood stream. I thought nothing of it until a brisk letter followed the MRI with an appointment for a biopsy. Like many people and for obvious reasons, I do not like the word biopsy at all; my anxiety levels on reading the appointment letter were out in orbit.
I rang the orthopaedic consultant’s secretary to find out what an earth was going on. “I’ll get him to call you Mrs Band”, she said.
“Please do”, I implored, “I’m sick with worry”. If I’d expected a jolly phone call from the consultant letting me know there was nothing to worry about then I was much mistaken. He rang later that day. “Ah Mrs Band. The radiologist found something she didn’t like the look of on the MRI. She took your daughter’s case to a meeting and they decided a biopsy was the only way forward to rule out a tumour”. By this point I was clutching the kitchen counter.
“But it doesn’t make sense”, I cried, “She’s had a bad knee for years; surely if it was something more sinister she’d be a very sick child indeed”.
“I’m sure you’re right Mrs Band but we can’t take any chances.”
Hubby, for once understanding the gravity of the situation, stayed at home an extra day to accompany his, by now frenzied wife to the biopsy appointment. The usual debacle of trying to find a parking space preceded any hospital treatment and half an hour after arriving in the grounds of Derriford Hospital, we eventually took our seats in X-Ray East.
My poor little girl, it was not a pleasant procedure but over soon enough. The chap performing the biopsy told her to rest her leg that day but she would be in school “tomorrow”. Ha! This was Monday, on Friday her leg was still of balloon proportions, very painful and she was hobbling. This did nothing to allay my fears of something very serious indeed and that afternoon I took myself to see my local nurse practioner. When you are without a mother this, I have found is what you have to do if you are in dire need of a cuddle and a “There, there”. The nurse in question is especially warm and empathic, and did not fail in comforting me.
Two hours later, Hubby arrived home, I gave him instructions on what to feed the kids, what time he had to be at the school for the play and putting my costume, a couple of blonde wigs and enough coleslaw to feed 76 people (the audience were being fed during the interval) into the boot of my car, I went to join my cast.
Walking into the Green Room (or computer suite for wont of another word), I found my fellow thespians applying their makeup and warming up. Lovely as the nurse had been, I still felt anxious and tearful and my anxiety was going to affect my performance if I didn’t pull myself together. Just as the director called “Five minutes” and I applied the last sweep of lipstick however, my mobile phone rang. It was the consultant, my heart raced and I prepared myself, “Mrs Band, good news, the biopsy results show your daughter’s lump was fibrous muscle tissue”.
“Oh thank God”.
“Good show. We’ll see her shortly for a follow up. Break a leg”. The irony of such a phrase coming from an orthopaedic consultant was not lost on me and I had to try very hard to stop myself dissolving into relieved, hysterical laughter.
Dahlings, what followed can only be described as the performance of my life and I enjoyed every minute, even when a false nail sprang off into the audience, I incorporated it into my role with aplomb. As we took our final bows and the applause rang out around the school hall, I thought to myself, ‘Helen Mirren – watch out, Alice Band is on her way’.
Mags met me for a latte in the week to congratulate me. We met with appropriately ‘luvvy’ air kisses and took our seats. We couldn’t quite believe where we were. This was not a chain coffee shop in some identikit shopping mall but a charming, privately owned affair in Torpoint. Of all places. Please let it be successful – the cakes were sublime and the words ‘fairtrade and organic’ were liberally used to describe the food and beverages. Our coffees even came with a bite-sized, heart shaped, shortbread biscuit. No doubt house prices will now go through the roof, as people clamour for a share of our middle-class café society.