Leave.

Another leave, another summer. As hubby packs his grip and polishes his shoes, neck bent revealing a white bit under his hairline where the barber shaved away his holiday hair, I am not as despondent as I usually am after a leave period because Hubby’s new job is bringing him back to Plymouth in October. Thus long stretches of not seeing each other during the week will be a thing of the past, well until the next appointment at least.
“There are still a number of outstanding jobs to do around the house you know”, I said, not really trying for a fight but going down that slippery route nonetheless.
“What have I failed to do in my spousal duties now?” he asked, spitting on his toe cap.
“Well you never finished painting the kitchen”.
“Alice, I brandished a paint brush on the first day of leave and did a few walls before you wanted my attention for something else”.
“Well the bath was blocked”, I added indignantly. More indignantly he replied,
“And the basement needed emptying and, let’s not forget, as you gallivanted around Devon and Cornwall’s tourist attractions with your American friend, I looked after the kids”, he was on a roll, “oh and then, just when I thought I might slow down and take a break of two marching paces you invite various family members to stay”.
“But they were your family members”.
“Don’t remind me”. We reached an impasse, before he added,
“Besides the piece de resistance was our camping trip and let’s face it Alice, you are most definitely not much of a camper”.
Ah, our camping trip, not so much an unprecedented success as a three day trial in family relations and boy our relations are as strained as those between Bush and Putin.
“Well I didn’t expect it to be so busy”.
“It’s August for God’s sake Alice. Did you expect to be in a field on your own?”
“Well I didn’t expect to share my frozen breath with fifteen hundred other breaths all clearing their throats, burping and snoring all night long”.
“You’re no Sleeping Beauty yourself love”. Another impasse.
“Anyway, it was too hard keeping an eye on all the children”. Truly, if you want to lose your family, go to Polzeath beach, sit on a mat and wait and, I can guarantee that within five minutes, your youngest child will be lost. Luckily, the authorities must know that this goes with the territory at Polzeath because whilst I was running around like a headless chicken, sobbing and awailing, the Life Guards were doing a better and calmer job of finding her. Which indeed they did, quickly. We tried to stick it out on that beach a while longer but it was futile. Not only were there literally thousands of people on or in various beach shelters and towels but the water’s edge is a good two hour walk away and if, like me, you have an aversion to walking in a bathing suit for more than a few feet before hiding under the sea, then the feeling of self consciousness of traipsing miles across sand as ones thighs and tummy wobbles under straining Lycra, is overwhelming and by the time I actually reached the water I was so mortified that I wanted to bury my head in the sand not sit on it. Unfortunately as the surf contained over two hundred body boarders coming at me at any given moment, I couldn’t even dive under the waves for fear of being mown down by a garish, nylon covered board of polystyrene.
After a picnic of rolls and crisps and grasping the two, soon to be three year old by the wrist lest she do a runner again, we gave up and found that afternoon, to our delight and relief the perfect beach of Daymer Bay. No nutters on boards, no waves, shallow waters, few people. Glorious.
Our son and heir and his equally ‘cool’ buddy, spent three days in their ‘shades’ and tight skinny jeans, t-shirts, socks and boots, without ever even visiting the beach, preferring instead to hang out outside the tent and strum their guitars for hours, in sweltering heat.
How a hot afternoon can turn into a freezing cold night beats me but believe me, I thought rigormortis would claim me before the hundred or so rooks woke the camp ground at five am. For those two nights I crawled under my duvet wearing my fleece and Hubby’s socks and onto my so called blow up bed which proceeded to deflate through the night and which found me at 4am wedged under Hubby’s inflatable bed, the cold earth penetrating my bones. The Red-Head was a peculiar shade of blue when she eventually rose and the eleven year old - twelve years old today, stormed out of her part of the tent both mornings livid with Mother Nature and her liberties at playing games with the temperature and the morning chorus. Only she didn’t blame Mother Nature but her own mother instead and my insistence that I couldn’t regulate the natural world did little to appease her. An overnight trip to London could and will though, so as Hubby spends another day of ‘quality time’ with his youngest daughters while attempting to complete the things on my to-do list, the birthday girl and I are making the most of him being at home to escape for a little razzmatazz. A cheap rail fare, the kind offering of a friend’s pied a terre and the contacts – ie a gay friend from school who works in the theatre and who knows ‘everyone worth knowing darling’, has thus provided us with travel, accommodation and the best seats in the house for Joseph and undoubtedly, his amazing technicoloured dreamcoat.

Camping It Up

It was my utmost intention this weekend to be found meandering alongside the Canal du Midi in Carcassonne, alone. Malheureusement, I am instead to be found packing for a family camping trip to Polzeath. Now, whilst I may love my family dearly, I was looking forward to a bit of solitary confinement. I don’t need any stimulants or glittering conversation, in fact I was happy to lie on my B&B bed and stare at the ceiling.
“No need break the habit of a lifetime”, quipped Hubby. He’s such a wag.
Having had several visitors recently however and pandered to their every whim, my accounts are such that I have had to forfeit my flights from Newquay to London then to Carcassonne and back. Someone else would have sat in my seat on that aeroplane, the anticipation of adventure and the unknown coursing through their veins, landing to the unmistakable, olfactory sense of being abroad. Smells of garlic, herbs and wine hanging heavy in a Mediterranean night air, the foreign sound of frantic cicadas adding to the general sense of being in a distant land. A siesta taken on an afternoon so hot that even the mosquitoes are languid and all the while I wouldn’t have had to take care of anyone – not one tiny or large person could have whined for my attention, no dinner would have had to have been cooked, no washing, no organizing, no-one’s happiness to pander too except mine and all I wanted, was a bit of peace and quiet.
As it transpires, I will now be on an undoubtedly soggy campsite, my French ensuite substituted by peeing into a bucket at 2am. Cassoulet swapped for crisps, a scorched sausage and a warm stubby of beer. I can’t wait.
Hubby of course, thrilled that I am not now going to be spending money in the South of France nor enjoying illicit flirtations with God knows whom and who will also now be on hand to take his youngest daughters to the public conveniences is a very jolly soul. The camping paraphernalia has made its way out of the basement and into the kitchen and I have actually caught him whistling as he chucked melamine into hot soapy water.
“It’s going to be great Alice”, he said as I looked dejectedly on, “C’mon, cheer up there’s a love” he added, flinging a tea towel at me.
The lists for such an expedition are endless and when Hubby isn’t washing up, he has been at the computer adding yet more items to aforementioned inventory.
“This is very comprehensive y’know”, he said, very pleased with himself, “I’ve even remembered the hooks”.
“What hooks?” I asked, as if I cared.
“The ones that clip onto the tent frame”. I must have looked blank.
“Oh you know, the hooks we can hang things from. They are multi-purpose. By day we can hang macs and sweaters from them and by night torches and lanterns, not too mention perishables that need to be stored above ground level.” It is easy to see how he has done so well as a supply officer, although, one wonders if he will ever again be able to replicate that triumphant feeling of successfully storing ship before a long deployment when every box of cereal and every last rasher of bacon was neatly packed away. Maybe this is him trying to recreate those times, I can but indulge him.
“So, have we enough batteries? I don’t want to miss the bucket.”
“Plenty, the Co-op have got an offer on, although I’d prefer it if you could manage a pee in the dark, you don’t want to wake the kids”.
“Shove off; I’m more likely to wake them as I wail when the pail tips over”.
“Oh well, I suppose but you must be quiet”.
“To pee quietly into a plastic bucket in the dead of night inside the thin canvas of a tent would be wholly unfeasible”, I point out, packing the plastic dishes into a box.
“Actually the tent is made of a strong, water and fire resistant polyester Alice”. I roll my eyes.
“It’s all very well for you to be laissez faire about all this stuff but when we are on that campsite in the cool night air, you will be delighted that I have remembered your favourite comfy chair, the fleece blanket, the cafetiere, pillows, duvet and …”
“Oh all right, I get your drift”.
“Now I just have to locate the surf board and we’re all set”.
“Surf board?” was he having a mid-life crisis? To see young men, paunch free with honey coloured skin, effortlessly ride a wave, accessorized by earrings and silver bangles is a joy to behold – a middle aged man however, with a tummy and varicose veins as surfing accessories is quite another.
“I think you may have left it a bit late to adopt the surf bum look”, I said gently.
“Not for me Alice, for our son but thanks for the vote of confidence, I’ll remember that when nubile young girls are running past us and you are extricating your sarong from upper reaches of your buttocks.
“It’s called a wedgie Dad”, said our 11 year old, walking into the kitchen, “And just to let you know I am not going near you on the beach if one of you is in a swim suit and the other has a surf board under their arm. I couldn’t stand the shame.”
“Ditto” drawled our son, ambling in, “You’ll stay in the campsite with the babies right?”
“I am not a baby”, added the 5 year old, “And you are very stinky”.
“Speak for yourself”.
“Poo-breath”. All our attentions turned to the Red-Head, who at almost three, has developed quite an insulting, scatological vocabulary. I sighed deeply and considered for a moment who had sat in my seat on flight 72. They’d better be having a good time.

History.

My feet hurt like you wouldn’t believe. This has been an intensive few days. My American is, how shall I put it, a very fascinated tourist and is not at all fatigued by sight seeing.
Would you have believed for instance that it is possible to visit the Barbican in Plymouth and walk only 400 yards in four and a half hours? Well believe. I have been up alleyways and back roads, up terraces and steps that have led to antiques, artistes, galleries and gardens. In her defence though, being with someone so passionate about ‘old things’ one sees the same things that one as looked at a million times through new eyes. We picked up a Historic Walk leaflet in the information centre and it was fascinating – well to us it was, her son and my eldest two groaned with ennui. Typical, once they were fed pasties, fish and chips and an ice cream or two, their interest in the past 500 years waned and the temptations of Virgin Records and Primark beckoned so, we bade our farewells and immersed ourselves in the Tudors and Elizabethans. To be honest once we’d looked around the antique market for an hour and a half, my back was beginning to ache and so, as she looked around the Elizabethan House I sat by the receptionist and read the reams of leaflets I’d picked up. By the time she emerged, eyes shining with historical facts, I was able to direct her to the Tudor House, Palace Vaults and Elizabethan Garden. This little oasis of calm and serenity impressed even me. It is so hidden and quiet, set back well away from the hustle and bustle of sweaty, half dressed tourists. They look Neanderthal and sadly, very British.
Whilst I died of shame regarding my kinsmen, Mindy, my American friend was for more interested in the masonry of the ancient Plymouth and we had to give, seemingly, every piece of stone and step our full attention.
As we picked our way down the cobbles and back onto the Southside Street, it was late afternoon and Plymouth Gin distillery beckoned.
“Oh my heavens!”, remarked Mindy. Yipee, I thought, a chance for a sit down and a long cold, recuperative drink. Unfortunately gin was the furthest thing from her mind.
“Look at this darling art gallery!” and in she went. I was beginning to feel like the kids and my steps had decidedly switched from a stride to a truculent trudge. Reluctantly I followed her but her enthusiasm was infectious and I succeeded in another 45 minutes of rifling through prints and paintings. The gallery owner couldn’t have been best pleased because at the end of it all, Mindy found a print that had originally been for sale at £40 and was in the reduced pile for two quid. By the time it had been wrapped carefully for its journey to America, the owner must have spent more on cardboard, bubble wrap and Sellotape than the measly sum she made for it.
“Oh how kind of you”, said Mindy, politely.
“Don’t worry, we try to be nice to our colonies”, replied the owner dryly.
Finally, I coerced her into the Gin Distillery but only because it had Franciscan Monks on its side and was thus an ancient building.
“Oh my heavens!” she exclaimed for the hundredth time that day as we entered its cavernous foyer.
“It was lodging for the Pilgrim Fathers before they set sail for America”, said one of the guides.
“For real? Wow!” A long chat followed - as it does with everyone she meets and by the end of which I am sure the guide was on her Christmas card list - before I finally dragged her up the stairs to the cocktail lounge.
“Two G&T’s”, I said perhaps a little too quickly, but I wanted my order in before she changed her mind and we went in search of more culture. It was the best G&T I have ever had. Genuinely: long, cool, tasty and made professionally. Highly recommended.
Twenty minutes later and we were back in the heat and sunshine.
“Westward Bound?”, she read, “Oh do they sell postcards?” but before I could warn her that it was a fetishists shop she was immersed in PVC, whips and all manner of sadomasochistic toys and costumes. “Oh my heavens”, she said once again, almost tripping as she ran to get out, “I hadn’t realised you Brits were quite so open about your sexual peccadilloes”.
“Hey, don’t include me in that, I’m strictly a once a month, good Protestant girl” I laughed.
The following day, after a breakfast of dry toast and a double-dipped- tea-bag cup of tea, (she is convinced that the caffeine is released on the first dowsing, thus the bag can be used again in its de-caffeinated and thus, acceptable state. I ask you.), we all eight of us took the train to Calstock. All cynicism aside there is something very touching seeing a stranger literally moved to tears by the beauty of one’s country.
“I would be happy forever to be surrounded by such beauty”, she said quietly, wiping the tears from her cheeks as she watched the river and Tamar Valley unveil itself, “I have never seen anything like it”. The day only got better if a little more strenuous and we walked or should I say mountaineerd to Cotehele House. As there were so many of us, it was prudent, if painful to take out an annual membership, consequently after a day with the Tudors we spent the next with the Georgians of Saltram House where the superlatives continued apace.
Beachcombing, rock-pooling and crabbing under sunny blue skies have only served to deepen her love of the Westcountry, along with pasties washed down with cider. Sadly today is the last day and we are going to Ye Olde Worlde Tesco. Well it is Elizabethan of sorts…

Grunge.

Here, we are then, two days into the school summer hols and I am already frothing at the mouth. Hubby is yet to go on leave and so I am left, now that Mags has moved out, to clean, change the sheets, make my house sparkle, shop, cook and basically prepare for an onslaught of summer visitors, whilst trying desperately to keep my temper and four children at bay.
I do not find this an easy feat. I am staggered by the amount of penicillin teenagers manage to grow in their bedrooms and the fact that normally, so self conscious regarding a zit or blemish or greasy hair they care not a jot where their knickers land once they have flung them off the night before. I am constantly staggered by what I find on the bedroom floor, shelf or behind the door – the fact that all of them possess a laundry basket accounts for nothing.
My son’s desk, now that he has dispensed with Year 9, is awash with papers, old homework, handouts, leaflets and God knows what, on top of all that sits several chocolate wrappers (the crisps packets are under his pillow), the aforementioned penicillin furred coffee cups, a guitar, a computer, two pairs of rugby socks, a little black book and various shirts, previously beautifully and lovingly pressed and now in crumpled balls. My eldest daughter is no different. When out she is the picture of youthful beauty, her hair and skin plastered in every product the Body Shop produces and can, at any given moment smell simultaneously of mango, strawberry, coconut, tea tree, lemon and cranberry. Her clothes are considered for hours before wearing and even earrings and a necklace are given careful contemplation before they hit her lobes and neck. I am left speechless then, when on entering her bedroom I have to heave the door open before whatever lying behind it surrenders and lets me in. It is all I can do not to sink onto her bed, my head in my hands as I take in the devastation around me. Mountains of books lie on every surface, mingled with glittery lip gloss, the cap left off and thus having bled into the books. Bras and knicks dangle from door handles, bedposts, backs of chairs and light fittings and scrap-booking paraphernalia is literally littered on the desk, carpet and duvet. Not to mention the tangled mess of wires from phone chargers, Walkmans and hair dryer/straightener standing by to trip you up as you endeavour to put away the previous offending list.
No sooner have I sorted out these two rooms than I cautiously peer around the bedroom door of the youngest delinquents. This is indescribable; Barbies of every colour and creed lie naked and matted of hair on the carpet. Books, too numerous to catalogue are in, on or under the beds. Clothes and wet nappies mingle nastily outside the wastepaper basket and wet wipes, pulled indiscriminately from the dispenser, now lie dry and useless on every surface. Felt tip pens, tops lost many months ago have been sucked on and either the child or her clothes are covered in forensic amounts of pink, yellow and blue.
It is enough to make any woman despair and I envy my friends whose jobs remove them from the endless hours during the summer holidays spent nagging their children to turn off the tv, get on their bikes and go and do something less boring instead, like tidy their bedrooms. With their childcare sorted they can enjoy two weeks ‘quality time’ on a family holiday courtesy of a Greek island, whilst we, en masse, can be observed in a weeks time bickering over the assembly of a large tent; two children, faces like the proverbial slapped arse, two others running around maniacally, the highlight of which will be peeing in a bucket in the early hours of the morning.
Hubby of course is looking forward to his leave although has already put dampers on things by coolly announcing that apart from a few days in Polzeath we “will have to take it easy this summer and pull our belts in – financially, so to speak”.
“That’s going to be fun then with our American visitors”.
“Well, we’ll just have to entertain them on the cheap. She likes churches and walled gardens - so that’s a couple of days visiting Rame and Maker church and we can throw in a picnic at Mount Edgcumbe for good measure. Job done”. Hubby looked very pleased with himself and his tour guide skills.
“What if the weather is bad? We can hardly set off with a knapsack on our backs, fal-da-ree if it’s persisting down can we? Can’t we manage a couple of Stately homes and Eden?”
“Nope”.
“Fish and Chips at Rick Stein’s?”
“You’ve got to be kidding although we could take our bikes on the Camel Trail”. Now it was my turn,
“You’ve got to be kidding?”And so, I have been left to devise an itinerary suitable to fulfil the needs of a spectrum of people from a 2 year old to a 50 year old American and her teenage son with the caveat of not spending any money – a challenge by anyone’s standards. Kingsand and Cawsand are obviously looking good but as the weather isn’t, I know not what to do. A cultured Anglophile, she would love to visit all the National Trust properties and go to the theatre, however as she took $400 to the bank two days ago and got £185 in return I am sure that she will settle for the delights of going to and fro on top of the Torpoint Ferry, a drive along Whitsand Bay, a bag of chips in Looe and a quick snifter in a country pub. In fact if anyone knows of anything to do with a large family with a limited budget in South East Cornwall in the rain, don’t be shy, get in touch…

Plumbing the depths

Now I understand why those friends of mine who, having had new kitchens installed have, by the end of it, ended up in a secure unit of a local hospital. I for one have been a nut case this week and I’ve only had some new kitchen counter tops – oh, and before any irate Colonels write to complain that I have more money than sense, let me explain that, after the 11 year old set fire to the previous ones, this is an insurance job – even so it has cost me far more than I can afford, due to ‘unforeseen costs’. For instance the solid oak counters apparently need a special sealant – off I go to B&Q, the Red-Head and my little niece in tow to scour the shelves for said stuff. B&Q is not my kind of place. My husband loves it; the nuts and bolts and tools and routers, paints and brushes get his testosterone surging, whilst I flounder in such a place. It has something to do with the warehouseness of it – high shelves filled with ‘flatpacked’ God knows what and brown boxes with instructions written on them. Mathematical references abound too: 2mm this and 2x2 that. I must have looked bewildered as a lovely assistant came to my aid. She was sympathetic and compassionate as I told her of my woes and within seconds she had located the sealant (£25 a tub, I needed three) and the heat protecting foil stuff that goes under the hob (£7 each, I needed two).
Returning home it was a question of down tools. The boy who had been the day before to disconnect the sink had not only turned off the pipes but wrenched the sink out of its hole, breaking all manner of pipes and clips rendering it null and void. I’d been on the phone at the time and wondered what on earth all the smashing and clattering was. I hung up when I saw him walk out of my front door with the sink under his arm.
“Where are you going with my sink”, I calmly enquired.
“Do you need it then?” he asked.
“Well, yes I do, I’m only having new counter tops. You were only supposed to turn the bleeding taps off”. This was like a domestic version of The Italian Job.
All he could add was “Oh”, before dumping the sink and grievously broken taps on the kitchen floor.
The men who I now had in my kitchen were looking grave indeed. “You’ll need a new sink”, said one.
“I thought as much”.
“Won’t be able to do that until tomorrow”, said the other.
“But that’ll be two days without running water and gas”, I groaned, clutching my fringe like a mad woman. “How will I manage?”
Let me explain. These last five weeks we’ve had a full house. Mags and her children have moved in, they sold their house and have yet to find another one even to rent. Consequently six children and two adults, three at weekends make for some intimate living conditions. To be without basic means was seriously testing my resolve.
The workmen however just went quiet and started sawing away to make a hole for a sink when it eventually arrived. Unbeknown to me but surely an everyday event for these guys, sinks apparently need a template. So, guess what happened the next day? The new sink was too small. My workman looked at it, dumbfounded; once again I clutched my fringe.
I rang Hubby, my voice small and feeble, “I wish you were here to be assertive”, I said.
“There is nothing wrong with your assertion Alice. You scare the living daylights out of me”.
“Well there’s a slight difference between venting ones spleen upon ones husband than with a chippy”. Hubby muttered something about debriefing the captain before telling me I’d manage just fine and hanging up.
“ ’Scuse me love”, called the workman, “I’m going to have to go out again and get another sink”.
“Sure”, I said grimly.
Hours later he returned. The sink is undeniably the right size but it doesn’t sit flush with my counters, ergo water will seep under it. Another fringe clutching moment. I leant back against the one counter that had yet to be addressed. Looking across the very narrow kitchen, the corner of my beautiful counter facing me was chipped and raggedy. Oh God.
During all this time no-one has been fortified with a nice cup of tea due to the fact that there is no water. Dishes are stacked in the dishwasher and dirty washing sits forlornly yet dry in the washing machine.
A lot of muttering comes from the garden where the man is measuring and re-measuring. I begin to wonder if it will ever be finished. Thankfully the cavalry has been called and the doorbell rings. Help arrives by way of another workman who helps the original man lift and shift wood into position. He is a cheery sort although a great believer in the new rules of practice. I point out to him that it seems insane to have had an electrician, gas man and plumber, let alone two carpenters do this job. I wonder how much all this must cost insurance companies.
“That’s the way it’s got to be Mrs Band. Let each skilled man have his own job”.
“I hear what you’re saying”, I nod, “But what about customer satisfaction? A relatively straight forward job has already taken four days and that is because of the incompetence of one man. Had he at least been here on the same days as everyone else, there would have been some semblance of communication. Days wouldn’t have passed with little work done. I would have running water, the hob would by now be reconnected and I would actually be able to feed my children.” Nothing is said in reply, for nothing can be said, for I am right.

Two Tribes Go To War.

“There’s been an uprising in school today”, proclaimed my son as he crashed the front door behind him, but not before four other hapless teenage boys followed him and chucked their rucksacks onto my hall floor.
Folding laundry, I looked up to receive a kiss on the top of my head.
“So what happened then? Did a bunch of revolutionaries storm the Bastille?” I asked, pausing the folding to slap his hand away from the cakes.
“Please just the one”, he mumbled, scoffing a meringue before I could stop him.
“Ha, ha Alice. Good one”, added one of his friends, “Very timely response”.
“Why?” my son grunted, flakes of meringue falling onto my kitchen floor.
“Will you please clean that up”, I reprimanded, “Because it is almost 14th July when it was curtains for the French aristocracy. Never heard of the French Revolution darling?”
“Oh yeah”.
“Gee whiz and you want to do History GCSE. Gawd help us. So what happened in school?”
By now my kitchen had been colonised by a bunch of young men with after school munchies, all ravenous, peering into various tins and making gallons of coffee. Years ago, when a teen myself, a nice cup of tea was in order, or, if you lived in a sophisticated family, a jar of Mellow Birds graced the pantry. These days it is a completely different story, with three different cafetieres on the go, there was ground coffee all over my kitchen counter and boiled water sluicing down behind the kettle.
“For the love of God boys, let me do it”. They capitulated very easily by jumping up and out of the way onto my kitchen counter. I sighed, whilst my son, now sipping my finest Kenyan regaled me of a fight between the Emo’s and the Goth’s.
“Only they weren’t really Emo’s and Goth’s, more nerds and chavs”.
I looked blank. I’ve tried desperately to keep abreast of the latest teenage tribes but an Emo threw me for six.
“Are you sure you don’t mean Emu, as in ‘Rod Hull and..’. It was his turn to look perplexed.
“Oh mum, Emo is short for emotional”. I obviously still looked puzzled. He continued.
“It implies an angsty teen. Someone who walks around in very tight jeans, wraps himself in a mad scarf even in summer, dyes his hair back, develops an eating disorder and rants about how ‘nobody understands’”.
“Hell’s bells, apart from the jeans that’s me”, I cried in a moment of epiphany, “I am an Emo mother! Can I go and hang out outside BHS in Plymouth on Saturday then?”
My son and his friends looked horrified. “Oh come on, why not? It would be nice to mix with people who understand. Of course my eating disorder has more to do with overeating then starving myself but nevertheless, if they are as filled with angst as you say, I’m bound to find an empathic soul mate”.
I had gone too far. There was an embarrassed silence and the slurping of coffee was halted.
I however, was enjoying myself. “Why are you all looking so uncomfortable? You are not the only generation to relate to a ‘tribe’ you know. Dad used to be a punk in his hey day – well, as far as he could without his Master at Arms throwing a wobbly. Pink hair was out for him but he did get away with a safety pin in his ear.” The boys looked down at their feet as though I were saying something wholly subversive.
“I haven’t always been a frumpy mother you know”. They didn’t want to know, but I told them regardless.
“In fact I once hung out with Elvis after a gig”. The boys looked up immediately, rather impressed.
“Wow Alice”, said one, “That’s really cool. Have you been to Graceland then?”
“No, not Elvis Presley, Elvis Costello. Besides I’m not that old. I was only a kid when he died. I have however, snogged Paul Weller”, I said triumphantly.
“Ok Ma, that’s enough”, said my son jumping down and walking out of the kitchen, all the other boys trailing in his wake.
“Spoil sports”, I called after them, “He didn’t slip me the tongue though”. I laughed. It must be a parent’s most satisfying moment when we can make our children cringe in mortification. I for one felt very pleased with myself. It was not to last a moment longer though as my hormonal 11 year old barged in.
“Did you get everything I need for food tech?” she had a face like thunder and I attempted to interpret what she needed for food tech without winding her up any further. I played it safe. Last week she’d made bread, perhaps that’s what she was making again.
“Yeast?”
“Well duh”.
“Don’t duh me please. What else to you need?” She sprang like a coiled viper.
“I’ve told you already. I gave you a list. You never remember what I need” with that she pushed a chair over and, in floods of tears, ran out of the room. I sighed and was about to follow her when the doorbell rang. It was another one of the mum’s from the PTA coming to pick up the meringues for sports day.
“Just a moment”, I called. Retrieving what was left of the meringues I passed them through the door as the Red-Head came crying.
“Not me watch Saved by Bell, me watch Dora”. I scooped her up and walked into the sitting room. The 11 year old was in control of the controls.
“She was watching Dora love. You shouldn’t just switch over to what you..” I didn’t finish my sentence as she jumped up, cried some more and flounced out, throwing the controls at me.
Ah boy, should any young person see me outside BHS today, wearing a scarf and looking ‘angsty’, let me into your tribe, please.

Parasites.

“I’m like Angelina Jolie”, I said to Hubby. His face looked pained in concentration as he desperately tried not to insult me, whilst at the same time you could see him try to figure out how his wife, who sat opposite him on the sofa in a pair of baggy, unmatching pyjamas and who sported a bright red, flaky nose, a chesty cough and lank hair scraped into a pony tail could possibly be compared to one of the most beautiful and not to point too fine a point on it, sexy women in the world.
“How come love?” he attempted bravely.
I stroked the cat that was contentedly purring in a perfect coil on my lap.
“Well, I suppose I am the Angelina Jolie of the feline world”. Hubby was still at a loss.
“For heaven’s sake”, I said, irritably, “I have an adopted rainbow family too, only they are cats and not kids”.
“Oh I see”, replied Hubby visibly relieved that I wasn’t delusional, “Yes, you are”, he added, reaching down the front of his trousers for a good scratch “and of course you’ve got Brad Pitt for a husband.” I choked on my Lemsip and splattered it everywhere.
“Cheers”, said Hubby, “I’ll take that snort of derision to mean that you don’t think I am then”.
Hubby’s cold was receding a little, as was his hair; he hadn’t shaved for two days because he’d been ‘coming down with something’ and he sprawled on the armchair in his slouchy, decorating clothes. We looked a fine pair, one of those that Trinny and Susannah would concur that had let themselves go in a, contented if unremarkably, lacklustre marriage.
“We don’t make much of an effort to attract each other these days do we?”, I said.
“Well, it’s been a long time since you got your webbing on”.
“Huh?”.
“Stockings and suspenders?”
“Oh for God’s sake”, I was cross, “Is that all you want is it? Are you that shallow that your idea of me being sexy is to dress up like some second rate porn star?”. He looked injured. It was one of those defining moments when men and women are most defiantly on Venus and Mars. He was totally out of his depth and knew that whatever direction this conversation went, he was snookered.
“Well Alice, you are lovely just the way you are. Well, ok maybe not exactly just the way you are, but when your hair is shiny, you’ve got your slap on and a sexy pair of shoes”.
“Nothing deeper then?” I probed. He looked blank. Nope he’d never thought of my attractiveness either on a deeper level or more than skin deep.
“So my wit and intelligence doesn’t turn you on then?” Hubby was now totally out of his comfort zone and would quite happily have gone into the kitchen to clear away the Sunday dinner dishes and even scrub the roasting pans. I however, was on a roll.
“I am never going to wear ‘webbing’ as you so romantically put it, ever again, for a number of reasons not least because the rolls of flesh that escape from under the straps and hooks are not perceived by most men to be much of a turn on and because I genuinely thought you made love to me with your mind”.
“I’m not with you”.
“Jeeze. Doesn’t just the smell of me, my closeness to you, the fact that you love me and my personality have anything to do with it, or fundamentally, is it all down to itchy lace and a pair of ten denier?”
“Don’t get a cob on now Alice. I think you’re gorgeous, hell, after last week’s little incident most of Plymouth would agree you have a fantastic pair of kn..”
“Nits. Bloody, bloody hell I’ve got nits”. It was the five year old, barging in having just been bathed by her big sister, who followed her, nit comb in hand.
“Sweetheart, don’t swear please. Come here, let Mummy look”. She bent over my lap and sure enough, there the buggers were.
“Me too mummy”, added the Red-Head, wandering naked into the sitting room looking very dejected, trailing a soaking wet towel behind her. “No mummy comb my hair”. I heaved myself off the sofa, “Sorry darling I must. Come on, let’s go and comb them out properly”. Hubby, it was plain to see, had never been more relieved to know his kids had lice and, let off the hook, he jumped up and said, somewhat brightly, “You do the girls; I’ll go and attack the kitchen”.
Half an hour later when the sobs of two young girls had subsided, I walked into a gleaming kitchen just as Hubby was putting the dishwasher tablet into the machine.
“All done?” he asked, putting his arm around me, “You should go and work for Rentokil”, he bent down and nibbled my neck, “Mmm, there’s a thought; I rather like the idea of you in a florescent pink overall”. Just as he was about to kiss me, our teenage son stormed into the kitchen.
“Where the bloody hell did you get that new cat from? It’s jumping in fleas. I’m covered in bites look”, and lifting up his t-shirt revealed his skinny, young torso dotted with red marks.
“The thing is mum, the other two cats will have them as well. Ugh”, he said, shivering, “This house is alive with parasites”.
“Well”, said Hubby sarcastically, “considering that you still owe me approximately fifty quid from your little day trip to London including the congestion charge, the petrol, supper on the way home not too mention a day off work, then I fully concur that this family is indeed one great, collective, bloodsucking, leech”.
“FrontLine. That’s what the cats need”, I said quietly.
“Living in this family is like being on the bloody front line”, said Hubby, as yet another weekend hit the dust.