Performance Review

“Appraisal time” said Accountant, producing an A4 pad and a sour expression. He’d come from the laptop so I’d concerns he’d checked the joint account.
“We’ll start with development areas”.
“You’re supposed to start with the positives.” I countered.
“Ironing” he began. I crossed my arms, lower lip protruding. “You don’t seem to be doing any”. I remained silent . “Well?” he coaxed.
“Sorry, I thought it was a rhetorical question”. Shake of head.
I pictured the dreary hours I’d spent hunched over his shirts and the resulting boredom. “I didn’t really like it” I answered.
“But I bought you that new ironing board” he responded.
“When I asked for a motivational gift, that wasn’t what I meant.” He seemed perplexed by my lack of drive.

He moved on. “Overspending” he barked. I avoided eye contact as he presented our latest statement and a pink highlighter. “£50 in Shoots, £60 in Next ...” I went to the happy place in my head as he reeled through, highlighting as he went, his voice and eyebrows rising incrementally with each transaction.
At the point I was imagining my former self floating through the golden doors of Bloomingdales armed with the wild and reckless credit afforded by my gainful employment, I could almost smell the Gucci ebony tote bag with brown trim and gold hardware.
“CREDIT CRUNCH” snapped Accountant, forcing me back to the place where a Bag for Life was supposed to provide fulfilment. His face was pink much like the statement he was waving.

I began my defence with some scene setting, sinister undertones in my voice. “Imagine you’re in a deep sleep that’s taken hours to achieve thanks to your partner’s snoring. Finally, exhausted, you’re at peace”. I smile, before contorting my face dramatically, ”but, wait, what’s that? Torturous screams ripping you from the depths of unconsciousness, dragging you to the surface where, for the 99th consecutive night, your master demands your presence. Then, just when you’ve fallen asleep again thanks to your child’s inability to differentiate day from night, he’s back, using your prematurely ageing face as a track for his cars”. Deep breath.
“Three hours of high-energy role play follow featuring mummy as Trevor the Triceratops and Chickie as Troy the T-Rex. Then 75 small cars, 92 kitchen utensils, 50 Thomas books and 6 boxes of toys need handpicking off the carpet, whilst Chickie sits on your back pretending you’re a horsey, using your hair as reins”. Accountant looks unimpressed.
I continue, frowning. “Then it’s question time. Why’s it raining? What’s p’ercipitation? Where’s Father Christmas? Why you yawning? Why? Verbal abuse set against a backdrop of noise you can still hear when it’s stopped plus relentless menial toil completes the cycle”.
Accountant waits for me to close.
“Perhaps these development areas could be viewed more positively,” I pause, “more as perks of the job?” I conclude triumphantly, pleased with my pitch.
Accountant refers me to eight separate transactions at Costa Coffee.
Busted.

Tumble Tots

On Saturday morning, two boys entered the woods on their bicycles. “I saw some other kids doing a jump over there” said one to the other, pointing to a grassy knoll in the distance.
“Cool. Do it!” instructs his friend.
The boy lines his bike up whilst his friend stands and eggs him on from the side lines. “Really go for it!” he says.
“Okay” he shouts back over his shoulder as he mentally prepares himself, speeding up for take-off. And take off he did, flying through the sky like a big, pink torpedo before landing face first in the undergrowth.

Dog walkers, hearing what they assumed were the frantic screams of a young girl, rushed over to see what had happened. To their surprise, the high pitched whimpers were coming from a 32 year old male who looked up at them pathetically through mud splattered glasses. And that’s how Accountant broke his collar bone.

As we had 3 hours to spare whilst waiting in A&E and Accountant was a conveniently captive audience, I decided to raise some discussion points.

1. What was a 14 stone grown man who had never gone out on his bike without falling off thinking - dirt jumping in the woods?
2. And, why was he catapulting himself across the countryside at the very moment he’d promised he’d be arriving home?

Turning toward me like a robot in a neck brace, Accountant winced as he explained that it was all my nephew’s fault for showing him the jump and then went on to blame his friend for making him do it. I mustered an eyebrow raise, marvelling at how little the adult male develops from childhood.

“And you weren’t home when you promised because....?” I prompted.

Accountant suddenly took a turn for the worse, sucking in air through gritted teeth at just the same time his name was called over the tannoy to attend minor injuries.

One hour later, with no operation or plaster required, I could tell Accountant was very pleased with himself as the pretty young nurse lent over him to tie his sling instructing him gently to take it easy for the next six weeks. He nodded seriously, a smug smile tugging at his lips. I resisted an urge to poke his shoulder.

Back at home, I began to get a taste as to what my life would be like for the next month.

“I need a beer” he hollered from the sofa. It was hard to hear him above the footie. “Can you turn the tv up too? I would do it but I can’t move” he added, pointing to his sling.

Once Chickie was delivered back from Nanna’s, he was briefed on daddy’s minor injury. “Poor daddy” he sympathised, bounding over to cuddle him.

Accountant’s screams were delightfully shrill as he realised that recuperating avec toddler might not be as cushy as anticipated.

What's Motherhood Really Like?

“So, what’s motherhood really like?”

As I looked into the well-rested eyes of the girl I’d just met at a friend’s birthday party, I considered how best to respond as she went on to explain that she was considering having a baby but had concerns about her white carpets and matching sofas.

As I listened to her talk about the protective blue plastic socks that were issued to her guests and the drawer dividers she used to keep her blacks knickers separate from her white, I was beginning to feel a dastardly longing for her to have a baby immediately.

To be honest, I’d put more thought into purchasing my fridge freezer than into having a baby, and had simply assumed it would comply on the basis I was bigger. Baby would while away its days looking like a model from the mini-Boden catalogue whilst I baked cupcakes and praised it occasionally from the kitchen for sitting so nicely for a whole seven hours. The labour was going to be all drugs and no pain and baby would respect the home that mummy had spent two years renovating. It would eat, sleep and behave impeccably at all times because I’d read its instructions, twice (Contented Little Baby Book). Baby would enjoy international travel and adapt effortlessly to changes in routine. Baby would always use a coaster.

The nice girl’s husband stood by her side, a loving arm around placed around her waist. They were waiting for me to say something.

What’s motherhood really like? The question danced around my few remaining brain cells.

“Well”, I tried to focus on their content little faces through eyes that hadn’t enjoyed a full night’s sleep since July. “Take photos of your little white house then at least you’ll have your memories. The plastic slipper socks shouldn’t be a complete waste of money, they’ll probably be quite useful to wear on your head during the reflux stage, when you start weaning and for potty training too. You might want to consider an extra drawer compartment for disposable pants and giant nursing bras. Then, once you’ve finished breastfeeding, a padded bra section might be useful.” I took a deep breath.

“Once baby’s mobile, the game changes. You need to put everything you own in storage. I’m not just talking ornaments. Curtains, sofas, rugs, bedding, lampshades, literally everything. Keep the tv though, it’s essential.”

The husband’s arm fell from his wife’s waist. They exchanged glances.

“The word ‘holiday’ will no longer apply to you. Wipe it from your vocabulary and your memory” I continued.

“Perhaps we’ll wait a bit longer” she interjected.

My mobile phone beeped and I showed them my ‘Chickie in his Spiderman outfit’ screensaver, followed by my gallery of Chickie photos from birth to date. By photo 64, their interest was waning. I kept going though, every photo reminding me that my little boy is the greatest thing I’ve ever done.

The Leggy Legacy of Mushroom Packing

“Is that a varicose vein in your leg?”, my mother enquired, squinting at Accountant’s lily white leg poking out of the end of his shorts.
“Yes it is” replied Accountant proudly, perking up at her interest in the long term condition that had never caused him a day’s discomfort.
“How’ve you got that then?” she continued, not as savvy as I at avoiding any interest in Accountant’s bodily functions.
“I don’t know really” he replied seriously, rubbing the offending vein as if to ease the pain he’d shouldered silently for so many years.
“Has anyone in your family got them?” I rolled my eyes at Dad, who I assumed was finding the pointlessness of her enquiries as tedious as I.
“No, I don’t think so” said Accountant, his brow furrowed with the concentration of a man working his way back five generations for any history of knotted legs. “I did work in a mushroom factory once though.”
“Really?” replied my mother who I knew was working up to the disclosure of her very own varicose veins, waiting for the optimum moment to reveal her own hideous suffering as she stood for years, without breaks, hairdressing for a shilling a week.
“Yes. There were men and women who had worked there for thirty years and I always remember their legs were all gnarled up from standing for so long” said Accountant, his words tinged with concern as to the toll his time at the factory may have taken.
"How long did you work there?” I enquired, momentarily interested.
Accountant took time to calculate, delivering his answer with the utmost gravity, “About four weeks”.
Laughing at Accountant continued for about an hour. It stopped for X-Factor, and then recommenced in earnest.

As soon as the front door shut behind mum and dad, Accountant turned. Apparently I never took any of his medical conditions seriously. No one else, apart from his mother, would either but I vowed to pretend to in the future.

Somewhat conveniently, the next day he awoke with stomach pains and conjunctivitis. “I’ll need some water, a cup of peppermint tea, five cracker breads with butter and cream cheese, complete bed rest and a cold compress” he whimpered, searching my face for any sign that I wasn’t fully invested in his recovery, through his one good eye.

For the rest of the day, I sourced DVD’s, turned the pages of magazines, double checked with NHS Direct that his ‘localised’ stomach pains (as he liked to call them) weren’t appendicitis and applied eye drops every three hours.

And then, on my way to plump up his highly infectious pillows, I overheard him organising a trip to the pub the next day.

That’s when I soaked a towel in icy water and, just as he drifted into his 19th hour of sleep, laid it lovingly over his poor little tummy.

The Dangers of Hormone Imbalance

It all started with some serious PMT that had reduced me to tears as I read my friend’s sample wedding invitation. “Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, which I gaze so fondly today, were to change by tomorrow, and fleet in my arms, like fairy-gifts fading away, thou wouldst still be adored...” It was all so loving and hopeful.

I thought of Accountant’s endearing young charms – or at least I tried to, but images of his ridiculously loud and excessive nose blowing and inane whistling pierced my romantic bubble prior to inflation. And the way he pressed the ‘information’ button whenever I was watching something on telly so I missed it all. Not to mention his ‘digestive’ troubles...

Not endearing and thou wouldst be adored much more if all those young charms changed tomorrow. That said, I felt the stirrings of inspiration and set about reacquainting myself with all of Accountant’s long lost fairy-gifts.

To charm out the charms, I did something I personally considered hugely magnanimous. I popped my last Thornton’s cappuccino chocolate into Accountant’s lunch box, which, short of donating a lung, was about as grand a gesture as I could ever bestow on anyone.
In an office far away, the sweet fluffy centre of the best coffee truffle available in Europe, didn’t even graze a taste bud as it was swallowed whole. The email I received at 13:56 simply said, “Thanks for the choccie”.

“Thanks for the choccie!” It wasn’t just a ‘choccie’! It was a luxury aromatic coffee and double cream truffle swirl, sprinkled with ground Brazilian beans. And it was my favourite. And my last one.

I felt disheartened and much the same as years before when I’d discovered all the greeting cards I’d ever given him heaped in the rubbish bin.

Naturally, when he arrived home, I was sulking. Naturally, he had absolutely no idea why.

“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing!” I replied.

He went to watch football. I sulked some more before realising I couldn’t educate my husband on his shortcomings silently. I reappeared in the doorway.

“Do you remember when you threw my cards away?”
“Did I?”
“Yes” I confirmed, setting my face to ‘how could you’.
“Is that why you’re upset?”
“No, this is about charms.”
“Charms?” He looked more confused than ever.
“Yes, and chocolate”
“I said thank you for the chocolate”.

I wondered how to phrase that, whilst technically he was correct, it hadn’t been the right kind of thank you nor had he grasped the deeper message of my cappuccino-truffle-fairy-gift. By the time I had formulated my thoughts, Accountant was shouting at the TV. Convinced that true romance could never be mine, I trudged up to bed, sniffing loudly.

At half time, he stood before me with a glass of water and some maximum strength Evening Primrose capsules.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t come off them again?” he suggested softly.
I nodded, deciding I adored him after all.

Chickie's First Wedding

“You’re brave bringing a toddler to a wedding” said the lady in the silk gown. Reading between the lines, I think what she really meant was, “You silly, silly girl!”

I didn’t mention I’d invested many hours trying to redeploy Chickie to a more suitable venue but Nanna was busy (something cappuccino related). My sister was also busy (something about washing hair) and Grandma and Grandpa were smearing clotted cream onto scones in Devon.

Through my tears, I stressed upon each of them that this was a ‘posh’ wedding, requiring female participants to feature in cocktail dresses and that Chickie wasn’t trusted within 10 feet of dry clean only fabrics. They made sympathetic noises, but all felt that if children were invited, it would be fine. I countered their arguments with the fact that neither bride nor groom had children of their own, so couldn’t possibly comprehend what they’d gone and done.

A day of genteel elegance and refinement beckoned and I was expected to seamlessly blend my 3ft minion of mass destruction into proceedings.

I wore an apron over my dress in the car. Chickie was changed into his tux on arrival and after some initial grumblings about wanting to wear a dress too, he charged off to explore the Manor. Accountant trotted after, thoughtfully leaving me to retrieve my bulging sack of munitions. An essential selection of apparatus– toys, snacks, chloroform...

“Where’s daddy?” I asked as I tugged my sack through the topiary fronted doors.
“Bar” said Chickie, pointing to Accountant’s retreating form as he scurried off down a corridor.

We took up pursuit. “Is it a ghost tunnel mummy?” he asked as we entered the dim hallway. I nodded seriously. He did his penguin dance, delighted by the scariness, before grasping my hand.

By the time we’d negotiated the labyrinth of corridors, we’d lost Daddy (who I know had started running), and found ourselves in the gardens. Vast and wooded with bridges and secret bits, Chickie’s eyebrows nearly fell off his head. “Let’s find dinosaurs mummy” he said, letting out a roar. My heels began their descent into the mud.

We returned for the ceremony looking much like we’d been landscape gardening. We took our ribboned seats, next to the exit. Accountant reappeared with a rosy glow. I glared lovingly at him before showing Chickie just how many packets of jelly babies could be his if he could just be quiet for the next three hours. He nodded his affirmation. He liked the deal.

And then something amazing happened. He actually was really quiet. It lasted throughout dinner. Then he was adorable as he laughed in all the right places during the speeches.

Once the disco lights began to twinkle, Chickie was up and everyone wanted to dance with the little boy who had so loved his first wedding. The one with the dinosaurs and the troll bridge and all the ghosties.

The Pressure

I remember a time when you could accept a friend’s dinner invitation safe in the knowledge you could look forward to an evening sat on your bottom, gorging yourself on After Eights. Sadly, it would seem those blissful days are gone.

Now that everyone owns such useful ‘gadgets’ as Nintendo Wiis and Brain Trainers, after dinner mints and digestion are out and physical and mental torture are in.

Last week, we went to Accountant’s boss’ house for dinner. Filo pastry with feta cheese for starter, chicken curry for main and a blood pressure test for pudding. His boss stood over me sipping port as he pumped all of the blood from my left bingo wing with his new birthday present. The other guests watched in terror, knowing their turn was coming. He instructed them to relax – it could affect their readings.

“Ooh, that’s very low” he informed me seriously. My curry started to curdle as a familiar terror crept through my stomach.
“It is?” I wondered whether it was a good time to introduce my health anxiety?
“Yes. Let’s do it again!” He sounded excited and pressed the button again for another go.
The other guests look relieved as they enjoyed a momentary reprieve.

Three days later and awaiting my doctor’s appointment to check my low blood pressure, I’d just finished my friend’s risotto when I was plucked from the sofa and deposited onto a white plastic board. She busily waved another device at the tv which beeped a lot. She then turned to me, looking delighted, as she informed me that I was unbalanced, overweight and physically eligible for a free bus pass.

“Now let’s do your mental age” she said, handing me a tiny console. A three stage mathematics and logic challenge followed. “Ooh, you’ve got the brain of a 65 year old!” she cooed. She concluded her findings by softly mentioning that she, 12 years my senior, had the brain age of a 30 year old.

I drove home panic struck. Accountant pretended to listen as I ran through a carefully considered list of degenerative brain diseases.

“Test me. Ask me a maths question” I urged him, desperate for it not to be true.
“What’s 4000 x 0?” came the response.
“That’s not fair! You know I never know the answer to ‘x 0’ questions!”
“Perhaps you should go and see the doctor after all” he suggested helpfully.

In the cold, terror filled hours that followed, I slept fitfully in between reciting my 2, 5 and 10 times tables. When Accountant brought a puzzle book home the next day, I sat down with pencil in hand and my bottom lip sucked in between my teeth.

Five minutes later, staring blankly at all the empty boxes, it struck me that the blinding mental agility I was no doubt capable of would surely be a waste at this stage of the child rearing process. I put the pencil down and watched Peppa Pig with Chick.

Hi Honey... I'm Home

Although my parents swear that their house is still my ‘home’, I can’t help but think they slightly regret not getting their front door key back. Even if they’d tried, they wouldn’t have succeeded. To me, it’s not just a key to my childhood but to a whole other world where life is sweet.

Each time I let myself in unannounced, they look startled and guilty. Although they also swear that they’re far too busy doing DIY to be watching Countdown, there always seems to be lots of scurrying and cushion patting as they scoot out of the living room when I arrive.

To be fair, it took them a long time to get me out in the first place and I think the fear that I might return on a permanent basis still lingers.

At 21, I bought a house which needed ‘work’. I then made my dad do the ‘work’ and my mum sew all the soft furnishings whilst I considered fabric samples and drove to B&Q to get sandpaper and new drill bits for dad. After six months of ownership, I finally slept there.

Three miles away, my parents could hardly believe their luck. 21 years and now dad could finally watch what he wanted on tv. Mum could have a lie in now that she was no longer required to kneel at her adult daughter’s bedside each morning, posting marmite on toast between the gap in her front teeth.

Halfway through their satisfied sighs, they heard a noise. It sounded very much like a key in a lock. They exchanged glances, hoping it wasn’t burglars. Unfortunately, it was far worse. It was me. Mum made me a cup of tea whilst I reclaimed the remote and explained to my despondent father that I just wasn’t cut out for living alone.

Two years later, I was bound for Spain where I’d live for a year. My dad’s hand twitched in anticipation of all the golf and snooker he could soon be watching. Arrival at my final destination was via Holland, where a de-briefing conference thing was to be held first. Dad dropped me off at Church where I boarded a mini-bus.

Eighteen hours later, via lots of other countries where we picked up lots of very excited people, we arrived. Tired and feeling less exuberant than my associates, I stood before my accommodation. Think big scout hut, made of corrugated iron. I looked around the field I was sinking into, regretting my recent life choices.

The inside was worse. Steel bunk beds were lined up under fluorescent strip lights. Having never owned a sleeping bag, it hadn’t occurred to me to take one. But with no bedding provided, I realised my mistake.

The next day, as I boarded an aeroplane back to England, I clutched my front door key hardly able to wait to see my fully furnished home and mum and dad’s happy little faces.

Nobbled

“Oh bless him!” said my Mother.
“Mum, come on!” I implored. I’d been convinced she’d bless me this time.
“It’s not so bad” she said.
“He bought me a packet of hobnobs for our anniversary!” I squeaked.
“They were chocolate coated!” she pointed out helpfully.
“I want diamond coated, set in platinum!”

I leant against the kitchen worktop, holding one up for inspection before biting it with as much resentment as I could muster towards something so rich in coca-solids.

“This is bad” I warned. I honestly hadn’t realised it could get any worse than the dog coasters he bought me in 2001. Although, that wooden box with the miniature duck and fishing rod on the lid I’d got for Christmas had been horrifying at the time. I hid it in a cupboard.

“Just be thankful” mum said.
I didn’t want to be thankful. “I’m going now. It’s my wedding anniversary and I’ve got 15 hobnobs to eat”. I put the phone down as she began instructing me to eat an apple instead.

That night, as Accountant snorted beside me like a walrus with dodgy adenoids, I couldn’t sleep - partly due to the snoring, partly because I couldn’t help but think that anniversary hobnobs were just one present away from divorce. It was if he’d just given up on me altogether.

At least with the coasters, weird wooden box and dog breeding book, he’d shown some sort of originality and somehow thought that I’d like them. Of course, it just served to prove that, despite all the years we’d been together, he didn’t know me at all but, even so.

What would next year’s present be? A packet of Bourbons? Custard creams? That’s if we even made it to next year. I logged onto the Relate website and clicked on the Frequently Asked Questions. There was nothing about biscuits.

I decided it was time for a little chat. Accountant hates ‘chats’, so I eased him in by presenting him with his favourite dinner when he arrived home. Whilst his mouth was still full, I seized my opportunity.

“You still love me don’t you sweetheart?”
He glanced heavenward before nodding cautiously.
I tried for a more emphatic response. “You do really, don’t you?”
He swallowed his chicken kiev. “Of course I do” he said before cramming eleven chips into his mouth. Knowing that was as good as it got, I left him be.

When he sat down later that evening, I handed him a cup of tea and a coaster. A poofy dog one, retrieved from under the sofa wheel, where it had lived happily for seven years. He didn’t notice and plonked it on the table, next to a hideously unattractive trinket box with a duck on it.

Weeks have passed and, although I notice the coasters and duck box everyday, Accountant still hasn’t. My mother, however, noticed immediately.

“Oh, bless you” she said to me. Finally.

Fancy Fiasco

There are moments in every childhood where your parents unwittingly do something that scars you forever. The 12 August 1984 was when it happened to me and I was eight.
I was invited to a fancy dress party at the Village Hall. Everyone was going to be there including James Grey, the boy I loved. It was a big deal. I gave my mother a specific design brief. Something classy, not too girly (I was a tomboy) and cool. Above all else, it must be cool. Mum looked suitably contemplative as I ruled out dresses, ra ra skirts, ribbons, sequins, catsuits or anything with ears. She didn’t write anything down but assured me she’d work magic.
The big day arrived and my costume was still to be revealed. I imagined myself strutting in as Minnie the Minx, a red and black striped beacon of super cool. James would see me and realise he loved me too. I got my Gnasher badge out ready (available to Beano fan club members only). Or perhaps ‘The Naughtiest Girl in the School’? - I loved her. She was the reason I’d requested to go to boarding school, to which my mother ran out of the room sobbing. I went to Chatsmore when they told me I’d have to wear a straw hat.
Then my mum appeared clutching yellow crepe paper, a stapler and a pair of scissors. I was confused. I couldn’t remember her mentioning any pending craft projects? When she whipped out the tape measure, I realised with a cold, creeping horror that I was the craft project.
What happened in that kitchen that day, and later at the party, has never left me. Why she stapled me into a tissue paper mini skirt and matching tankini I’ll never understand. I still don’t even know what I was supposed to be. She’d had three weeks notice and I know she got housekeeping money, and yet I was sent into a hall with all my polyester clad friends in a yellow tissue bikini.
After five minutes, it became clear that not only had my costume failed on every count of style, it wasn’t winning any durability contests either. Everywhere I went, strands of yellow tissue paper floated in my wake. Before long, there was more on the floor than me. Kindly helpers began to bring over cardigans and blankets as exposed and humiliated, I shook in the corner, waiting to die.
I had to give the blankets back when we left, so walked home through the village in just my shoes, a pair of white pants and a solitary yellow band of yellow crepe paper stapled around my waist. The only suggestion that I’d ever been wearing more.
So mum, fifteen years from now, when it’s the ‘Senior Citizens Fancy Dress Day’ at the retirement home, I’ll be sure to buy a lovely packet of lilac crepe paper just for you! I almost can’t wait.

Hide And Seek

“SSSshhhhh!” I whispered, burrowing into the bush.
“Dadddddddddyyyyyyyyy!” yelled Chickie.
“Be quiet!” I firmly reiterated the rules of hide and seek.
“DAADDDDYYYYYY!”

And that’s when I did it. Much like Moses, Chick was wrapped up (in leaves) and left in the reeds. He’d left me no choice, he’d compromised our position.

Days later, Accountant is still going on about the moment he found Chick, abandoned. When he tells the story to friends and family, he winces, to fully convey his deep regret and shock over the ‘abandonment’.

“It’s not like I left him on a doorstep” I pipe up. Everyone looks at me as if I did.
“We were in my parent’s garden not a National Park. I was only on the other side of the bush!” Glances are exchanged.
“He knew the rules and I asked him to be quiet” I grumble as I get up and leave the grand jury to their deliberations.

It wasn’t fair. Being partnered with a two year old is much the same as being painted fluorescent pink and having a siren stuck to your head and then being told to ‘hide’. Whilst the rest of the family were all neatly tucked under tree roots and wheelbarrows, I was left running around in circles, wondering whether scaling a tree with Chickie hanging from my neck was viable?

With time running out, and Chickie unwilling to even try to climb onto the shed roof, I panicked and ended up cowering behind a bush. Feeling exposed (not helped by Chickie’s, “We’re over here!”), I buckled. The coveted title of “Best Hider” could NOT go to my sister for a second year. It was to be mine. I just had to ditch the toddler.

The fact Accountant found me sprinting away just seconds after locating Chickie didn’t really make all the scandal worth it. Once the gig was up, I started towards the sofa to watch ‘The Chipmunks’ but a little hand grabbed mine. The toddler was back, this time in ‘seek’ mode. I hoped it was better than his ‘hide’ mode.

We ventured into the undergrowth to excavate my sister and nephews. The nephews were easy but my sister taunted us for over an hour from wherever she was. She still won’t say. Every so often a ‘hurry up’ would be heard and we’d all go running towards the voice but no one was ever found.

I suggested that, since it was nearly dark, we should all go and have a nice cup of tea. “Leave the ‘best hider’ in the bushes, she’ll come out eventually!” I shouted, knowing she was listening from somewhere poky and heavily populated by spiders.

Accountant looked at me as if he’d never seen me before, horrified that I’d so readily give up both my son and sister when the going had got noisy or boring.

I bid him ‘toodle pip’ as I left them all to seek out chocolate biscuits instead.

Who's The Mummy!

It could be that Chickie’s finally grasped that I’m the one who dispenses all the jelly babies, but I’m in favour. He’s declared me ‘favourite primary care giver’ and pushed daddy out of our bed with his feet, curling up like a hedgehog in the warm trench left behind. He then suggested to daddy, sat on the floor, that he might like to try the toddler bed in the other room.

Accountant, unused to being as unpopular as me, looked up at him like an unwanted puppy. Seizing the opportunity to capitalise on such a cruel and physical rejection, I asked Chickie who he liked best.

“Mummy” he trilled, looking up at me adoringly.
“You’ve chosen wisely, grasshopper. Let’s get Daddy to get you a jelly baby!”
“Yeah!” His expectant face turned to Accountant, who scowled back.
“Get it Daddy” encouraged Chickie when Daddy didn’t spring to his feet.
“Daddy’s rubbish. Mummy would have got you three by now!”
“Yes Daddy. Get move on”. Chickie’s conversational skills were blossoming. Daddy trudged off all huffy and puffy.
“Smashing” declared Chickie in a Bolton accent, on receiving the goods.
“Smashing?” Accountant’s face crumpled in bewilderment.

Whilst I knew why Chickie was doing Peter Kay impressions, I didn’t really want to tell Accountant that it was from Roary the Racing Car. Nor did I want to mention why he could now pronounce, “Madagascar” perfectly, or how he could fully explain the pollination process thanks to Bee Movie.

It had all started so innocently. He was ill and I found Shrek in the cupboard. It soothed him. As we snuggled under the blanket together we suddenly realised we shared a deep, unbreakable bond that would connect us forever. We both LOVED snuggling under blankets and watching telly.

When he started getting better, we still had Garfield and The Chipmunks to watch and we didn’t want to miss those. As days turned into weeks, Chickie became reluctant to do anything that didn’t involve one of his new computer-animated friends. I’d created a monster - one that was quiet for hours and worshipped me. The old monster spat my name from his lips and was as soothing to my nerves as a root canal. Finally an effective parenting tool, after pouring through all those heavyweight manuals (not one of which ever mentioned the astonishing results of television addiction).

But when Chickie’s skin turned a reclusive shade of beige and he started to refuse to go out unless his dvd box could come too, I knew our blissful fortnight as couch potatoes must end. So Chickie’s in rehab and we’re back to mood swings, temper tantrums and an unwillingness to co-operate.

But, on second thoughts, what good is fresh air and an ability to interact in society if you don’t know the names of all the Mister Men?

Nothing But Worry

“No binge drinking, dancing with girls/near girls, or swearing and don’t forget your inhaler, which you shouldn’t need because you’re not to smoke or get over-excited” I said. “Run from fights. Don’t get stabbed. No motorbikes. And stay away from Peanut!” Accountant’s best friend and a social menace.

Accountant nodded, edging towards the door. “You’ve packed your inhaler?” He held it up. “Anti-histamines? Savlon? Imodium?” Accountant had inched his way onto the doorstep.

He kissed my cheek before telling me not to worry, and then was gone. We watched him skip down the road.
“What about your eye mask and ear plugs?” I hollered down the empty street.
“Where’s daddy gone?”
“On a stag weekend. Which, by the way, you’re never allowed to do” I replied, stroking Chick’s hair. He felt very hot.

If temperature goes over 39 degrees or remains above normal for more than two days SEEK MEDICAL ADVICE. I re-read the box. Did that mean his temperature had to be over 39 degrees for two days or just over 39 degrees? I hated maths and thermometer boxes. That’s why I married an Accountant. An Accountant who pretended I was a wrong number when I phoned him at work to ask how to work out a percentage, whether 4000 x 0 was 4000 or 0 and, if I folded something smaller, would it weigh less in my suitcase?

A 39.9 degree Chickie whined feebly as I grappled with the logic. I patted him with a cold flannel, sending him into orbit with outrage. As he writhed, I read again. Why was SEEK MEDICAL ADVICE in capitals? I panicked. No wonder my poor baby was screaming – he was so ill he was UPPER CASE. I rang the doctor who was all lower case. Chickie was to be stripped, monitored and medicated.

5ml. Up to 4 times a day. Don’t give more than 4 doses in 24 hours. Don’t give for more than 3 days. That was the Calpol but the Nurofen was different. My head span. Different doses, different 24 hour thing, no more than 3 days. The numbers and letters jumbled in front of my eyes. It was like High School algebra all over again. A + B = C. Where did all the numbers go? Why are there letters in my maths? I asked my teacher who subsequently lowered my predicted grade from a B to a C. Added together did that make an A?

For the next few days, Chickie’s temperature bopped around like a Tellytubby. His father, clubbing in Edinburgh, did the same. On Day 3, the doctor was consulted as per the Calpol instructions. When he went all clammy, the Doctor listened graciously to my concerns about cholera contracted from the fountain in France.

Once Accountant returned in one portly piece and Chickie descended to a toasty 36.6 degrees, I finally relaxed.

Happy Chick + Happy Daddy = Happy Mummy.

Oh La La

The scene was practically perfect. I stopped my bike and watched as the swans glided past on the river. Butterflies waltzed around the wild poppies and the long feathery leaves of the willow trees swished on the gentle summer breeze.

All until a piercing scream cut through the valley, alerting me, the fishermen down river and all local wildlife that Chickie had caught up on the back of daddy’s bike. I ignored his dramatic entrance, allowing the mellow setting to soften my parenting style. “Are you enjoying your cycle ride?”

Chickie’s expression reminded me of one of those unsavoury characters from middle earth in Lord of the Rings, just moments away from gouging out the eyes of some nice little hobbit.

“I WANT MY DUM DUM NOW!” More birds flew the nest as news of Chickie’s arrival at the lakeside got round.

I tried a more educational approach. “Look at the buzzy bees”. I pointed to the only creatures remaining in the area.

“DUM DUM NOW!”

This wasn’t the touching family day out I’d planned. Inspired by the Loire Tourist Board brochure, featuring a wholesome family all smiling happily under their cycling helmets, it had all seemed so achievable. One daddy, one mummy, one toddler, two velos and voila.

“Be kind sweetheart”.
“No chance” came the reply.
Accountant, wholly responsible for the introduction of ‘no chance’ to Chickie’s vocabulary, amongst other choice phrases that shall remain unwritten and, please God, unspoken, smirked at the floor.
“I think I need a holiday” I whined, massaging my temples.
“We’re on holiday!” replied Accountant.

This was no holiday. At least, it was nothing like the one I’d enjoyed three weeks ago. I was clearly being punished.

In the car on the way home, I wondered what all those French mummies had done to get all their petit filous scented children to bid us ‘Bonjour’ as they’d all trotted past earlier in a neat little row. All perfectly presented, not a smudge on one of them - and all so horribly polite.

I viewed Chickie via the safety of the wing mirror. Finally unconscious and sporting a fine film of filth from running off to wedge himself inside a tractor wheel, he wasn’t looking very French.

The next day ended with a soggy Chickie who’d sampled every puddle and attempted to climb into the village fountain, topped off with a thick application of strawberry ice cream from eyebrows to trousers.

Whilst, admittedly, some days I long for a clean child that will consider at least one of my suggestions, how vibrant the memories of this particular childhood will be. And in forty years time, I know I’ll be smiling as I look back at the photos of my mischievous little boy, beautiful and exuberant, enjoying his holiday in France.

Chickie's Sleepover

“He’s 2. He doesn’t even know what a sleepover is!”
“It’ll be fun. Go on, he’ll love having Bella to stay” replied Accountant.

Accountant and son gave me their best “you’re no fun, but here’s your chance to redeem yourself” faces.

I asked what I thought was a sensible question. “Why would we want to borrow more children when we still can’t work the one we’ve got?”

Four big, imploring eyes stared at my bewildered face. Was I being dull or was I right to be wary of Accountant’s latest great idea? I cast my mind back to his previous strokes of genius.

1. “Let’s go to St Ives for the weekend”. A round trip that took longer than the holiday itself.

2. “Let’s go camping”. A night of sheer misery.

3. “Let’s have a baby!” A lifetime of sheer ....bliss. Bliss!

I asked another sensible question. “Won’t she get upset and wonder where her mummy is?”

“She’ll be fine. Plus, I’ll be there to help!” His enthusiasm was touching.

That weekend, I sat rocking a puce little girl who, between those high drama moments when you wonder whether they’re actually ever going to breathe again, managed to wail, “I...sob....sob..... WANT ...deep quivery breath.....MY ...face contorts to expression of deep sorrow...MUMMMMMYYYYYY!!....”

Had Accountant actually been in the house, this would have been precisely the moment I would have hunted him down and hurt him, lots. However, he was a whole postcode away, swigging beer and watching football whilst I enjoyed the upbeat mood of the little ones in my care. I’d get him later.

Much ssshhing and hair stroking later and Bella was tucked up neatly in her Barbie Princess blow up bed next to Chickie. Stories were read, promises were made by two little people who vowed to go straight to sleep. I tippy toed out of the room thinking how adorable they were - all giggly and snugly.

By 9pm, I was finding them less adorable. Chickie was bouncing on Barbie’s head whilst Bella had reached a dizzying height of frenzy. I pictured Accountant far, far away, wishing I hadn’t been forced to look cool in front of his friend who could see no reason why Accountant couldn’t come out to play. Surely I could cope with two little toddlers on my own, couldn’t I?

No, no I couldn’t. “Please go to sleep. PLEASE? Mummy’s tired. I’ve been up here 432 times in two hours.”
“I need a wee wee” said Chickie the merciless.
“Yes, so do I” chirped in Bella.
No sooner were the necessaries done.
“I need a wee wee!”
“Yes, so do I”
“You’ve just been. Go to sleep”.
“Wee Wees!”
“Yes, wee wees!”
“GO TO SLEEP!”
“No!”
“Yes, No!”

When Accountant returned home at midnight to find one snoring mummy and two toddlers all squeezed into one Barbie Princess inflatable bed, he knew he was in trouble.

A New Chick In Town

There are some people you should never shop with.

1. My mother, who says things like, “Do you really need it?” Who cares? I really want it and that’s what matters.

2. My husband, “Why spend hundreds on tasteful garden furniture when that yellow plastic set over there costs just £9.99? And it comes with a free terracotta fringed parasol and avocado seat pads”.

3. And me. “Go on, buy it! Who cares about the mortgage? That’s why God invented overdrafts!”

“God didn’t invent overdrafts.” My friend was sure on this point. She’d worked in a bank.
“Whatever. They’re divine and it would be sacrilege not to use them!” I wafted the gorgeous red bag under her nose, recognising the wanton glimmer in her eyes. She was wavering and just needed a helpful nudge. Her future happiness depended on it. “It can be your break-up bag.” She reached out tentatively and stroked it.

“I deserve a break-up bag” she whispered.
“Yes, you do. It’s an essential part of the healing process.” Modelling it for her, I tried not to get too attached as whiffs of fine leather tantalised my nostrils.

I demonstrated its many features. “It’s fully lined, with mobile phone holder, inner pocket and matching mirror.”
“Ooh, look at the mirror” she cooed with big, round eyes.
In her trance like state, it was easy to discreetly ditch her tartan flannel satchel and replace it with the real handbag.
“See how it transforms your outfit” I said, repositioning her in front of the mirror.
She nodded, dumbfounded. She was like a chick that had just peeked out of the nest. Teetering on shaky legs, on the cusp of a new world she’d never known. Fortunately, I was there to direct her straight from the treetops and into the shops.
“This white one would look fabulous too”. I swiftly installed it on her shoulder.
“I didn’t think I liked white handbags but now I think I might” she said with reverence.

It had taken eight years, but I felt we might just be on the brink of a retail revolution.

“And we could straighten your hair and put it in a tousled side bun”. I demonstrated as I spoke. She was glazed from the information overload. A classic tomboy with no sisters - I had so much to teach her.

That night, coiffed to within an inch of her life, and 6ft in her heels, the promenade was her catwalk. She was like Pretty Woman, when she gets the credit card and I was Barney, the one who encouraged the spending.

However, by the end of the week, Glamour Chick was higher maintenance than the Chick I’d left at home. Chirping at 7am each morning for her feathers to be de-frizzed and unable to grasp the most basic of grooming theory, I felt it was time for a chat.

“I’ve been thinking, I actually really like your hair curly!”

Practically Horizontal...

What are good friends for if not to point out when you’re being completely delusional?

I didn’t realise there were any personality flaws left that hadn’t already been brilliantly and publically illuminated upon my grand entrance to motherhood. Patience? Didn’t have as much of that as I’d hoped. Tolerance – no, none of that either. Selflessness – it’s a daily struggle. Materialism – I just like pretty things, preferably luxury goods, purchased in bulk.

But there was one redeeming quality I still possessed. My laid back attitude to life.
“Where shall we eat?” my friend asked as we tottered precariously over the cobbled streets of Bellagio.
“I don’t mind” I replied. “I’m laid back”.
“No you’re not!” she laughed, scanning my face for signs it was all a big joke.
“I am too!” I exclaimed, outraged.
“Name one thing you’re laid back about!”
I took a moment. “Excess baggage charges” I replied triumphantly. I’d hardly batted an eyelid when slapped with a £35 charge and a ‘heavy’ label for my bulging suitcase.
“That doesn’t count! What about the fact you were praying in tongues on the flight and went to the loo six times? ”
“Aeroplanes are unnatural” I responded, cursing as one of my heels got caught in a drain. “And I have a sensitive stomach”. I clung to her arm whilst bending down to yank at my most recent purchase currently being mauled by one of the most impractical walking surfaces I’d ever encountered. I muttered under my breath –“stupid place for a drain...cobbles...rubbish...haven’t they heard of tarmac?”
“You were like it on the ferry too!” her voice badgered me from above, unwilling to let the debate slide.
“Same principle. The science is all wrong. Big, heavy items, constructed of metal, are not suited to floating.”

With an almighty effort, my shoe came free. I spent the next five minutes mourning the savage attack of my innocent shoe and ranting about suing the Mayor and the Town Planners office.

“What about that guy you had a go at for pushing in the queue!” She was back again, like a mosquito desperate for blood.
“He had it coming “. Appearing from nowhere and sidling up to us as if he were a long lost friend after we’d been queuing for check-in for an hour, was a mistake on his part. I merely pointed this out to him, and the people behind us. They told the people behind them, who told the people behind them. There was a ripple of applause as he skulked to the back of the queue, with his little wheelie case between his legs. I smiled all the way home (between toilet visits).

“And the fact you left your husband a 20 page typed and bound manual entitled ‘Housewifery for Morons’?”

I looked at her calmly before saying. “You can cite examples all day, my dear friend, but I don’t care because I’m sooooo laid back!”

It'll Be Fun! (Not if I have anything to do with it!)

We’ve got to check out Disco RanDan!” my friend’s voice squeaked with excitement.
“We do?” I hated the sound of it. ‘Disco’, ‘Ran’ and ‘Dan’ all sounded horrid.
“It’s only 200m from our hotel”.
“How convenient” I mumbled, wishing I hadn’t given her the website address of our hotel in Italy.

I hate clubbing. When all my friends were out bopping away years ago, I could be found on my sofa, scoffing egg foo yung, eagerly memorising all the items passing by on the Generation Game conveyor belt. Truthfully, I’ve been ready for middle age since I was about ten.

My friends tried hard to squeeze me into lycra and onto the dance floor but the fact I was prone to nodding off amidst all the snogging, still wearing my duffle coat, made me something of a party pooper. My love of comfortable shoes and warm clothes coupled with strict views on noise levels and reasonable toilet waiting times soon found me reunited with Brucey.

“We’re going” my friend said. “It’ll be fun”. I groaned inwardly and then outwardly before looking up to find myself caught in her most serious ‘single woman’ glare. Telling me, without words, that her future husband could be just a RanDan away and I, all selfishly betrothed, was not to stand in the way of continental romance.

I nodded in resignation, picturing the passive smoke clogging my bronchial tubes whilst cheesy Euro pop ravaged my ears and left me humming ‘Macarena’ for weeks. But it was a price I would have to pay. This was my friend who, despite everything I had shared with her about marriage, still insisted she wanted a man.

Having been to Italy before, I researched some useful phrases. ‘Vada prego via (Go away). I underlined it. ‘Penso che sia ora di partire’( I’m afraid we’ve got to leave now). I highlighted it in pink.

Now for clothing. Were velour tracksuits hip in Clubland? Probably not. I reached into the depths of the wardrobe, returning with an oldie but a goodie. Yes, the serious perfunctory blandness of my little black dress made it perfect. It said, ’I am no fun’. ‘No fun at all’.

One week later, I did an excellent impression of a girl disappointed when informed that RanDan had closed down. My friend’s lip drooped further when I pointed out we could now get in an excellent night’s reading.

After repacking the dress, I lay in my bunk feeling slightly sorry that she was in her No-Fun-pyjamas by 9.30pm. “We could try and find George Clooney’s villa tomorrow?” I suggested.

It worked wonders. Her book was launched across the room, instantly replaced by maps and a compass. I rechecked my phrase book, suspecting that tomorrow would require a new approach. George, sei stupendo – George, you look great. George, ecco il mio numero. George, here’ my number. George, posso baciarti...

Yes, I know he’s American but when in Lake Como!

Little Miss Wincyette

Stood in front of me in the queue at Costa’s was gorgeous girl. Teetering on fabulously high heels, wearing dry clean only fabrics and organising social engagements on her mobile, minus the toddler screaming, "Chickie talk to Nanna" "CHICKIE TALK TO NANNA!". I admit it, I was jealous.

I knew I was being shallow - a shameful state when you're a mother, but, at that moment, I wanted a Furla handbag stuffed with dosh instead of a potty in a plastic bag, I wanted to be wearing perfume instead of Vanish spray and I wanted to be 6 inches taller and 10 years younger. When life still had to reveal who I'd love, what I'd achieve and whether I might have a daughter or a son. It was all there waiting to unravel.

Whilst I hoped all the exciting events of my life weren't behind me, it did feel a bit like the best ones were taken. First kisses were gone, the wedding day done and the sproglet duly extracted.

I watched Chickie stir my cappucino with his finger. Gorgeous girl was accompanied by gorgeous boy and she sat twiddling her chestnut hair, fluttering her long black lashes. I raised a hand to my own eyelashes, stumpy and curled to within a millimetre of their life since the age of 12. I disliked her even more.

Chickie had begun lapping at the froth of my cappucino like a stray cat. Catching my glare, he bolted. Fifteen laps of Costas later and my spirits and eyelashes were drooping. Gorgeous girl never became unseated and her eyelashes were almost touching her eyebrows.

My best friend called me that evening. She’d let her boyfriend go. Commitment phobic and eating into her fertile years, she'd finally kicked him to the kerb.

"I know it sucks now, but, just think, it's all ahead of you" I enthused to her sobs, picturing how exciting her life would be.
"I'm so tired of this. I just want to settle down".
"But you're free. You can go on fabulous holidays, have fun, do whatever you want"
"I want to get married and have babies" she wailed.
"Are you sure? There's snot, lots of it. Not to mention ridiculous amounts of laundry, over familiarity and poverty to consider"
"I don't care. I don't want to be on my own anymore. I want to share my life with someone".
"You've got your budgies" I offered.
More crying.
As I nestled on Accountant’s chest that bedtime, he told me that my Velcro hair rollers were itchy and enquired as to their purpose.

“Volume” I told him, without mentioning it was part of my ‘revamp’, inspired by Little Miss Lashes.
“You look sweet”.
“Really?”
“Yes. Even sweeter than normal”.

My vintage love. Perhaps not as exciting as when it first fluttered, but as snug and cosy as the pink slipper socks and winceyette pyjamas I was wearing.

My Little Holiday

It turns out Chickie hadn’t given me chicken pox after all. My bountiful spots were just an allergic reaction to the thought of having chicken pox. I therefore remained hopeful enough to forcefully request Accountant stay home and tend to Chickie instead of going cycling in Wales as he’d planned.

Leaving Accountant holding a spotty yet otherwise unfazed baby, I sped off to B&Q to buy provisions. Although tempted, I decided that the full body suit could be seen as excessive, so opted for heavy duty vinyl gloves and a dust mask with contoured nose bridge. I drove home feeling my chances for a healthy future were significantly improved.

It proved quite tricky getting into my face mask and rubber gloves on the doorstep without the neighbours seeing. Trickier still to get from the front door to my bedroom without breathing. Plus the mask was uncomfortable and messed up my hair. In the end I went out after sealing off the bedroom with masking tape.

Whilst slurping my French Onion soup and reading the paper, my mobile rang. It was Accountant.
“Where are you?”
“Cafe Rouge”. I answered, feeling a twinge of guilt.
“Enjoying yourself?” I was rather but felt it best not to mention it. “No, I’m sat all alone and I’m missing you so much” I said, trying to sound genuine.

The next day, I was in Zara, loaded up like a shopaholic mule with a delicious assortment of belts, bags and other essentials, when the mobile rang.
“Where?” said the despondent voice of my housebound husband.
“Oh, just in Brighton.”
“You’re not buying anything are you?”
“No”. Well, it wasn’t technically buying when it was already bought.

Day 3.
“Where?”
“I can’t talk now Sweetheart, I’m under the dryer!”

Cruising home with the windows down, bopping along to Rhythm is a Dancer, intermittently checking out my new highlights in the rearview mirror, I felt twenty two again. I looked over at the passenger seat and placed a loving hand on my shopping bags letting happy little endorphins whiz around my body.

The next day, the mood changed. Chick was no longer amused by his circumstances, nor was Daddy and nor was I. I missed my family. The husband who gave up his holiday for me. The big spotty baby. I rang downstairs from upstairs.

“Love you Sweetheart” I said when Accountant answered.
“Who is this?”
“It’s me!”
“I’m not bringing you any more cups of tea”. I let his cynicism slide.

One week later, with Chickie nicely scabbed over, I resumed my housewifey endeavours with renewed vigour. I even baked cup cakes.

Whilst Accountant sat eating them, I thought it a prudent time to point out the morale boosting benefits of my three day shopathon. However, as fluffy as the cupcakes were, my motion was denied.