Czytaj książkę: «Why Mummy Doesn’t Give a ****»

CONTENTS

1  Cover

2  Title Page

3  Copyright

4  Dedication

5  Contents

6  JANUARY

7 APRIL

8 MAY

9 JUNE

10 JULY

11 AUGUST

12 SEPTEMBER

13 OCTOBER

14 NOVEMBER

15  DECEMBER

16  Acknowledgements

17  By the Same Author

18  About the Publisher

LandmarksCoverFrontmatterStart of ContentBackmatter

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JANUARY

Wednesday, 3 January

The first day back at work after Christmas and New Year is always a bit of a slog. The sudden realisation that foodstuffs exist other than Toblerone and Quality Street and cheese, and that it’s now frowned upon to start on the white wine at 2 pm, is always a shock to the system, let alone remembering that you’re a functioning adult with a responsible job and clothes with non-elasticated waists. When your first day back is followed by your first relationship counselling session after what could be described as a ‘difficult’ Christmas, it’s even less fun.

Christina, our counsellor, came highly recommended. Well, Debbie in HR at work said that Christina had saved her sister’s marriage after it turned out her sister’s husband had been having it off with their twins’ first teacher since they started primary school, and said twins were in Year 10 when this all came out, and he also had a thing for being spanked while covered in PVA glue and glitter (hence his attraction to a primary school teacher and their easy access to such things), so I thought that if Christina could wave her magic wand and sort out that little peccadillo, then surely Simon and I would be an easy fix – a walk in the park, practically!

After all, no peculiar kinks had come to light. He hadn’t betrayed me with a woman I’d bought several ‘World’s Best Teacher’ mugs and bottles of wine for, someone I’d sat across from while she outlined the importance of reading every night with my precious moppets, all the while having a life-size model of my husband’s penis on her bedside table, made from the scraps of clay left over from making Mother’s Day presents with her class and decorated with his favourite glitter, had he? I mean, when you put it into context like that, the fact that he had had a one-night stand with some sexy señorita that he met while on a business trip to Madrid really wasn’t that bad, was it? Or at least, it could have been so much worse.

That is what I keep telling myself. ‘Chin up! It could have been worse!’ He could have had a predilection for dressing up as Ann Widdecombe. He could have had a thing about bonking someone dressed as Ann Widdecombe (I’m really not sure which would be more disturbing). He could have followed in the footsteps of Perfect Lucy Atkinson’s Perfect Daddy who left Lucy’s Perfect Mummy high and dry when he ran off with Lucy’s Mummy’s sidekick and wannabe, Fiona Montague, leaving Lucy’s Mummy to face Fiona (whom I never liked, very smug and always just a bit too try-hard – though clearly Lucy’s Perfect Daddy liked how hard Fiona tried, even though he’s got very fat since moving in with her and is obviously overindulging in Fiona’s bloody endless cupcakes that she was forever posting on Instagram) at the school gate every morning. Of course, the kids are now too old for the school gate as they’re at Big School, so I suppose I wouldn’t have had to do that anyway. And Simon doesn’t like cupcakes.

But on the other hand, it was really quite bad enough. When Simon told me a couple of months ago, I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. Literally winded. I still don’t know what possessed him to tell me. Guilt, he said.

I’d heard people talk about a ‘maelstrom of emotions’ before, but I didn’t honestly know what that meant until then, as I veered wildly between rage and despair and a really quite strong desire to kill him, and periods of calm during which I convinced myself we were mature adults with two children and we’d been together for twenty-five years, give or take, we loved each other and we could get through this – only to have the whole cycle start again. I felt so sick I couldn’t eat for three days, which has never ever happened to me before; periods of high emotion normally lead to relentless comfort eating for me. I did lose ten pounds, so one must look on the bright side when one can.

After a couple of weeks of Simon looking hangdog and saying he was sorry, and me finding the rage wasn’t really abating at all, and all our attempts to discuss it like mature adults generally ending in me shouting something about ripping his bollocks off if he told me one more fucking time that it didn’t mean anything, because if it didn’t mean anything, then why the fuck had he done it in the first place, and yes, yes, I realised it was ‘just sex’ but didn’t he think that was quite e-bloody-nough, it was clear we weren’t really getting anywhere and perhaps we needed some sort of professional help.

I heard Debbie in HR holding forth on the wonders of Christina (she was describing the clay-modelled knob ornament at the same time) and discreetly asked for Christina’s number – ‘for a friend’, obviously, as one does not tell Debbie anything one does not want the entire office to know. In some ways this trait of hers is useful if you want word of something circulated quickly – you can guarantee that if you tell Debbie something and stress it’s in ‘the strictest confidence’, every single person in the building will know about it by close of business.

Simon was reluctant to go at first, making British noises about ‘airing dirty laundry in public’ and ‘it all being a bit New Age wank’, but he agreed to give it a shot if it would help me stop shouting so much. So off we went.

After the initial session, Simon was surprisingly into the counselling. I think he liked the fact that the first thing Christina said was that she wasn’t there to apportion blame or opine on who was wrong or right, but only to mediate and give a safe space for us both to talk without judgement. Simon also very much enjoyed the fact that Christina would not allow raised voices in her office, and so I wasn’t allowed to shout at him, which gave him an hour’s peace a week.

I thought all that was pretty rubbish, actually. I’d 100 per cent been hoping she’d totally judge, apportion blame, tell Simon how shit he was and take my side, before pronouncing some suitable punishment upon Simon, so he could atone for his sins and thus we could all move on with our lives, once Simon had done some marital form of Community Service – like, oh, I don’t know: doing all the ironing for the entirety of the rest of our lives, and changing all the loo rolls for ever more, and being put in the stocks and flogged. Or something like that.

Instead of agreeing Simon was a total shit and must do penance before we were able to move forward, Christina said things like, ‘Mmmm. And how did that make you feel?’

Today’s session followed the same pattern as usual – Simon was surprisingly good at talking about how things made him feel, especially how his Spanish señorita had made him feel (‘Alive. Wanted. Like I mattered to someone!’). I was slightly less good at it …

‘Mmmmm. How do you feel about Simon feeling like that, Ellen?’

‘Fine! I feel fine about it! Absolutely fine!’ I hissed through gritted teeth, because Christina would not allow shouting or insults and so I couldn’t scream, ‘You mattered to me, you insensitive bastard. You wanted to feel wanted, well, how do you think I felt? But I managed not to fall into bed with anyone else, didn’t I? I stuck to my marriage vows, even though I could have had sex with plenty of other people if I’d wanted to, but I didn’t because I’m NOT A TWAT, but now you expect me to feel sorry for you? And also, for something that “didn’t mean anything”, it seemed to make you feel quite fucking special. And also – BAAAAASSSSSSTAAAAAARD!’

Then Christina said, ‘I feel like I’m getting a lot of anger from you, Ellen.’

‘Nope,’ I beamed. ‘No anger here!’

‘I think you’ve brought a lot of anger today, Ellen. Would you like to talk about it?’ Christina mused, while Simon nodded wisely, and I seethed to myself that of course I had brought a lot of sodding anger to the session. If I wasn’t angry and broken and wretched, would we even bloody well be here, and surely the whole point of all this is that Christina is supposed to make me feel less angry, not more so? £70 an hour to be told I’m angry? After our first session I briefly flirted with the idea of retraining as a counsellor, only a good one, one that instead of saying, ‘How did that make you feel?’ and claiming it wasn’t her job to apportion blame, would say, ‘Well, that’s a bit shit, isn’t it?’ and ‘Your husband is clearly an arsehole!’ I’d be excellent at that. Simon told me that that wasn’t the point of counselling, actually, and if people wanted opinions like that they could go to Mumsnet for free.

Something finally snapped inside me. Maybe it was the thought of all the shoes I could have bought if I didn’t have to pay Christina £70 to tell me I seemed a bit cross.

‘Are you surprised I’m angry?’ I snarled. ‘It’s always about Simon. What Simon wants. What Simon feels. What Simon needs. Who cares about what I want? Who cares about what I feel? Who cares about what I need? Nobody. All we do is talk about how Simon feels.’

‘Well, I do keep asking you how you feel, and you always say “Fine”,’ Christina pointed out mildly.

‘Well, of course I’m not fine!’ I wailed. ‘My husband has had it off with someone else and my marriage is in tatters. Why would you think I was fine?’

‘But I don’t,’ said Christina. ‘That’s why I keep asking you how you feel. You’re the one who tells me you’re “fine” and denies any anger or grief. Go on.’

‘Simon says he felt unwanted and neglected. Well, does he not think maybe I felt the same? That I still feel the same, only a million times more now? He got someone to make him feel “wanted”, he got a bit of excitement, he got the thrills and the validation and some Spanish sex, and what did I get? Nothing. He’s had all his fun and I’m supposed to just get over it and move on like nothing has happened. And I’m still stuck with a man who doesn’t even notice me, let alone make me feel wanted.’

‘I do notice you,’ said Simon indignantly.

‘No, you don’t,’ I said in despair. ‘You don’t even see me anymore. I’m just there, like a piece of old furniture. You don’t notice how I look, you don’t notice what I do, you certainly don’t notice how I feel.’

‘I do notice how you look,’ insisted Simon.

‘You don’t. No matter how dressed up I am, you never notice, you never say anything, you never compliment me. When I ask you how I look, you don’t even look up from your iPad, you just grunt, “You look fine” – and that’s it.’

‘Well, you do. You always look fine. What do you want me to say?’

‘Simon, “You look fine” means “Yes, you’re respectable, your skirt isn’t tucked into your knickers, you haven’t got spinach in your teeth and you’re fit to leave the house.” You don’t notice if I have my hair done or I’m wearing a new dress or I’ve gone to a bit of extra effort. You make me beg even for that grudging “You look fine!”’

‘I didn’t realise it was a big deal. I’m sorry. I’ll not say you look fine again.’

‘Pay me a compliment now. Go on. Say one nice thing about me.’

‘This is very good,’ breathed Christina.

‘Ummm.’ Simon thought hard. ‘I know. You make the best lasagne I’ve ever tasted.’

I stared at him in disbelief.

‘Lasagne? Really? LASAGNE? That’s the most noticeable, memorable, NICEST thing about me you could think of? Fucking LASAGNE?’

‘Well, you put me on the spot, and the other things I could think of I couldn’t say here.’

‘So lasagne. That’s what I’m reduced to. Twenty-five years together, and you’re only here for my lasagne?’ I howled.

‘Ellen, I’m going to have to ask you not to raise your voice,’ said Christina in her irritatingly calm way.

‘Oh sorry. Sorry. I wouldn’t want to make a scene or anything. But seriously, Christina, you tell me I’m angry, and are you surprised I’m angry when that is the sort of thing he says?’

‘Ellen, you know I’m not here to take sides. This isn’t about me – it’s about you and Simon. Simon, how do you feel about Ellen saying you don’t notice her anymore?’

‘I think that’s pretty hypocritical because she doesn’t notice me either,’ said Simon crossly. ‘She doesn’t know who I am, she doesn’t know what I want in life, she doesn’t know what interests or excites me –’

‘Tapas, apparently, rather than lasagne,’ I muttered.

‘Ellen, I’m going to have to ask you not to interrupt Simon again. Just let him speak,’ said Christina. Christina’s sessions are rather like being counselled by the bloody Supernanny. I really wouldn’t be at all surprised if she put me on the naughty step one day.

Simon carried on: ‘You want to keep the family together. You don’t want the children shuttled back and forth between different homes at the weekend, introduced to step-parents, used as pawns in their parents’ games, like you were. And I think most of the reason you’re still here is because of the kids, in an attempt to spare them that, rather than an active desire to be with me. You say I don’t see you. Well, you don’t see me either. I could be anyone. An anonymous father and husband figure in your life who you need to keep things together.’

‘That’s better than the housekeeper, cook and nanny you see me as,’ I objected.

‘Ellen, this is the last time I’m going to ask you to stop interrupting,’ said Christina. ‘If you do it again, I’ll be forced to give you a yellow card.’

I glared at her. She glared back. It was blatantly obvious the ‘yellow card’ was no more than an adult version of the naughty step. She never threatened Simon with yellow cards. She clearly liked him better than me, and it wasn’t fair. I half expected her to get down on my level, look me sternly in the eye and tell me I had to the count of three to start behaving myself.

‘I don’t even know if you love me anymore, Ellen,’ announced Simon with a dramatic sigh. ‘And that makes me question whether I still love you. I just don’t know.’

I opened my mouth to respond to this – fuck your yellow card, Christina – but she suddenly announced, ‘Oh dear, this has been very useful, but I’m afraid our time is up!’

So it’s OK for you to interrupt then, Christina!

I put my coat on in a daze, and we left Christina’s office. In the street, the cold air hit me in the face like a slap from a wet kipper and brought me back to my senses.

‘You don’t love me anymore?’ I snarled. ‘What has all this been for, if you don’t love me anymore? Why have you put me through this?’

‘Don’t make a scene, Ellen, not in the street!’ said Simon briskly. ‘Come on,’ he added, steering me into the bar next to Christina’s office, ‘let’s go for a drink.’

‘Is that really all you’re worried about? A scene in the street? Anyway, we need to get back for the kids,’ I objected.

‘They can hang on for another half-hour. We need to talk.’

‘We’ve just been talking. You’ve made everything very clear. What’s there left to talk about?’

‘OK, I need to talk to you.’

It was a very nice bar. It had cosy booths and ambient lighting, and under any other circumstances I’d have been thinking how totally Instagrammable it was. Simon got me a glass of wine and sat down beside me.

‘We can’t go on like this,’ he said. ‘You’re tearing yourself into pieces. I can’t do this anymore.’

‘You can’t do this? So even though the person who is supposed to always be there for me, who is supposed to never hurt me, even though this person has basically ripped my heart out and left me in pieces, I need to get over it, because you’ve had enough of me hurting? You’ve cheated on me, compared me to lasagne and then told me you don’t love me, and what? Am I supposed to be happy about that? Yippee! My husband and the father of my children doesn’t love me anymore! Hurrah, my life is fucking complete, at last!’

‘Please keep your voice down,’ he hissed. ‘I didn’t say I didn’t love you.’

‘You did.’

‘No, I said I wasn’t sure. And that I wasn’t sure if you loved me. Of course I love you, I’m just not sure if I still love you like that. I mean, I don’t even know if you want to be married to me anymore,’ he said sadly.

‘Of course I do,’ I protested. ‘I wouldn’t be going through all this if I didn’t, would I? Don’t you want our marriage anymore?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know what I want. I know I’m unhappy, and I have been for a long time, long before all this. I know I can’t say sorry any more than I have, but it doesn’t make any difference. I know I can’t keep trying to change the past, I can only change the future, but as things are, you won’t let me, because you can’t move on from the past. So, I think we need some time apart.’

‘What, like you going away for the weekend or something? Another jolly?’

‘No, some proper time apart. Geoff at work is moving to New York for three months and doesn’t want to leave his flat empty all that time. I’ve said I’ll move in and look after it. Gives us both some space, some time to think, some time for us to consider what we really want. I’m going to move in there tonight. I had one final hope that this evening with Christina might have helped you start healing, but it didn’t, so something has to change.’

‘You’re leaving me?’ I whispered. ‘After all that, after everything you put me through, you’re leaving me? And you’re doing it using all those old clichés of “I love you but I’m not in love with you” and “I just need some space”? Could you not even have come up with an original line? Christ, all that’s missing is “My wife doesn’t understand me.”’

‘Well, I do need some space, OK, and some time. And you don’t understand what it’s like for me. I can’t stay with you if I’m always going to be the bad guy, living with your constant anger. It’s destroying us both.’

‘And there we go. Well done, you’ve hit the hat-trick of how to leave your wife. So you’re just walking away, moving into Geoff’s nice little bachelor pad and living the life of Riley, leaving me to pick up all the pieces – again? Because you’re not happy that I’m a tiny bit pissed off about how you’ve behaved and you, what? Want to find yourself?’

‘Ellen, please, it’s not like that.’

I drained my wine. ‘It’s exactly like that.’

‘I just want to find out who I am again, that’s all. Apart from a father and a husband!’

‘I’ll tell you what you want. You’ve had a taste of freedom and fun, and you want a bit more of it, because suddenly the wife and kids feel a bit millstoney round your neck. Especially as the ball and chain won’t shut up like a good girl and turn a blind eye and let you have your cake and eat it. So you’re going for the easy option and giving up. You get the single life, and I get to keep being a drudge and bring up your children. Well, fine. It’s fine. If that’s what you want, go ahead, no one’s going to stop you. If you thought I was going to sit here and beg you to stay, you were wrong. Have a nice life, Simon. Actually, I don’t mean that. I hope your knob falls off. Goodbye.’

‘I’m not leaving you, I just need –’

‘Do kindly go fuck yourself. Or whoever else it is that you “need”.’

‘Ellen, please –’

I walked out of the bar with my head held high, and made it as far as the little play park round the corner before I collapsed on a bench, sobbing. Thank God it was evening and there were no tots bouncing merrily on the seesaw to be alarmed by the mad woman wailing all on her own. All the hours I’ve spent sitting on benches like these, watching Peter and Jane play (and fight), freezing my arse off, wishing it was time to go home, and never once did I think I’d end up sitting on one crying because Simon had left me. I thought we’d grow old together. I’d never considered a future that didn’t involve him.

I dried my eyes on an extremely dubious tissue I found in my coat pocket (at least back when the children were small there would have been several half-eaten jelly babies stuck to it that I could have consoled myself with), and resolved that that was it. I wasn’t relying on anyone else for anything, ever again. Well, apart from getting the number of a bloody good divorce lawyer from Perfect Lucy Atkinson’s Perfect Mummy.

It was a shame, I thought pathetically to myself, that I could never go back to that very nice bar and take photos for Instagram, as it would now be forever known as The Bar Where Simon Left Me. If he was going to leave me, he could at least have done it in a dive, and not spoiled somewhere nice for me. Selfish bastard.

APRIL

Friday, 6 April

I woke up in a panic, dry-mouthed and heart racing, convinced I’d slept through the alarm and that the removal men were here already. They weren’t, of course, because it was only 3.43 am, but as it was the sixth time I’d woken up like that, the chances of me actually sleeping through the alarm increased every time, and thus so did the panic. It didn’t help that in the brief snatches of sleep I’d managed in between waking up I’d dreamt that the removal men turned up but nothing was packed and so we couldn’t move, and then in another much, much worse dream, that they turned up, that everything I owned was neatly boxed up, that I was smoothly and seamlessly directing operations as they loaded their lorry, only to make the hideous discovery, while I was standing in the front garden watching two burly sorts lug out the sofa, that I was stark bollock naked, and everyone had been too polite to say anything, but there was every chance the removal men were traumatised for life by the sight of a forty-five-year-old woman standing in the street, tits jiggling, reminding them to be careful with the sideboard as it was a family heirloom.

Actually, I don’t even know why the sideboard was in my dream. I don’t have it anymore. It was Simon’s granny’s, so he’s got it. Admittedly, he didn’t really want it and had harboured an unreasonable hatred for it ever since I’d attempted to ‘shabby chic’ it up and painted it a lovely eau de nil, but I was determined to be fair, and so I insisted he took the sideboard. It was definitely fairness that made me let him have the sideboard and not a malicious amusement at thinking how pissed off he’d be every time he looked at it, nor a sadistic pleasure in thinking how it would ruin the minimalist effect he could finally achieve in his new flat but, because it was his grandmother’s, he’d be stuck with it.

After Simon’s announcement that he was moving out to ‘give us some space’, I didn’t hang around. I’ve seen too many friends and colleagues put in the same position, with their partner buggering off, assuring them it was ‘only temporary’ to give them ‘time to think’. They went off to ‘think’, and then a month down the line the joint accounts were emptied, there was a lawyer’s letter on the doormat and an estate agent at the door announcing they were there to do a valuation, because the ‘temporary thinking time’ was just a ruse to allow them to move out with minimal hassle while sorting out their financial affairs to their own benefit.

I wasn’t going to be caught on the hop like that. The next day, when I checked our bank accounts and found that Simon had withdrawn a considerable sum – apparently to cover the rent on Geoff’s flat, as it had turned out that Geoff wasn’t letting him house sit rent free, as Simon had implied – and after listening to Simon’s excuses that the joint account was ‘living expenses’ and me pointing out that it was his choice to move out into an expensive flat and why the fuck should I be part-funding that, I called the estate agents and the lawyers, removed my share from the remains of the joint accounts and got the ball rolling. Unfortunately, our house turned out to have gone up in value since we bought it, and neither of us could afford to buy the other out, so it had to be sold, all while Simon bleated on that I was being too hasty and he hadn’t meant this to be permanent.

Competitively priced family homes in catchment areas for decent schools tend to sell fast, though – rather faster than I’d expected, leaving me without much time to find somewhere for me and the children to go. And so, I find myself lying awake, staring at the ceiling, contemplating a future where I’ll not be growing old with Simon in a little stone cottage with roses round the door. However, on the plus side, I will be growing old in a little stone cottage with roses round the door. That is what I need to focus on – the positives, not the negatives. The fact is that Simon had always baulked at my visions of quaint and rustic cottages, and muttered darkly about energy efficiency, and lack of double glazing, and low ceilings (surely the low ceilings would make it easier to heat, as I used to point out). He’d tut and point out all the flaws in the survey reports of the Dream Houses I showed him, sighing over wet rot and dry rot and rising damp and crumbling pointing, crying, ‘Money pit! Money pit!’ as I cried, ‘Character and soul! IT HAS CHARACTER AND SOUL! What’s a little mildew compared with THAT?’

As an architect, Simon was always able to trump me (a mere ‘computer person’, as he used to refer to my job) on all things house by hurling technical words around and citing the terrible costs of a new roof (according to him, every house I fell in love with would need a new roof, despite the clearly functional and vintagely slated roof having done perfectly well for over a hundred years), and so, one by one, my dreams were crushed under the weight of tedious practicalities.

But now, Simonless, with no unfaithful naysayer crushing my visions of stone-flagged kitchens and mullioned windows anymore, I’ve found the cottage of my dreams, and we’re moving in today. Well, it’s possibly not quite the Cottage of My Dreams. My finances didn’t entirely stretch to that, despite a small stroke of luck in my batshit-mental ex-sister-in-law Louisa deciding her latest blow struck against the patriarchy would be to become a lesbian and move to a women’s commune with her new lover Isabel, thus finally vacating the house I’d been emotionally blackmailed into buying for her several years earlier. My lingering resentment at being forced to bankroll Louisa’s feckless lifestyle with the profits of the one financially successful thing I’ve ever achieved, my lovely app called Why Mummy Drinks, obviously in no way contributed to the breakdown of things with Simon at all. But she’s gone, her (my) house is sold, and the resulting cash injection added to my share of the Marital Home meant I was able to afford to buy a Vaguely Dreamish Cottage, with not too crippling a mortgage. Hurrah! It will be magical. If you overlook the damp. Which is probably nothing that can’t be painted over. And the fact that I didn’t have much time to wait around for the perfect house to come on the market so, to afford a house with a garden for Judgy Dog and three bedrooms for the children and me, I’ve had to move miles out of town.

But anyway. I shall have a vegetable garden, and look adorable in wellies and an unfeasible amount of Cath Kidston prints (well, probably not real Cath Kidston, as it’s very bloody expensive and I’m a Single Mother now, but I can probably find some affordable knock-offs on eBay). I’m going to keep chickens – Speckled Sussexes, I’ve decided, because I liked the name and when I googled them they were described as very chatty chickens. Who even needs a man when you have chatty chickens? I just have to hope that Judgy Dog does not attempt to eat my chatty chickens. I’ve had stern words with him to this effect, but he just gave me one of his ‘I’m paying no attention to your foolish witterings, woman, and I shall do as I please’ looks. Luckily, Judgy being my dog, having got him somewhat against Simon’s will, despite Simon coming to love him almost as much as I do, there was no question of who got Judgy in the divorce. I’d probably have let him have Peter and Jane if he’d really wanted, but I’d have fought tooth and nail for sole custody of Judgy …

Peter and Jane are not entirely enamoured of my Splendid Plan to move to the country. Although in actual fact we’re not moving that far into the country, we’re still (just) within the catchment area for their school, so they’ll not be further traumatised by changing schools, as well as being from a Broken Home (do people even still say that? I just remember, in Coronation Street, Tracy Barlow shouting about coming from a Broken Home at Ken and Deirdre when they had one of their frequent divorces – not that it really mattered with Ken and Deirdre, of course, as they’d be back together again by the Omnibus).

Despite this, the children were still horrified at living ‘out in the sticks’ and the lack of late buses to transport them home from parties and bouts of underage drinking. Well, at fifteen, I suspect Jane at least has been dabbling somewhat with the Bacardi Breezers, or whatever over-sugared shit the Youth of Today drink. Peter is only thirteen, so hopefully I’ve a year or so’s grace before he too starts on the path of depravity. I live in hope, however, that they might both yet declare themselves to be teetotallers, as I’ve been a Terrible Warning rather than a Good Example when it comes to the Evils of Drink. I attempted to placate them with rash promises of providing plenty of lifts home, and brightly reminded them that every second weekend they’d be staying over at their dad’s flat in town, and so it would be a) his problem and b) nice and easy to get home from parties and the dubious pubs that serve underage teenagers. Simon was there when I announced this, and I must say he did not look entirely thrilled at the prospect.

He has meanwhile found his Dream Flat, the minimalist White Box he’s hankered after for years. He’d practically drool while watching Grand Designs whenever anyone built one of those spare, modern cubes as a house, as he looked round our cluttered sitting room and sighed in despair. There were some rows about his flat too, because, as I pointed out, he could not buy an open-plan loft, because he needed somewhere for his CHILDREN to sleep when they came to stay – something that did not seem to have occurred to him. He finally grudgingly compromised on somewhere that had one decent-sized bedroom, one small room he announced he’d use as a study and put a futon in for Jane (I didn’t know you even still got futons – I thought they had vanished after the Nineties, along with my youth and the perkiness of my tits), and what he optimistically called a ‘boxroom’ for Peter, which Peter and I called a ‘cupboard’. Apart from having to shut his only son and heir in a cupboard every second weekend, from the photos it looks like an annoyingly nice flat, although the sideboard will look bloody awful there, so ha!

Anyway, I might as well get up and have a cup of tea in peace, before starting the lengthy and painful process of trying to prise two teenagers from their pits. There’s a part of me that wonders if it would be easier to just leave them in their beds and let the removal men load them onto the lorry and install them still slumbering in their new rooms at the other end. And also, how long would it actually take them to notice they were in a different house? In fairness, Peter would notice almost straight away when he walked towards the fridge on autopilot, ready to inhale the entire contents in the name of a ‘snack’, and found it in a different location, thus delaying his ‘snack’ by an essential and life-threatening thirty seconds.

It’s a strange feeling to think that this is the last time I’ll wake up in this house. There have been a lot of ‘last times’ over the previous few days. Some of them have been quite sad, like the last time I’d say goodnight to the children in the rooms they’ve slept in since they were tiny. Peter and Jane were less moved by my tearful attempts to tuck them in last night, saying that I was being weird and telling me to go away. Other last times were less sad. The last time I had to adjust the rug to hide the mark on the floor where Judgy puked and his stomach acid stripped the varnish from the floorboards. The last time I’ll ever bang my hip on the stupidly placed cupboard in the kitchen. The last time I’ll have to wipe the countertops and ignore the large chunk out of the surface where Jane threw a knife at Peter in a fit of rage, probably because of some heinous transgression such as looking at her.

But this isn’t the time to dwell on last times. It’s a time for FIRST times, for new beginnings and fresh starts! I hope Judgy Dog isn’t too outraged by the upheaval and settles into his new home all right.

Saturday, 7 April

Well. We’re here. And I’m slowly getting to grips with the chaos and trying to tackle the mountains of boxes!

Yesterday was … interesting. As predicted, Peter and Jane were almost impossible to shift from their beds. Once they were up, they wandered around aimlessly, getting under everyone’s feet, as Peter attempted to unpack bowls and cereal so he could have another breakfast and Jane screamed that I’d ruined her life by having the Wi-Fi disconnected in the old house, and what did I MEAN, it might not be connected in the new house until Monday, and how did I not know about the strength of the 4G signal at the new house, and WHY WOULD I EVEN DO THAT TO HER, and Peter drank all the milk so I couldn’t even give the removal men a cup of tea, so I had to send him to the shop to get more, while he looked at me pityingly and explained that we were meant to be moving and getting rid of stuff, Mum, not buying more, and I howled that if he didn’t get on his bike and get to the shop and return with a pint of milk in the next three minutes, I was taking all his carefully boxed-up possessions, including all his games consoles, and giving them to a charity shop, and if he answered me back one more fucking time I might give him away too, in the unlikely event of anyone actually wanting him. The removal men meanwhile observed all this, expressionless, until Peter muttered something about ‘Don’t mind her, it’s probably her age, and the Change of Life’ as he huffed out the door in search of milk and the removal men all sniggered. Bastards.

Finally – finally – everything was loaded onto the lorry, despite my helpful suggestions about the order in which they might want to put it on, and that maybe if they put the sofa on the other side they could pile more boxes around it. The Chief Removal Man finally said, ‘Look, love, we do know what we’re doing. We do it every day,’ and I quietly seethed about being called ‘love’ because it’s one of my pet hates, especially from an unfamiliar man who is talking down to me (although I suppose he might have had a point about knowing how to pack his lorry better than me), but I didn’t dare say anything in case they decided that they wouldn’t move all my worldly possessions after all on account of me being a snowflake feminist bitch and then I’d be left sitting in the middle of the road with a big pile of boxes and two angry teenagers.

We set off, me chirping, ‘Isn’t this FUN, darlings! A splendid new adventure! We’re going to be SO HAPPY in the new house, I just KNOW it!’ while the children slumped in the back seat and complained it was SO UNFAIR that I hadn’t let one of them sit in the front because Judgy had already called shotgun (it’s his favourite seat – he likes to look out of the window for cats), and I pointed out that I might have let one of them sit there if World War Fucking Three didn’t break out over whose turn it is to sit there every single bastarding time we get in the car, and would they please just CHEER UP ALREADY, because this was a LOVELY FRESH START and we were going to be VERY FUCKING HAPPY.

As we turned out of the street for the last time ever (well, in reality it probably wasn’t the last time ever, because my friend Katie still lives across the road, and so I’ll probably be back to visit her, but it was still a Symbolic Last Time Ever), the new people who had bought the house turned into it. I accelerated slightly, lest they spotted me in the distance and tried to come after me to enquire about the Smell in Peter’s room. I’d cleaned the house, I really had, and in truth it was probably the cleanest it had ever been since we’d moved in, but nothing I did, not shampooing the carpets, not liberal quantities of Febreeze, not all the TKMaxx scented candles in the world could entirely shift that musty, fusty, Teenage Boy Pong from Peter’s room.

When people were viewing the house I had to open his windows as wide as they would go, empty half a can of air freshener into the room and hope the stench would be masked for long enough to dupe any potential buyers, but within half an hour the smell would start seeping back – an unpleasant combination of sweaty socks, BO, a hint of stale jizz and something undefinable that can only be described as Boy, all pulled together with a generous helping of Lynx. It just seems to be something teenage boys emit, however clean they are, however often you boil-wash their towels and bedding, however many hours they spend in the shower, however many cans of deodorant they empty under each pit (‘Darling, seriously, you just need a quick squirt under each arm, you don’t need to spray clouds and clouds of the damn stuff till we’re all choking on a chemical cloud that whiffs of broken teenage dreams and sexual frustration’) and however often you surreptitiously check under the bed to see if the source of the stench is a crusty wank sock stashed under there. So far I’ve been spared this horror, I presume because I discreetly provide a never-ending supply of Mansize tissues – I was so shocked when I finally realised what Mansize tissues were for (I’d thought it was just because Kleenex assumed men were snottier than ladies).

I remember (many, MANY years ago) when I was in halls of residence at university, and you could immediately tell when you’d turned the corner from the (pleasantly scented with hints of Impulse and Ex’clamation and Wella Mousse) girls’ corridor and had entered the boys’ corridor, due to the Smell. After we left halls, the university renovated the building (it was planned, we hadn’t trashed the place. Much), and I mean they gutted the whole thing and stripped it down to the bare bones. I went in to drop something off to someone after the renovation, when the whole building was spanking fresh and full of new paint and plaster, and the entire concept of boys’ and girls’ corridors had been done away with and it was all mixed sex, but you could STILL smell the Smell on what had once been the old boys’ corridors. So I think the new owners might be stuck with it. Hopefully they’ll also have a teenage boy who can just slot into the stinky room and they’ll assume it’s only his own Smell, and not a lingering whiff of the previous occupant …

Anyway, new owners successfully avoided, off we trundled to our New Start, ‘I Will Survive’ (OBVS, what else? Though Jane has repeatedly asked me NOT to say ‘obvs’, or ‘totes amazeballs’, or ‘down with the kids’, even in an ironic way) blasting out of the car stereo. The sun was shining, the birds were singing – it was all Most Auspicious.

Unfortunately, about a mile down the road, the sun stopped shining, the birds stopped singing, the sky suddenly turned black and it began to piss down royally. This, needless to say, was Less Auspicious.

The removal men were distinctly unjovial at having to unload in the tipping rain, as if it was somehow my fault and I was some kind of misguided witch who had conjured up the storm on my way here, because mysteriously I actually wanted every single thing I owned in the world to get soaking wet, and they muttered darkly as they lugged everything in. Worse, in all my excitement about my quaint and adorable cottage, I’d neglected to actually measure or work out if any of my furniture would fit in, and there were some ugly scenes manoeuvring my super-king-size bed up the most un-super-king-size cottage stairs, and trying to get my sofa through the door into the sitting room. At one point the Chief Removal Man announced, ‘You’ll have to saw it in half, love!’ and I frostily reminded him how only that very morning he’d informed me that he was a removal EXPERT, and thus I had faith in his expertise and would not be sawing my sofa in half, because he could jolly well work out how to get it in, thank you very much (after all, he’s a man, he should have had YEARS of practice at trying to get it in). The sofa was eventually manhandled in, although the dark muttering had turned into open and loud swearing by that point.

Unfortunately, now that the previous owners’ artfully placed furniture had been removed and the sun was no longer streaming merrily through the windows like it had been when I’d viewed the property, it began to dawn on me that all the ‘quirks’ of the house I’d convinced myself were ‘rustic’ might possibly also be construed as being a ‘bit shit’, even ‘problematic’. The house was also a lot darker and somewhat damper than I remembered, and there were some suspicious marks on the ceiling I hadn’t noticed before, which suggested the roof wasn’t in perhaps as quite as good order as I’d blithely assumed when I’d dismissed the survey report’s queries about it as mere naysaying.

Simon had offered to come with me to view houses, which I’d tartly informed him was quite unnecessary as I was perfectly capable of finding a house without him – after all, there was a reason he was now my ex-husband. He’d mildly replied that he was only trying to help, and had thought that in his professional capacity he might have been able to offer some useful advice, nothing more. I, meanwhile, declined his offer once again on the basis that I wasn’t going to all the trouble, effort and expense of divorcing him only to have him continue to piss on my chips when it came to finding my Dream House. Or even my Vaguely Dreamish House. Looking around the Not Quite Even Vaguely Dreamish House now, I reflected that I’d possibly been a little hasty in rejecting his offer of help.

But never mind, I thought. It’ll be FINE! We just have to be positive, as I pointed out to Jane as she wailed in horror at the realisation that she no longer had fitted wardrobes to not put her New Look hauls in, but instead had an alcove with a rail across it in front of which I was planning on hanging an adorable floral curtain.

‘HOW am I supposed to cope with that to keep my clothes in?’ she shrieked. ‘It’s fucking Soviet, Mother. It’s probably one of the things that define you as living in poverty. This is inhumane. I could report you!’

‘To who?’ I said. ‘I don’t think fitted wardrobes and constant access to Snapchat are actually included the UN’s Rights of a Child. I think it’s more things like clean water and not being sent down the mines. And anyway, you’ve never in your entire life put anything away in your wardrobe. You just chuck it all on the floor, so I fail to see how this will actually make any difference to you whatsoever.’

‘Do we even have clean water?’ moaned Jane. ‘Are you going to announce next that we have to fetch it from a well? Maybe a river? Or are we lucky enough to have some sort of pump in the yard that we can fill buckets from so we can crouch in a tin bath once a week in front of the fire and try and scrub the rural dirt from our calloused palms? By the light of an oil lamp?’ she added dolefully.

‘Don’t be SILLY, Jane,’ I said as brightly as possible. ‘We’ve a lovely bathroom, with a proper vintage claw-footed bath. And hot running water and electricity. You’re overreacting, as usual.’

‘Don’t tell me I’m overreacting!’ shouted Jane, ‘I’m not overreacting. You’re the one who drove Dad away because you were always nagging him and who’s ruined our family and made us move to a hovel without indoor plumbing, but you say I’m the one who’s overreacting! Maybe YOU’RE overreacting by dragging us out here for no reason rather than just being nicer to Dad instead of BEING HORRIBLE ALL THE TIME!’

I was protesting that we DID have indoor plumbing and wishing I could tell the children there was so much more to Simon and me separating than me just not being that happy, when I was distracted by Peter wandering upstairs and collapsing dramatically on the landing because he was STARVING.

‘You’re not starving,’ I said automatically. ‘You’re just slightly hungry.’

‘I can’t find any food,’ said Peter gloomily. ‘Like, there’s literally NO FOOD, Mum.’

‘Have you looked?’ I asked. ‘Because there are boxes and boxes of food in the kitchen.’

‘Which room is the kitchen?’ said Peter hopelessly. ‘I can’t tell. There’s boxes everywhere, so how am I supposed to know where the kitchen is?’

‘Do you think it might be the one with the sink?’ I suggested. ‘And the fridge? Were they not any sort of a hint to you?’

Peter looked at me blankly. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I never thought of that.’

Peter wandered off back downstairs, in search of sustenance, and Jane burst furiously from the bathroom.

‘Is there a shower in the other bathroom?’ she demanded.

‘What other bathroom?’ I said.

‘There must be another bathroom,’ she insisted.

‘No, darling, there’s only one bathroom, I’m afraid. That’s sort of the thing about downsizing. You have a slightly smaller house. The clue is somewhat in the name, you know.’

‘But there must be another bathroom. An en suite or something. That can’t be the only one.’

‘It is,’ I informed her, as her face fell.

‘But there’s no shower,’ she wailed. ‘How am I supposed to wash my hair?’

‘Well, in the bath, sweetheart. Like people did for hundreds of years before the Americans invented showers.’

In truth, I’m not 100 per cent sure whether Americans invented showers or not, but it sounded plausible as they invented most mod cons. Luckily Jane was too distraught to challenge this statement, which made a nice change, as she usually likes to query every single thing that I say.

‘I can’t,’ she whimpered. ‘It’s not possible. I’m not THREE, to have plastic cups of water sluiced over my head, Mother! This is awful. Are you SURE you don’t have an en suite you’re hiding from me?’

‘Why would I hide an en suite from you?’ I said in surprise (though in truth, as I looked around the dimensions of the cottage, which could at best be described as ‘bijou and compact’, there was a small part of me also hoping for some extra rooms to materialise from somewhere, like the splendid room full of food the Railway Children found the morning after moving into their own slightly less than dreamy cottage).

‘I don’t know. I don’t know why you do anything anymore, Mother. You’ve abandoned Dad, you’ve made us come and live in this dump, and all you offer us in return is wittering on about how we’re going to get chatty chickens. So I wouldn’t put it past you to hide an en suite from me,’ she said bitterly.

‘That’s so unfair,’ I said. ‘I haven’t abandoned anyone.’ I bit back my words as I was about to snap, ‘Your father was the one who moved out, if you recall, not me. He was the one needing his “space to think”, not me. I’m the one who’s always here for you.’ But I managed to stop myself in time, as my mother’s voice rang in my ears, saying those exact things to me, reminding me how she was the victim and encouraging me to take her side. I would not have my daughter see me as a victim, and I would not, even if it killed me, say anything to make her feel she had to choose between Simon and me. The only reason I’d managed to stop myself telling the children about Miss Madrid was to avoid making them pick sides. Tears pricked in my eyes at the sheer injustice of it, though, that the more I tried to be fair and not make them take sides, the more Jane raged and hated me and blamed me for everything. Luckily she’d stormed off to find something else to complain about before she saw the treacherous tears. I wiped my eyes and sniffed ‘Strong Independent Woman’ to myself, as Peter bellowed up the stairs, ‘MUM! There’s TWO rooms with sinks down here, so how do I know which one is the kitchen?’

I trudged downstairs to explain to Peter in words of ideally less than one syllable that the BIG room with the fridge, cupboards and table was the KITCHEN, and the very small room beside the back door with nothing more than a sink in it was the SCULLERY. There then ensued a lengthy discussion about what exactly a scullery was, culminating in Peter saying, ‘Well, if it’s just a utility room from the olden days, why don’t you just CALL it a utility room?’ and me insisting, ‘Because this is a lovely, quirky, quaint old cottage, darling, with oodles of character and they have sculleries, not utility rooms. It’s all about the soul, you see,’ while Peter shovelled Doritos into his mouth and look at me in confusion.

‘OK, Mum,’ he said kindly. ‘We can call it a scullery if it makes you happy.’

I was so nonplussed at winning the scullery battle so easily, and fretting that it was because Peter felt sorry for me (in the old house, everyone but me had persisted in calling the larder ‘the big cupboard’ despite my frequent exhortations to call it ‘the larder’ because we were more middle class than a ‘big cupboard’), that I forgot to take the Doritos off him before he inhaled the entire bag.

He was still cramming fistfuls of Doritos into his mouth when Jane marched downstairs and announced that she supposed she’d just have to make do with having a bath, and where were the towels? I suggested that perhaps she could help with the unpacking for a little longer before buggering off to bathe herself, but was frostily informed that this wasn’t an option and her life had been ruined quite enough. I replied that maybe, just maybe, if she’d shown the TINIEST bit of interest in her new home, the lack of bathrooms and showers would not have come as such a shock to her, but this was met with an eye roll and a snort. I counted myself lucky to have avoided a ‘FFS, Mother!’

I’m still trying to pinpoint when the ‘Mothers’ began. When she started talking, Jane would call me Mama, which was too bloody adorable for words, then when she was about three and a half, a horrible older child at nursery made fun of her for saying Mama, and she switched to Mummy. Then it became Mum, but it happened gradually, so I don’t really remember when exactly she gave up on Mummy, although it didn’t really matter, because Mum was OK, and anyway, only screamingly posh people with ponies called Tarquin (both the people and the ponies) still call their mothers Mummy past the age of about twelve. But I was quite unprepared for the day when I stopped even being Mum and simply became Mother – a word only uttered when dripping with sarcasm, disgust, condescension or all three. To my shame, I think I vaguely recall a time in my teens when I also only referred to my dearest Mama as Mother in similarly scathing tones, so I can only hope it’s just a ‘phase’ and that she’ll grow out of it. Though I’m wondering how many more fucking ‘phases’ I have to endure before my children become civilised and functioning members of society.