If anyone mentions teachers to me again today, I think I may be going to scream.
I spend half the morning listening to a group of them who've come in to this week's surgery to lobby The Boss about the Government's reforms to their terms and conditions; and the other half trying to deal with constituents who want to discuss why they should pay for teachers' pensions that are better than their own.
The Boss relies heavily on his tried and tested "Ah" manoeuvre, but I'm not sure that it convinces anyone from either side that he knows what he really thinks.
They're united in looking pretty unimpressed, though - a response which Andrew always finds traumatic. He's desperate for a drink by the time it's over.
So am I, seeing as you can get PTSD just by witnessing a distressing event.
It's lunchtime by then, so I'm about to join Andrew and Greg in an emergency trip to the pub, when Johnny phones. That's the third time he's called me this week - God knows what his phone bills must be like, unless the Global Oil Company pays. I bet I'm tax-deductible.
I start telling him about my morning, but he interrupts me as soon as I mention teachers.
"Ever miss those days?" he says. "When we were at school, I mean."
"Every day," I say. "Whenever I look in a mirror, in fact."
"You're sexier now than you were then," he says. "Which is saying something."
It may be, but I'm not sure what.
Then he mentions next week's school reunion again.
"You decided if you're going to go yet?" he says. "While you're back home visiting your Dad?"
"I might, actually," I say. "Seeing as I'll probably be desperate for a break from listening to him telling me about Porn-Poon's creative sexual techniques by then."
"Shit," says Johnny.
Before I can say, "My feelings exactly", he goes on to explain that he definitely won't be able to go. He has much more important things to do in Dubai. Like lying in the sun drinking cocktails, and making multi-million dollar deals.
I'm so depressed by this thought that I can't help thinking about how miserable Max must be feeling since he lost his job. Not that that involved much luxury - or many deals since VAT went up and everyone stopped buying furniture - but he misses it, even so.
Maybe I should suggest he accompanies me to the reunion? He usually finds that sort of thing incredibly boring, but there'll be free drink, and we could always lie about our occupations, if anybody asks. That would save us both from embarrassment in the face of all my horribly-successful ex-classmates - and their equally-successful spouses.
"I'd love to," he says, when I phone him to ask if he'd like to go. "It'd be nice to do something sociable. And it would get us away from your dad for a bit."
It doesn't take much to make Max happy, does it? I should be grateful for that, especially given what my face looks like. I am going to tell Johnny it's all over - whatever it is - and concentrate on appreciating the good things about my husband. I shall start as soon as I get home.
Which seems like a very good idea, until I arrive, and find an unfamiliar cardigan lying abandoned on the stairs. It's pink, and covered in glittery stuff - so it's definitely not mine; and Connie wouldn't be seen dead in it. Neither of us go in for "girlie" clothes.
"Whose is this?" I say, walking into the sitting room, and brandishing the cardigan.
"Oh," says Max. "Ah. Um."
"None the wiser," I say. "Try again."
It must be something about my tone of voice - or Max's expression - that makes Josh suddenly recall that he has to go out. Immediately.
"Well?" I say, once he's shut the front door behind him.
"It might be Ellen's," says Max. "She popped round after school, with a bottle of wine - to say sorry for yesterday."
"Yesterday?" I say.
The plot is thickening very fast.
"Well, she came round while she was on strike," says Max. "She said she was bored, and wanted some company - and thought I'd be at home with nothing to do since I lost my job.
"Oh," I say. "Did she think you could offer that thing she's always so desperate to find? To alleviate her boredom?"
"I don't know what you mean," says Max, who can't possibly have forgotten that.
I raise my eyebrows much higher than Ellen is capable of doing, so then he makes a last-ditch attempt to throw me off course:
"She wasn't here that long, anyway," he says. "She went on about her pension so much, that we had a bit of an argument."
Which is as nothing to the argument that he and I are about to have.
If I'd known about this yesterday, I'd have held my own one-woman counter demonstration: in support of a certain teacher losing all of her bloody pension. And being made to work eighteen hour days to keep her out of my house while I'm at work - and my husband isn't.
It's not as if I don't know exactly what Ellen means by company, after all.
Showing posts with label Thai Bride. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Thai Bride. Show all posts
Friday, 1 July 2011
Sunday, 20 March 2011
An Excess Of Poisoning Incidents, And The Last Will And Testament Of Molly "Didn't Live Through The War" Bennett.
As if last night's journey to Dorset wasn't bad enough, now someone's trying to poison me again. And this time it's Dad, though I bet he'll deny it when the Police find the note I'm going to hide in my pocket.
He's already disinherited me for yesterday's Gary Glitter disaster, but the punishment isn't over yet. Now I have to eat a meal he's cooked.
I wouldn't be having to risk my life at all if I'd been able to drop him off at his house and drive straight back home - as per the original plan - but once we broke down about half-way there, everything went completely t*ts-up. (Metaphorically-speaking, of course. I do have some dignity left.)
I'll say this for the *RAC, though: at least they employ staff who know why it's important to be indoors by 9:00pm on a Saturday night. As soon as I'd explained that I must reach my destination by then, the operator said,
"Oh, you watching The Killing, are you? Great, isn't it?"
Now there's a woman of taste and discernment - unlike the mechanic she subsequently dispatched to the scene, who looked at the car as if it was a relic from the dark ages, and then sighed heavily and asked me to open the bonnet. He didn't look convinced that I actually could.
I still have no idea what he said the problem was, either, which didn't help. He mumbled so much that I couldn't hear him over Dad, who was still ranting about what I'd said - or rather, sung - to the Thai Bride over the phone. People's sense of humour is much more mutable than previously thought, so it's probably a good thing that the breakdown man didn't hear what Dad and I were arguing about, or not properly, anyway.
"Did you say Thai Bride?" he said to Dad. "You been to Pattaya too? Lovely girls there, aren't they? Feminine - not like women in this country."
"And they like old men, too," I said. (In my head - I still needed the car fixed, don't forget.)
Anyway, once Dad and Mr Pattaya had bonded over the attractions of Bar Girls, the repair of whatever the hell it was that was wrong with the car was completed so quickly that - without any speeding - I managed to pick up a take-away and get to Dad's house in time for The Killing to start.
Even better, Dad decided that he'd missed so much of the rugby by then, that he couldn't be bothered to argue about what we watched.
"I'm tired," he said. "I've recorded the match anyway, so I'll watch it tomorrow."
I didn't argue, so then Dad went to bed, leaving me alone with the gorgeous *Troels - though I'm starting to worry that he may have worms. All that eating, and yet he never gains weight. Unlike Dad, who's probably going to revert to eating nothing but cholesterol as soon as he's left on his own - unless I can find a way to change the habit of a lifetime. Preferably by covert means.
I don't sleep very well for wondering how I'm going to achieve this impossible objective, and am none the wiser when I get up this morning - until I start to make a cup of tea, and find that there's no milk. Dad goes next door to borrow some, and by the time he gets back, I've worked out a plan.
"I'll take you shopping before I leave," I say. "We can get some ready meals in, so you don't have to cook while you're still not well."
"Do you think I'm made of money?" says Dad, opening the freezer door and rummaging around inside. "Don't be so bloody stupid. There's plenty of food in here, and I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself. I'll even cook a Sunday lunch before you go."
He pulls out a plastic bag containing something brown that looks pretty dubious to me. We don't need to worry half as much as we do about global warming, not if the thickness of the ice covering both the inside and the outside of the packaging is anything to go by.
I mention this worrying observation to Dad, who just says,
"Global Warming? Doesn't exist. Conspiracy to send us all back to horses and carts."
Then he shakes some of the ice off the freezer bag, and peers at the label that's just been revealed.
"We'll have - um - Chilli con carne - and, um -"
He turns back to the freezer, rummages some more, and then holds up another mysterious find.
"Sprouts!" he says, triumphantly. This meal's becoming more appetising by the second.
I daren't object, though - not after the Gary Glitter incident - so I make myself useful by offering to clean the kitchen up a bit, while Dad chucks the frozen stuff into some pans. Then he turns the gas on and wanders off to watch the match, leaving me staring in horror at what I've just found.
The inside of the fridge looks like a bio-hazard, and I'm tempted to slam the door shut and evacuate the area - but someone has to protect Dad from himself. So I tie a grubby tea-towel around my nose and mouth, and put my winter gloves on my hands, before going back in for a closer look.
Why on earth would anyone keep half a slice of ancient beef - if beef is actually what it was - on a saucer with two fossilised roast potatoes? Or a minute amount of what looks like cherry pie filling, once you scrape the green mould aside?
"What the hell are you doing with that?" says Dad, who really shouldn't sneak up on people who might have inherited his high blood pressure.
He scares me so much that I almost drop the juice carton that I'm holding, while pouring its contents down the sink. Almost-clear liquid runs out, followed by the occasional plop of a fermenting lump.
"Getting rid of this," I say, trying not to breathe in at the same time. "Why?"
"That's the orange juice I have for breakfast."
"It might have been when you first opened it," I say. "But that was at least three weeks ago."
Dad elbows me out of the way, closes the fridge door and leans on it. Then he folds his arms as if to dare me to move him out of the way.
"A bit of fizziness never did anyone any harm," he says. "Now go and watch that last try. I've got the video on pause for you."
Luckily, he follows me into the sitting room, where he quickly becomes so engrossed in yelling abuse at the French that I soon manage to tiptoe back to the kitchen without him noticing. Once there, I complete the fastest cupboard search you've ever seen, and then really, really wish I hadn't.
Every single packet and tin bears a date that's expired - most of them by years, not months. It's a miracle a heart bypass is all he required.
I find a new bin bag in the cupboard underneath the oven and chuck almost everything from the cupboard into it. Then I open the freezer to check on that.
"Come on," says Dad. "Dinner's almost ready - pass me those plates and I'll dish it up."
I turn around to do as he asks, but then he spots the bin bag in my hand.
"What's that?" he says. "What are you throwing away now?"
"Food, " I say. "So out of date that I'm surprised you haven't got botulism, or something much worse."
Dad looks horrified, and snatches the bag out of my hand.
"Good God, woman," he says, as he looks inside it, and then pulls all the jars and tins back out. "Bloody wasteful, your generation. You can see you didn't live through the war."
"I'm amazed you did, if you were eating gone-off food," I say.
"Pfft," says Dad, taking the saucepans off the stove, and spooning the mush onto the plates. The sprouts have now been boiling for at least forty minutes, but that's not the worst of it. I've just had a seriously horrible thought.
While Dad is on his knees, searching in yet another cupboard for a bottle of Thai Chilli Sauce to "spice things up a bit more," I race to the freezer, yank the door open and grab the first bag that I find. Which turns out to be an exact duplicate of the one that originally held the food that I'm about to be forced to consume.
"Chilli?" it says. "June 2003."
If I should die, then I leave everything to Max and the children - except my old video recordings of Yes, Minister and my D:Ream single, both of which I leave to Greg. I request that someone advise him that the former are now much more relevant than the latter. My debts, in full, I bequeath to The Boss, with my most sincere respect and thanks.
*RAC - breakdown cover and roadside assistance - a necessity with a car as old as ours. Though I can take or leave their Thai Bride advice.
*Troels - Troels Hartmann, politician and on-off murder suspect in The Killing. You may look but do not touch. He is mine, unless I should die by my father's hand.
He's already disinherited me for yesterday's Gary Glitter disaster, but the punishment isn't over yet. Now I have to eat a meal he's cooked.
I wouldn't be having to risk my life at all if I'd been able to drop him off at his house and drive straight back home - as per the original plan - but once we broke down about half-way there, everything went completely t*ts-up. (Metaphorically-speaking, of course. I do have some dignity left.)
I'll say this for the *RAC, though: at least they employ staff who know why it's important to be indoors by 9:00pm on a Saturday night. As soon as I'd explained that I must reach my destination by then, the operator said,
"Oh, you watching The Killing, are you? Great, isn't it?"
Now there's a woman of taste and discernment - unlike the mechanic she subsequently dispatched to the scene, who looked at the car as if it was a relic from the dark ages, and then sighed heavily and asked me to open the bonnet. He didn't look convinced that I actually could.
I still have no idea what he said the problem was, either, which didn't help. He mumbled so much that I couldn't hear him over Dad, who was still ranting about what I'd said - or rather, sung - to the Thai Bride over the phone. People's sense of humour is much more mutable than previously thought, so it's probably a good thing that the breakdown man didn't hear what Dad and I were arguing about, or not properly, anyway.
"Did you say Thai Bride?" he said to Dad. "You been to Pattaya too? Lovely girls there, aren't they? Feminine - not like women in this country."
"And they like old men, too," I said. (In my head - I still needed the car fixed, don't forget.)
Anyway, once Dad and Mr Pattaya had bonded over the attractions of Bar Girls, the repair of whatever the hell it was that was wrong with the car was completed so quickly that - without any speeding - I managed to pick up a take-away and get to Dad's house in time for The Killing to start.
Even better, Dad decided that he'd missed so much of the rugby by then, that he couldn't be bothered to argue about what we watched.
"I'm tired," he said. "I've recorded the match anyway, so I'll watch it tomorrow."
I didn't argue, so then Dad went to bed, leaving me alone with the gorgeous *Troels - though I'm starting to worry that he may have worms. All that eating, and yet he never gains weight. Unlike Dad, who's probably going to revert to eating nothing but cholesterol as soon as he's left on his own - unless I can find a way to change the habit of a lifetime. Preferably by covert means.
I don't sleep very well for wondering how I'm going to achieve this impossible objective, and am none the wiser when I get up this morning - until I start to make a cup of tea, and find that there's no milk. Dad goes next door to borrow some, and by the time he gets back, I've worked out a plan.
"I'll take you shopping before I leave," I say. "We can get some ready meals in, so you don't have to cook while you're still not well."
"Do you think I'm made of money?" says Dad, opening the freezer door and rummaging around inside. "Don't be so bloody stupid. There's plenty of food in here, and I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself. I'll even cook a Sunday lunch before you go."
He pulls out a plastic bag containing something brown that looks pretty dubious to me. We don't need to worry half as much as we do about global warming, not if the thickness of the ice covering both the inside and the outside of the packaging is anything to go by.
I mention this worrying observation to Dad, who just says,
"Global Warming? Doesn't exist. Conspiracy to send us all back to horses and carts."
Then he shakes some of the ice off the freezer bag, and peers at the label that's just been revealed.
"We'll have - um - Chilli con carne - and, um -"
"Sprouts!" he says, triumphantly. This meal's becoming more appetising by the second.
I daren't object, though - not after the Gary Glitter incident - so I make myself useful by offering to clean the kitchen up a bit, while Dad chucks the frozen stuff into some pans. Then he turns the gas on and wanders off to watch the match, leaving me staring in horror at what I've just found.
The inside of the fridge looks like a bio-hazard, and I'm tempted to slam the door shut and evacuate the area - but someone has to protect Dad from himself. So I tie a grubby tea-towel around my nose and mouth, and put my winter gloves on my hands, before going back in for a closer look.
Why on earth would anyone keep half a slice of ancient beef - if beef is actually what it was - on a saucer with two fossilised roast potatoes? Or a minute amount of what looks like cherry pie filling, once you scrape the green mould aside?
"What the hell are you doing with that?" says Dad, who really shouldn't sneak up on people who might have inherited his high blood pressure.
He scares me so much that I almost drop the juice carton that I'm holding, while pouring its contents down the sink. Almost-clear liquid runs out, followed by the occasional plop of a fermenting lump.
"Getting rid of this," I say, trying not to breathe in at the same time. "Why?"
"That's the orange juice I have for breakfast."
"It might have been when you first opened it," I say. "But that was at least three weeks ago."
Dad elbows me out of the way, closes the fridge door and leans on it. Then he folds his arms as if to dare me to move him out of the way.
"A bit of fizziness never did anyone any harm," he says. "Now go and watch that last try. I've got the video on pause for you."
Luckily, he follows me into the sitting room, where he quickly becomes so engrossed in yelling abuse at the French that I soon manage to tiptoe back to the kitchen without him noticing. Once there, I complete the fastest cupboard search you've ever seen, and then really, really wish I hadn't.
Every single packet and tin bears a date that's expired - most of them by years, not months. It's a miracle a heart bypass is all he required.
I find a new bin bag in the cupboard underneath the oven and chuck almost everything from the cupboard into it. Then I open the freezer to check on that.
"Come on," says Dad. "Dinner's almost ready - pass me those plates and I'll dish it up."
I turn around to do as he asks, but then he spots the bin bag in my hand.
"What's that?" he says. "What are you throwing away now?"
"Food, " I say. "So out of date that I'm surprised you haven't got botulism, or something much worse."
Dad looks horrified, and snatches the bag out of my hand.
"Good God, woman," he says, as he looks inside it, and then pulls all the jars and tins back out. "Bloody wasteful, your generation. You can see you didn't live through the war."
"I'm amazed you did, if you were eating gone-off food," I say.
"Pfft," says Dad, taking the saucepans off the stove, and spooning the mush onto the plates. The sprouts have now been boiling for at least forty minutes, but that's not the worst of it. I've just had a seriously horrible thought.
While Dad is on his knees, searching in yet another cupboard for a bottle of Thai Chilli Sauce to "spice things up a bit more," I race to the freezer, yank the door open and grab the first bag that I find. Which turns out to be an exact duplicate of the one that originally held the food that I'm about to be forced to consume.
"Chilli?" it says. "June 2003."
If I should die, then I leave everything to Max and the children - except my old video recordings of Yes, Minister and my D:Ream single, both of which I leave to Greg. I request that someone advise him that the former are now much more relevant than the latter. My debts, in full, I bequeath to The Boss, with my most sincere respect and thanks.
*RAC - breakdown cover and roadside assistance - a necessity with a car as old as ours. Though I can take or leave their Thai Bride advice.
*Troels - Troels Hartmann, politician and on-off murder suspect in The Killing. You may look but do not touch. He is mine, unless I should die by my father's hand.
Saturday, 19 March 2011
How To Make Conversation Across A Cultural Divide, And Disinherit Yourself In The Process.
I'm off to Dorset to take Dad home - which is going to be fun, seeing as he isn't speaking to me.
Instead of occupying his usual position on the sofa and wielding the remote control as if it were a weapon of mass destruction, he's upstairs, throwing the last of his belongings into a suitcase. He's refusing my help, and is muttering to Max about the complete lack of support he gets from his kids. I'm assuming that he means me by that.
It all starts while I'm getting dressed this morning. I'm hopping about on one foot, trying to get the other one into the leg of my tights, when the bloody phone starts to ring. Max is no help as he's still in bed - preparing for unemployment and Jeremy Kyle.
"Let it go to the answer-phone," he says, which seems a sensible suggestion to me.
The caller's bound to be yet another of those bloody marketing firms, so it's not as if I'll be missing anything and, anyway, I hate the phone. Unlike a certain other person who just can't resist it. Honestly - why can't the older generation let a ringing phone ring? I don't know what's the matter with them.
Dad's still on the line when I eventually make it down the stairs, even though this feat takes quite a while - I'm positive these tights are the wrong way round.
"Is that bloody Northwick Eezi Home Finance again?" I say. "Tell them to sod off and remove our number from their calling sheets. We're registered with the TPS!"
Dad scowls, while gesturing for me to leave the room - so I comply without complaint. It can't be healthy to be so mindlessly obedient. I'm already in the hallway before I remember that I don't have to do as he says, and could always listen in instead.
I overcome a rogue twinge of guilt by telling myself that he'll thank me for invading his privacy when I save him from buying something that he doesn't need. These marketing people have no scruples, and Dad's a vulnerable, lonely pensioner like Mr Edmonds - or so he'd have us all believe.
No call-centre version of Darren is going to get away with ripping my father off, so I rush back into the sitting room and take control. It's quite a buzz, for all of the five seconds it lasts.
"Give it to me," I mouth at Dad.
He shakes his head and hangs onto the phone for dear life, even though I try really hard to wrestle it from him. He's got an awfully strong grip for a man who's just had a triple bypass and is supposedly a convalescent. (I blame all the high reps he's been doing with the remote for that.)
Anyway, we're still embroiled in a tug of war when Dad suddenly changes his line of attack. He gives me a sneaky push when I'm least expecting it, and I fall backwards on to a chair. It's not the most dignified landing, but there's no need for him to look so smug. He'd do no better if he was wearing these tights.
Like Chumbawumba, I may get knocked down, but I get up again - and Dad's not the only one who can try a different approach. I shall give up this unequal physical struggle and rely on disapproval instead. It worked for Gandhi, after all.
I cross my legs into the Lotus Position - slightly modified to allow for the tights - and then I hold my hand out for the phone, while trying very hard not to blink. Dad takes absolutely no notice, beyond turning his back on me, but then it took a few years in India, too.
"My daughter," he says, into the receiver. "No, dau-ghter. Door- terr. My daughter. I think she wants to speak to you."
"Damn right I do," I say, as I attack from behind and grab the phone while I have the chance. Now I'll show Dad who's the boss.
"Molly, my dear - meet my new love," he says. "All the way from sunny Thailand."
"Hurro," says Porn-Poon. Or something like that. I'm far too traumatised for my ears to work. Or my brain.
"Hurro. Hu-rro!" she says, again.
God, she even sounds about twelve years old. And why can't I think of a thing to say? Now I know how The Boss feels during tricky surgery appointments - especially when I refuse to help him out.
"Um, hello," I say - nothing better having come to mind. "So I guess you're a fan of Gary Glitter, then?"
Why did I say that? Why? Why? It's as if I've suddenly developed Tourettes. And all I can think of to add to that exceptional opening gambit is something about the leader of the gang. Lateral thinking, I suppose.
After I've finished singing the tune, there's silence at the other end of the phone, and Dad's face has gone a very funny colour indeed. I'm going to kill him by accident if I don't get a grip. And I have to make nice, anyway - seeing as this could be Stepmother Mark IV I'm talking to. (God forbid.)
"Nice to meet you, Porn-Poon," I say.
Shit! Is that actually her name - or is it just what Dinah calls her behind Dad's back? I can't remember, and Dad's no help. He's just glaring at me as if he'd like to kill me. Which he'll probably attempt, as soon as I get off the phone - and it's not as if I don't already know which one of us would win that fight.
I need to calm down, right now, and then make normal conversation. How hard can it be? I do it all the time with mad constituents, so it's not as if I lack experience - except that they're not usually shagging my Dad.
Oh, dear God, what an image. Now I'm making it so much worse. I know - I'll ask Porn-Poon about her hobbies. I'm sure that's what self-help books for the socially-inept would suggest.
"So," I say. "Dad tells me that you like old men."
According to Dad - before he stops speaking to me altogether - this last effort isn't my worst offence. I better it with my follow up:
"Can you just explain to me why?"
Instead of occupying his usual position on the sofa and wielding the remote control as if it were a weapon of mass destruction, he's upstairs, throwing the last of his belongings into a suitcase. He's refusing my help, and is muttering to Max about the complete lack of support he gets from his kids. I'm assuming that he means me by that.
It all starts while I'm getting dressed this morning. I'm hopping about on one foot, trying to get the other one into the leg of my tights, when the bloody phone starts to ring. Max is no help as he's still in bed - preparing for unemployment and Jeremy Kyle.
"Let it go to the answer-phone," he says, which seems a sensible suggestion to me.
The caller's bound to be yet another of those bloody marketing firms, so it's not as if I'll be missing anything and, anyway, I hate the phone. Unlike a certain other person who just can't resist it. Honestly - why can't the older generation let a ringing phone ring? I don't know what's the matter with them.
Dad's still on the line when I eventually make it down the stairs, even though this feat takes quite a while - I'm positive these tights are the wrong way round.
"Is that bloody Northwick Eezi Home Finance again?" I say. "Tell them to sod off and remove our number from their calling sheets. We're registered with the TPS!"
Dad scowls, while gesturing for me to leave the room - so I comply without complaint. It can't be healthy to be so mindlessly obedient. I'm already in the hallway before I remember that I don't have to do as he says, and could always listen in instead.
I overcome a rogue twinge of guilt by telling myself that he'll thank me for invading his privacy when I save him from buying something that he doesn't need. These marketing people have no scruples, and Dad's a vulnerable, lonely pensioner like Mr Edmonds - or so he'd have us all believe.
No call-centre version of Darren is going to get away with ripping my father off, so I rush back into the sitting room and take control. It's quite a buzz, for all of the five seconds it lasts.
"Give it to me," I mouth at Dad.
He shakes his head and hangs onto the phone for dear life, even though I try really hard to wrestle it from him. He's got an awfully strong grip for a man who's just had a triple bypass and is supposedly a convalescent. (I blame all the high reps he's been doing with the remote for that.)
Anyway, we're still embroiled in a tug of war when Dad suddenly changes his line of attack. He gives me a sneaky push when I'm least expecting it, and I fall backwards on to a chair. It's not the most dignified landing, but there's no need for him to look so smug. He'd do no better if he was wearing these tights.
Like Chumbawumba, I may get knocked down, but I get up again - and Dad's not the only one who can try a different approach. I shall give up this unequal physical struggle and rely on disapproval instead. It worked for Gandhi, after all.
I cross my legs into the Lotus Position - slightly modified to allow for the tights - and then I hold my hand out for the phone, while trying very hard not to blink. Dad takes absolutely no notice, beyond turning his back on me, but then it took a few years in India, too.
"My daughter," he says, into the receiver. "No, dau-ghter. Door- terr. My daughter. I think she wants to speak to you."
"Damn right I do," I say, as I attack from behind and grab the phone while I have the chance. Now I'll show Dad who's the boss.
"Molly, my dear - meet my new love," he says. "All the way from sunny Thailand."
"Hurro," says Porn-Poon. Or something like that. I'm far too traumatised for my ears to work. Or my brain.
"Hurro. Hu-rro!" she says, again.
God, she even sounds about twelve years old. And why can't I think of a thing to say? Now I know how The Boss feels during tricky surgery appointments - especially when I refuse to help him out.
"Um, hello," I say - nothing better having come to mind. "So I guess you're a fan of Gary Glitter, then?"
Why did I say that? Why? Why? It's as if I've suddenly developed Tourettes. And all I can think of to add to that exceptional opening gambit is something about the leader of the gang. Lateral thinking, I suppose.
After I've finished singing the tune, there's silence at the other end of the phone, and Dad's face has gone a very funny colour indeed. I'm going to kill him by accident if I don't get a grip. And I have to make nice, anyway - seeing as this could be Stepmother Mark IV I'm talking to. (God forbid.)
"Nice to meet you, Porn-Poon," I say.
Shit! Is that actually her name - or is it just what Dinah calls her behind Dad's back? I can't remember, and Dad's no help. He's just glaring at me as if he'd like to kill me. Which he'll probably attempt, as soon as I get off the phone - and it's not as if I don't already know which one of us would win that fight.
I need to calm down, right now, and then make normal conversation. How hard can it be? I do it all the time with mad constituents, so it's not as if I lack experience - except that they're not usually shagging my Dad.
Oh, dear God, what an image. Now I'm making it so much worse. I know - I'll ask Porn-Poon about her hobbies. I'm sure that's what self-help books for the socially-inept would suggest.
"So," I say. "Dad tells me that you like old men."
According to Dad - before he stops speaking to me altogether - this last effort isn't my worst offence. I better it with my follow up:
"Can you just explain to me why?"
Monday, 21 February 2011
Hello, Hello, It's Good To Be Back* - But Only If Your Name Is Gary Glitter.
Well, I wish I could say it's nice to be back, but it isn't. It's bloody horrible. Can someone please remind me why I work for an MP?
On second thoughts, don't bother. I probably wouldn't remember the answer for more than five seconds - seeing as I seem to have developed pre-senile dementia over the last fortnight. I can't believe I forgot it was Recess this week.
"Oh, my God," I say, as I walk into the office this morning to find The Boss sitting with his feet propped up on my desk.
"Nice to see you too, Molly," he says. "How's your Dad?"
"Fantasising about the first thing he's going to do as soon as he gets back to Thailand and sees his beloved Porn-Poon," I say. "While unfortunately choosing to share that information with his daughters in rather more detail than is strictly necessary."
"And who can blame him?" says Andrew. "Any man would feel like that about seeing a hot young girlfriend - if he was lucky enough to have one."
I turn my head to look at Greg, who is clutching his throat and making retching motions, but not before I've spotted what I think is Andrew winking at Vicky. Honestly, how has it taken me all these years to work out who The Boss reminds me of? I might just as well be working for my father, the two of them are so alike.
Talking of Dad, it's a good job Dinah agreed to take over nursemaiding duties during half-term. At least I haven't got a murder charge to worry about on top of having to cope with The Boss being around all week. If she hadn't arrived when she did yesterday, I can't promise that today's Dorset Examiner wouldn't be carrying the headline, "MP's caseworker commits frenzied act of patricide."
Which would have been justifiable homicide, as far as I'm concerned, given that Dad had driven me to the verge of insanity by then. Let's just say that having a triple bypass didn't seem to have affected his ability to shout incessant orders for food and drink at full volume, or to complain that the resulting meal wasn't a patch on those prepared by Porn-Poon, which she no doubt usually serves on a bed of lettuce artfully arranged on her naked stomach.
Seeing as I was hardly going to emulate that, I was doomed to fail in the meal provision department despite putting handfuls of chillies and lime leaves into everything I cooked; and I didn't do any better when I disappointed Dad further by what he described as my typically-female lack of appreciation for Sky Sports.
It might not have been tactful to say that I'd prefer to be disinherited rather than ever to be made to watch another Rugby Sevens match, but I thought I was being cruel to be kind - on the basis that, if I annoyed Dad enough, he'd be pleased to see the back of me and wouldn't make a big fuss when the time came for me to leave. So much for best-laid plans.
Dad took one look at Dinah's kids, and started crossing himself while muttering about The Omen again. Then he refused to let me kiss him goodbye.
"Go ahead and abandon your old father, then, Molly," he said, turning his cheek away. "You rush back to your busy life, and your important job. God knows if you'll even find time to phone me this week. Not like my mate Charlie's son, who phones him every day. Every single day. But then he really loves his dad."
"That's because he's a Billy No Mates," said Dinah. "Who doesn't have any kids, or anything approaching what you'd call a life. Unlike some of us, who just have to juggle a load of balls as best we can."
I'd have been a lot more thankful for this undeniably accurate intervention, if Dinah hadn't then felt compelled to add:
"And, anyway, Molly's job isn't at all important."
Which is pretty much how I feel about it, too - once I've finished going through the supposedly-urgent messages that are waiting on my desk. Unless you count managing a bunch of lunatic constituents and a boss with an unerring instinct for saying the wrong thing as being of vital significance to the nation, that is.
*Hello, hello, it's good to be back - an unsubtle reference to Gary Glitter, which I blame on having spent the last fortnight listening to Dad going on about his Thai girlfriend.
On second thoughts, don't bother. I probably wouldn't remember the answer for more than five seconds - seeing as I seem to have developed pre-senile dementia over the last fortnight. I can't believe I forgot it was Recess this week.
"Oh, my God," I say, as I walk into the office this morning to find The Boss sitting with his feet propped up on my desk.
"Nice to see you too, Molly," he says. "How's your Dad?"
"Fantasising about the first thing he's going to do as soon as he gets back to Thailand and sees his beloved Porn-Poon," I say. "While unfortunately choosing to share that information with his daughters in rather more detail than is strictly necessary."
"And who can blame him?" says Andrew. "Any man would feel like that about seeing a hot young girlfriend - if he was lucky enough to have one."
I turn my head to look at Greg, who is clutching his throat and making retching motions, but not before I've spotted what I think is Andrew winking at Vicky. Honestly, how has it taken me all these years to work out who The Boss reminds me of? I might just as well be working for my father, the two of them are so alike.
Talking of Dad, it's a good job Dinah agreed to take over nursemaiding duties during half-term. At least I haven't got a murder charge to worry about on top of having to cope with The Boss being around all week. If she hadn't arrived when she did yesterday, I can't promise that today's Dorset Examiner wouldn't be carrying the headline, "MP's caseworker commits frenzied act of patricide."
Which would have been justifiable homicide, as far as I'm concerned, given that Dad had driven me to the verge of insanity by then. Let's just say that having a triple bypass didn't seem to have affected his ability to shout incessant orders for food and drink at full volume, or to complain that the resulting meal wasn't a patch on those prepared by Porn-Poon, which she no doubt usually serves on a bed of lettuce artfully arranged on her naked stomach.
Seeing as I was hardly going to emulate that, I was doomed to fail in the meal provision department despite putting handfuls of chillies and lime leaves into everything I cooked; and I didn't do any better when I disappointed Dad further by what he described as my typically-female lack of appreciation for Sky Sports.
It might not have been tactful to say that I'd prefer to be disinherited rather than ever to be made to watch another Rugby Sevens match, but I thought I was being cruel to be kind - on the basis that, if I annoyed Dad enough, he'd be pleased to see the back of me and wouldn't make a big fuss when the time came for me to leave. So much for best-laid plans.
Dad took one look at Dinah's kids, and started crossing himself while muttering about The Omen again. Then he refused to let me kiss him goodbye.
"Go ahead and abandon your old father, then, Molly," he said, turning his cheek away. "You rush back to your busy life, and your important job. God knows if you'll even find time to phone me this week. Not like my mate Charlie's son, who phones him every day. Every single day. But then he really loves his dad."
"That's because he's a Billy No Mates," said Dinah. "Who doesn't have any kids, or anything approaching what you'd call a life. Unlike some of us, who just have to juggle a load of balls as best we can."
I'd have been a lot more thankful for this undeniably accurate intervention, if Dinah hadn't then felt compelled to add:
"And, anyway, Molly's job isn't at all important."
Which is pretty much how I feel about it, too - once I've finished going through the supposedly-urgent messages that are waiting on my desk. Unless you count managing a bunch of lunatic constituents and a boss with an unerring instinct for saying the wrong thing as being of vital significance to the nation, that is.
*Hello, hello, it's good to be back - an unsubtle reference to Gary Glitter, which I blame on having spent the last fortnight listening to Dad going on about his Thai girlfriend.
Monday, 7 February 2011
The Unexpected Consequences Of Aversion Therapy, Age Gaps, And Marriage.
Oh, bloody, bloody hell. Now Dad's in hospital and I'm sure it's all Dinah's fault. (I told her her supposedly-salutary lessons never worked.)
I've just got off the phone to Richard Levinson, who's complaining about how overpaid some Council officers are, when my mobile starts ringing.
"Shit, Mol," says Dinah. "You won't believe what's happened."
"Oh, I probably will," I say. "I work for an MP, remember. Nothing much surprises me any more."
"Yeah, well," she says. "You won't have seen this one coming. Dad's got to have a heart bypass operation. First thing tomorrow morning."
Oh, dear God. I bet that's because Dinah told him that lie about Connie having a sixty-five-year-old boyfriend. The shock was obviously far too much - not that Dinah's taking any responsibility for what has happened.
"Coincidence," she says, when I ask whether she thinks her attempt at aversion therapy may have backfired. "More likely to be the effect of trying to keep up with the Thai bride that's done it. So what are we going to do? Someone'll have to go down to Dorset tonight."
Why is it that when someone says "someone", they usually mean, "you"?
"Well, who?" I say. "I've got to work."
"Yes, I know," she says, "But your kids are much older than mine, and Max will be there to keep an eye on things anyway. I am a single parent, don't forget."
Honestly, it's like a game of top trumps, which I am always doomed to lose. Maybe that's what Cameron's tax allowance proposals were designed to compensate married people for? There must be some benefits in return for all that hard labour at the coalface of marriage, but getting out of things definitely isn't one of them.
"All right," I say. "You win. I'll ask The Boss if I can take unpaid leave. That's bound to make me even more popular with him than I already am."
"But he's a socialist," says Dinah. "So he'll believe in treating his employees well."
I can't think of anything to say to that ridiculous statement, so I content myself with drawing loops of barbed wire on my notepad instead. Then I create cages around the loops. God knows what Freud would say if he ever saw my doodles.
"Maybe we were too harsh about the Thai bride," says Dinah. "Just think, if she'd been in the UK, you wouldn't have needed to go."
"If you hadn't freaked Dad out and nearly given him a heart attack, I wouldn't have had any reason to," I say, but Dinah pretends she hasn't heard, tells me to call her back when I've sorted everything out, and hangs up.
Once I've done a bit of swearing, I realise that, not only am I patently rubbish at guilt-tripping people, but I've also lost any sense of what's important. What on earth am I doing, trying to score points against Dinah and fretting about work, when I should be worrying about Dad? I need to get a grip, request emergency leave and go home to pack.
After all - it's not as if anyone ever puts "esteemed workaholic" on a headstone, is it? And, if Greg's right about the general uselessness of what we do at work, I doubt anyone will notice my absence anyway.
I've just got off the phone to Richard Levinson, who's complaining about how overpaid some Council officers are, when my mobile starts ringing.
"Shit, Mol," says Dinah. "You won't believe what's happened."
"Oh, I probably will," I say. "I work for an MP, remember. Nothing much surprises me any more."
"Yeah, well," she says. "You won't have seen this one coming. Dad's got to have a heart bypass operation. First thing tomorrow morning."
Oh, dear God. I bet that's because Dinah told him that lie about Connie having a sixty-five-year-old boyfriend. The shock was obviously far too much - not that Dinah's taking any responsibility for what has happened.
"Coincidence," she says, when I ask whether she thinks her attempt at aversion therapy may have backfired. "More likely to be the effect of trying to keep up with the Thai bride that's done it. So what are we going to do? Someone'll have to go down to Dorset tonight."
Why is it that when someone says "someone", they usually mean, "you"?
"Well, who?" I say. "I've got to work."
"Yes, I know," she says, "But your kids are much older than mine, and Max will be there to keep an eye on things anyway. I am a single parent, don't forget."
Honestly, it's like a game of top trumps, which I am always doomed to lose. Maybe that's what Cameron's tax allowance proposals were designed to compensate married people for? There must be some benefits in return for all that hard labour at the coalface of marriage, but getting out of things definitely isn't one of them.
"All right," I say. "You win. I'll ask The Boss if I can take unpaid leave. That's bound to make me even more popular with him than I already am."
"But he's a socialist," says Dinah. "So he'll believe in treating his employees well."
I can't think of anything to say to that ridiculous statement, so I content myself with drawing loops of barbed wire on my notepad instead. Then I create cages around the loops. God knows what Freud would say if he ever saw my doodles.
"Maybe we were too harsh about the Thai bride," says Dinah. "Just think, if she'd been in the UK, you wouldn't have needed to go."
"If you hadn't freaked Dad out and nearly given him a heart attack, I wouldn't have had any reason to," I say, but Dinah pretends she hasn't heard, tells me to call her back when I've sorted everything out, and hangs up.
Once I've done a bit of swearing, I realise that, not only am I patently rubbish at guilt-tripping people, but I've also lost any sense of what's important. What on earth am I doing, trying to score points against Dinah and fretting about work, when I should be worrying about Dad? I need to get a grip, request emergency leave and go home to pack.
After all - it's not as if anyone ever puts "esteemed workaholic" on a headstone, is it? And, if Greg's right about the general uselessness of what we do at work, I doubt anyone will notice my absence anyway.
Sunday, 6 February 2011
Playing Catch-Up, Or Why My Family Begins Every Conversation In Media Res.
Honestly, sometimes I'm not at all sure that my family isn't worse than the usual suspects. Talk about barking mad.
I've just joined Max on the sofa, in readiness for catching up with last night's episode of The Killing on iPlayer, when Dinah phones.
"Gah," she says, apropos of nothing.
No reply seems necessary, so I wait for the next instalment, which follows as soon as Dinah's taken a drag on her cigarette. She sounds as if she's turning inside out, she sucks so hard.
"What sort of man describes his Thai bride as a tomboy, for f*ck's sake?" she says.
I assume that this is a rhetorical question, until Dinah repeats it, louder than before. Oh, I see. I am expected to answer, for once.
"Dad?" I say. "When the tomboy in question is five million years younger than him? Or forty-five years, anyway."
"Exactly," says Dinah. "He still has no idea how revolting the whole thing is - so now I've bloody well proved it to him."
There's something about her tone of voice that starts alarm bells ringing, but I'm not sure that I want to know any more, so I stay quiet. Which helps me to concentrate on watching the subtitles, seeing as Max still hasn't taken any notice of my signals to pause the bloody programme.
Max might be oblivious to everything I do, but Dinah isn't - more's the pity. Sometimes I could swear she can see down a telephone line.
"Mol! I can tell you aren't concentrating. Are you even listening? I need to you to back me up on this. It's for his own good."
I doubt Dad will see it that way, whatever it is, Dinah not being known for the efficacy of her lessons in life. Even her so-called "top tips" are notorious for their general uselessness, but I suppose she has got an excuse. The stress of having a seventy-two-year-old Lothario for a father is enough to make anyone go bonkers after a while.
"Back you up on what? " I say. "What exactly have you done?"
"Well, I told Dad a bit of a white lie," says Dinah. "About Connie."
"You brought Connie into it?" I say. Very loudly, so that Max gives me a funny look and turns the TV up. God knows why, as he couldn't speak any Danish the last time I checked. Maybe he thinks it'll make the subtitles get bigger.
I glare at him, while cursing Dinah under my breath. It's one thing to mess with me, but taking my daughter's name in vain is a whole different ball-game. And what on earth has Connie got to do with Porn-Poon, anyway?
"I may have told him Connie has a new boyfriend," says Dinah. "I wanted to see how he'd feel if his grand-daughter started dating someone decades older than her."
"Oh, my God," I say. "That's not a white lie, Dinah - it's a stonking great black one. With knobs on. Oh, hang on, call waiting's beeping me."
I switch to answer the incoming call. Which turns out to be a big mistake.
"Bloody hell, Molly," says Dad, without preamble. (He's probably who Dinah gets it from.) "I've just heard about Connie's new boyfriend. If you can call a sixty-five-year-old man a boyfriend, for God's sake."
"Ah," I say. "Hmm. Yes, I see."
"I don't think you do," says Dad. "Whatever is Connie thinking of? He must be a right dirty old man."
I'm pretty sure that lack of insight is the first sign of psychosis. I just hope that's not hereditary.
I've just joined Max on the sofa, in readiness for catching up with last night's episode of The Killing on iPlayer, when Dinah phones.
"Gah," she says, apropos of nothing.
No reply seems necessary, so I wait for the next instalment, which follows as soon as Dinah's taken a drag on her cigarette. She sounds as if she's turning inside out, she sucks so hard.
"What sort of man describes his Thai bride as a tomboy, for f*ck's sake?" she says.
I assume that this is a rhetorical question, until Dinah repeats it, louder than before. Oh, I see. I am expected to answer, for once.
"Dad?" I say. "When the tomboy in question is five million years younger than him? Or forty-five years, anyway."
"Exactly," says Dinah. "He still has no idea how revolting the whole thing is - so now I've bloody well proved it to him."
There's something about her tone of voice that starts alarm bells ringing, but I'm not sure that I want to know any more, so I stay quiet. Which helps me to concentrate on watching the subtitles, seeing as Max still hasn't taken any notice of my signals to pause the bloody programme.
Max might be oblivious to everything I do, but Dinah isn't - more's the pity. Sometimes I could swear she can see down a telephone line.
"Mol! I can tell you aren't concentrating. Are you even listening? I need to you to back me up on this. It's for his own good."
I doubt Dad will see it that way, whatever it is, Dinah not being known for the efficacy of her lessons in life. Even her so-called "top tips" are notorious for their general uselessness, but I suppose she has got an excuse. The stress of having a seventy-two-year-old Lothario for a father is enough to make anyone go bonkers after a while.
"Back you up on what? " I say. "What exactly have you done?"
"Well, I told Dad a bit of a white lie," says Dinah. "About Connie."
"You brought Connie into it?" I say. Very loudly, so that Max gives me a funny look and turns the TV up. God knows why, as he couldn't speak any Danish the last time I checked. Maybe he thinks it'll make the subtitles get bigger.
I glare at him, while cursing Dinah under my breath. It's one thing to mess with me, but taking my daughter's name in vain is a whole different ball-game. And what on earth has Connie got to do with Porn-Poon, anyway?
"I may have told him Connie has a new boyfriend," says Dinah. "I wanted to see how he'd feel if his grand-daughter started dating someone decades older than her."
"Oh, my God," I say. "That's not a white lie, Dinah - it's a stonking great black one. With knobs on. Oh, hang on, call waiting's beeping me."
I switch to answer the incoming call. Which turns out to be a big mistake.
"Bloody hell, Molly," says Dad, without preamble. (He's probably who Dinah gets it from.) "I've just heard about Connie's new boyfriend. If you can call a sixty-five-year-old man a boyfriend, for God's sake."
"Ah," I say. "Hmm. Yes, I see."
"I don't think you do," says Dad. "Whatever is Connie thinking of? He must be a right dirty old man."
I'm pretty sure that lack of insight is the first sign of psychosis. I just hope that's not hereditary.
Sunday, 9 January 2011
Why Politicians, And Fathers, Should Be Careful What They Say.
Dad must have talked Dinah up. I do wish she wouldn't phone me on Sunday mornings, though - especially to talk about politicians and their aides getting shot.
"Did you hear what happened in Tucson?" she says. "I thought of you and those stupid supermarket surgeries as soon as I heard."
"So did I," I say. "It was terrible. Now can we change the subject, please? Seeing as thinking about it isn't likely to make the prospect of going to work tomorrow any easier to face."
Taking a hint has never been Dinah's forte.
"True," she says. "But you do need to be careful, Mol. There are nutters everywhere - especially in politics. Have you seen what Nadine Dorries has done now? I've just read her blog."
"I know," I say. "I suppose we should be glad Dad's not a politician. God knows how many times we'd have been put through what John Butler's daughter was."
"Huh. I'd tell Dad where to get off if he ever wanted me to issue a statement on his love-life. It's bad enough when he does that thing with putting new step-mothers on the phone to us."
"God, yes," I say, as Dinah and I both light cigarettes in the face of the recollections that that conjures up.
Every time Dad gets a new woman, he phones to tell us all about her, and then insists on putting her on the phone to introduce us. So then we have to make agonisingly strained conversation with someone we've never met and - if we're honest - have absolutely no interest in ever meeting.
Last time he did it to me, with the woman who was to become Stepmother Mk III, he prefaced the handover with,
"Here you are, Molly - speak to your new mother."
"I already have a mother, thank you very much," I said. "And two substitutes in case Mum decides to do a runner."
Only then did I realise that Dad had already passed the phone over, so relations with Stepmother Mk III didn't exactly get off to a good start. Given how long she lasted, I suppose it was probably a portent, not that Dad's sensitive to those. He's the living embodiment of the triumph of hope over experience, which probably explains why Dinah and I are exactly the opposite.
"Suppose we'd better thank our lucky stars Porn-Poon's in Thailand," says Dinah. "At least he can't stick her on the phone very easily. Especially as I get the impression that her English is confined to a fairly narrow subject area. Though, now I come to think of it, Dad did tell me to get Skype last time I spoke to him."
"Oh, bloody hell," I say. "If he wants us to talk to the Thai bride, he'll be bound to want us to go along with this stupid pretence that the relationship is a love match, instead of an economic transaction. I don't think I can do it. Not when I have to deal with so many of them at work as well."
"Well, you'll have to," says Dinah. "According to Dad, it's Romeo and Juliet all over again - but across a cultural divide. Not to mention an age gap that defies belief. As far as he's concerned, you and I are just cynics, Molly - with no appreciation of what it is to be in love. Talking of which, since when do people say they're in a romantic relationship for f*ck's sake?"
So now we're back to Nadine, then. I'm not sure if this is worse, or better.
"I don't know," I say. "I'm married, remember? Romance has become an alien concept."
"Like common sense in middle-aged men," says Dinah. "Look at Paul McCartney."
"What's he got to do with it?"
Sometimes following the thread of a conversation with Dinah is even harder than with the usual suspects, but she never makes allowances.
"Oh, honestly, Molly," she says. "Keep up, for God's sake. Heather Mills and Nadine Dorries were obviously separated at birth. You've only got to look at them."
This makes me laugh for all of two seconds, until I realise that Max probably counts as a middle-aged man. They're probably all susceptible to a lack of common sense. I seem to remember Connie telling me that they can't help it, because it's all down to biology - not that that is any bloody comfort.
Now I'm wondering what Max will say to the press if and when he dumps me for a blonde. Probably something to do with the abuse he suffers by having to live with a woman with an incipient beard and rather tragic underwear. And I can't imagine what Josh will have to say.
Although, on second thoughts, I can: he'd tell me that I need to get a sense of proportion. Things could be much worse, couldn't they? After all, I don't work for an American politician, and I wasn't caught up in yesterday's events at the Tucson Safeway store, thank God. And I'm not the parent of the nine-year-old child who died, or related to the other poor people who were killed and injured.
If evidence was needed to prove that people should be more careful about what they say, then Sarah Palin seems to have just provided it. Both Dad and Nadine Dorries look like rank amateurs in comparison.
"Did you hear what happened in Tucson?" she says. "I thought of you and those stupid supermarket surgeries as soon as I heard."
"So did I," I say. "It was terrible. Now can we change the subject, please? Seeing as thinking about it isn't likely to make the prospect of going to work tomorrow any easier to face."
Taking a hint has never been Dinah's forte.
"True," she says. "But you do need to be careful, Mol. There are nutters everywhere - especially in politics. Have you seen what Nadine Dorries has done now? I've just read her blog."
"I know," I say. "I suppose we should be glad Dad's not a politician. God knows how many times we'd have been put through what John Butler's daughter was."
"Huh. I'd tell Dad where to get off if he ever wanted me to issue a statement on his love-life. It's bad enough when he does that thing with putting new step-mothers on the phone to us."
"God, yes," I say, as Dinah and I both light cigarettes in the face of the recollections that that conjures up.
Every time Dad gets a new woman, he phones to tell us all about her, and then insists on putting her on the phone to introduce us. So then we have to make agonisingly strained conversation with someone we've never met and - if we're honest - have absolutely no interest in ever meeting.
Last time he did it to me, with the woman who was to become Stepmother Mk III, he prefaced the handover with,
"Here you are, Molly - speak to your new mother."
"I already have a mother, thank you very much," I said. "And two substitutes in case Mum decides to do a runner."
Only then did I realise that Dad had already passed the phone over, so relations with Stepmother Mk III didn't exactly get off to a good start. Given how long she lasted, I suppose it was probably a portent, not that Dad's sensitive to those. He's the living embodiment of the triumph of hope over experience, which probably explains why Dinah and I are exactly the opposite.
"Suppose we'd better thank our lucky stars Porn-Poon's in Thailand," says Dinah. "At least he can't stick her on the phone very easily. Especially as I get the impression that her English is confined to a fairly narrow subject area. Though, now I come to think of it, Dad did tell me to get Skype last time I spoke to him."
"Oh, bloody hell," I say. "If he wants us to talk to the Thai bride, he'll be bound to want us to go along with this stupid pretence that the relationship is a love match, instead of an economic transaction. I don't think I can do it. Not when I have to deal with so many of them at work as well."
"Well, you'll have to," says Dinah. "According to Dad, it's Romeo and Juliet all over again - but across a cultural divide. Not to mention an age gap that defies belief. As far as he's concerned, you and I are just cynics, Molly - with no appreciation of what it is to be in love. Talking of which, since when do people say they're in a romantic relationship for f*ck's sake?"
So now we're back to Nadine, then. I'm not sure if this is worse, or better.
"I don't know," I say. "I'm married, remember? Romance has become an alien concept."
"Like common sense in middle-aged men," says Dinah. "Look at Paul McCartney."
"What's he got to do with it?"
Sometimes following the thread of a conversation with Dinah is even harder than with the usual suspects, but she never makes allowances.
"Oh, honestly, Molly," she says. "Keep up, for God's sake. Heather Mills and Nadine Dorries were obviously separated at birth. You've only got to look at them."
This makes me laugh for all of two seconds, until I realise that Max probably counts as a middle-aged man. They're probably all susceptible to a lack of common sense. I seem to remember Connie telling me that they can't help it, because it's all down to biology - not that that is any bloody comfort.
Now I'm wondering what Max will say to the press if and when he dumps me for a blonde. Probably something to do with the abuse he suffers by having to live with a woman with an incipient beard and rather tragic underwear. And I can't imagine what Josh will have to say.
Although, on second thoughts, I can: he'd tell me that I need to get a sense of proportion. Things could be much worse, couldn't they? After all, I don't work for an American politician, and I wasn't caught up in yesterday's events at the Tucson Safeway store, thank God. And I'm not the parent of the nine-year-old child who died, or related to the other poor people who were killed and injured.
If evidence was needed to prove that people should be more careful about what they say, then Sarah Palin seems to have just provided it. Both Dad and Nadine Dorries look like rank amateurs in comparison.
Friday, 7 January 2011
Profit And Loss, And The Significance Of Polo Necks
I'm getting a bit worried about Max's job. Mainly because of the way he behaved when John Lewis announced the rise in their profits the other night.
He re-wound twice to make sure the news report said 9.7%, then put his head in his hands and did nothing but repeat the figure for the rest of the evening.
He's still on about it this morning, when we walk into work together:
"They did say profit - not loss - on the news, didn't they?" he says.
"Yes," I say.
It doesn't look as if this is what Max wanted to hear. He groans, then says:
"Well, how the hell did John Lewis manage that? It can't have been from sales of bloody furniture. God knows we're not selling any."
When I ask if things are that bad, he just shakes his head and changes the subject. To how secure I think my job is, what with the Vicky situation.
"God knows," I say. "She hasn't been in to the office yet this week, so I haven't mentioned her in the hope that I won't talk her up."
That was obviously a decision I should have stuck to. Now I'm starting to believe that I really do have telekinetic powers as, when I arrive at the office, who should be sitting in the Oprah Room? Only Miss Vick the Bloody Hair-Flick. Her smile still looks like a piranha's.
"Morning, Molly," she says. "See you haven't used your beauty salon vouchers yet."
Honestly - what use is telekinesis if it won't work when you try to make someone drop dead? Carrie never had this problem.
I abandon the attempt to kill Vicky by the power of thought, stalk into my office and slam the door. Or I try to, but The Boss has left a pile of papers in the way, so the door just hits those and rebounds in a most unsatisfying manner.
I kick the desk and pretend it's Vicky instead, but that doesn't really make me feel any better, and the day doesn't improve when Greg brings up the subject of Reg and Edmund Beales.
"I've just realised who they look like," he says.
"Each other?" I say.
"Very funny, Molly. Obviously they look like each other - they're bloody twins. But who else?"
I look blank so Greg gives me a clue. Regardless of whether I want one or not.
"Someone who's been in the news recently," he says. "With a bad combover."
"Well, that could apply to any number of middle-aged men," I say. "You'll have to do better than that."
"Christopher Jefferies, you fool. It's obvious."
I tell Greg we're not supposed to be talking about Mr Jefferies if we don't want to upset the Attorney General, and try to change the subject, but Greg's on a roll.
"He looks like all the usual suspects, actually," he says. "Even Miss Chambers."
"Now you're pushing it," I say. "Any resemblance is purely down to Miss C's penchant for polo-necks."
"My point exactly," says Greg. "Dead giveaway. The sartorial equivalent of the Twilight Zone theme. Especially when worn by the elderly. Reg Beales had one on yesterday, if you remember."
I do, but I try not to think about it for the rest of the day. Or about eccentric men. I succeed, until I get home from work and Dad phones.
"Some people are so bloody insensitive," he says, apropos a greeting.
"Yes, I suppose they are," I say. Dad usually being one of them. "Why?"
"I went to see my neighbours last night for a New Year tipple, and told them all about Porn-Poon."
"Ah," I say. "And?"
"They called me a dirty old man! Bloody outrageous."
I have no idea what to say to that - or rather I do, but Dad won't like the result, so I resort to asking another question instead:
"Well, what were they referring to?" I say. Disingenuousness is a key skill in the armoury of an MP's staffer, after all.
"God knows," says Dad. "It was after I told them that everyone looks the same age in the dark."
How I wish he would stop saying that. Now I feel as if I'm going down with the dreaded Norovirus. Nauseous is an understatement.
It's obviously time for a change of subject - which seems to have been the order of the day, now I come to think of it.
"Did you get anything nice for Christmas?" I say.
"Not really. I told everyone that all I wanted for Christmas was my lovely Porn-Poon," says Dad. "But Dinah did buy me a very nice polo-neck jumper."
I must remember to congratulate my sister on her foresight, the next time she phones.
He re-wound twice to make sure the news report said 9.7%, then put his head in his hands and did nothing but repeat the figure for the rest of the evening.
He's still on about it this morning, when we walk into work together:
"They did say profit - not loss - on the news, didn't they?" he says.
"Yes," I say.
It doesn't look as if this is what Max wanted to hear. He groans, then says:
"Well, how the hell did John Lewis manage that? It can't have been from sales of bloody furniture. God knows we're not selling any."
When I ask if things are that bad, he just shakes his head and changes the subject. To how secure I think my job is, what with the Vicky situation.
"God knows," I say. "She hasn't been in to the office yet this week, so I haven't mentioned her in the hope that I won't talk her up."
That was obviously a decision I should have stuck to. Now I'm starting to believe that I really do have telekinetic powers as, when I arrive at the office, who should be sitting in the Oprah Room? Only Miss Vick the Bloody Hair-Flick. Her smile still looks like a piranha's.
"Morning, Molly," she says. "See you haven't used your beauty salon vouchers yet."
Honestly - what use is telekinesis if it won't work when you try to make someone drop dead? Carrie never had this problem.
I abandon the attempt to kill Vicky by the power of thought, stalk into my office and slam the door. Or I try to, but The Boss has left a pile of papers in the way, so the door just hits those and rebounds in a most unsatisfying manner.
I kick the desk and pretend it's Vicky instead, but that doesn't really make me feel any better, and the day doesn't improve when Greg brings up the subject of Reg and Edmund Beales.
"I've just realised who they look like," he says.
"Each other?" I say.
"Very funny, Molly. Obviously they look like each other - they're bloody twins. But who else?"
I look blank so Greg gives me a clue. Regardless of whether I want one or not.
"Someone who's been in the news recently," he says. "With a bad combover."
"Well, that could apply to any number of middle-aged men," I say. "You'll have to do better than that."
"Christopher Jefferies, you fool. It's obvious."
I tell Greg we're not supposed to be talking about Mr Jefferies if we don't want to upset the Attorney General, and try to change the subject, but Greg's on a roll.
"He looks like all the usual suspects, actually," he says. "Even Miss Chambers."
"Now you're pushing it," I say. "Any resemblance is purely down to Miss C's penchant for polo-necks."
"My point exactly," says Greg. "Dead giveaway. The sartorial equivalent of the Twilight Zone theme. Especially when worn by the elderly. Reg Beales had one on yesterday, if you remember."
I do, but I try not to think about it for the rest of the day. Or about eccentric men. I succeed, until I get home from work and Dad phones.
"Some people are so bloody insensitive," he says, apropos a greeting.
"Yes, I suppose they are," I say. Dad usually being one of them. "Why?"
"I went to see my neighbours last night for a New Year tipple, and told them all about Porn-Poon."
"Ah," I say. "And?"
"They called me a dirty old man! Bloody outrageous."
I have no idea what to say to that - or rather I do, but Dad won't like the result, so I resort to asking another question instead:
"Well, what were they referring to?" I say. Disingenuousness is a key skill in the armoury of an MP's staffer, after all.
"God knows," says Dad. "It was after I told them that everyone looks the same age in the dark."
How I wish he would stop saying that. Now I feel as if I'm going down with the dreaded Norovirus. Nauseous is an understatement.
It's obviously time for a change of subject - which seems to have been the order of the day, now I come to think of it.
"Did you get anything nice for Christmas?" I say.
"Not really. I told everyone that all I wanted for Christmas was my lovely Porn-Poon," says Dad. "But Dinah did buy me a very nice polo-neck jumper."
I must remember to congratulate my sister on her foresight, the next time she phones.
Monday, 20 December 2010
If You Can't Beat 'Em, Join 'Em - The Bennett Family Round Robin 2010
Oh, dear God - as if it wasn't bad enough that Christmas Recess starts again tomorrow, I'd forgotten that it's the time of year when normally-reasonable friends lose their minds - not to mention all sense of decency.
What is the point of round robins? My in-box is rapidly filling up with them and, to make matters worse, the postman hands me five more of the damned things as I pass him on my way into work this morning.
I read them as soon as I sit down at my desk but, by the time I've finished, I wish I hadn't bothered. Why doesn't anyone ever admit to any failures during the preceding year? And don't they know it's bad manners to boast?
Greg spots my expression and asks me what's up.
"Round robins," I say. "I never have a clue what to say in reply, seeing as it's not as if I've I got anything impressive to report. And, as for the kids, it's probably a case of the less said the better - at least where Josh is concerned."
"Well, you could always try doing a truthful version," says Greg. "Treat it like Writing Honest Letters hour."
So, in the absence of any better suggestions, here's the Bennett Family Round Robin for Christmas 2010:
Dear All,
Merry Christmas and a very happy New Year to you! Or to those of you who don't flaunt your good fortune in the faces of the rest of us, anyway.
Many unexciting changes have occurred in the Bennett household during 2010. There has been a marked decrease in the level of marital sexual activity, even from the baseline set by last year's record low. This may or may not be due to Max having an affair - either with Ellen, our nymphomaniac neighbour, or with an irritatingly faun-like colleague with a penchant for red wine.
As revenge, I may or may not be having an affair with Johnny Hunter - an International Director of a Global Oil Company who bears an unnerving resemblance to Vladimir Putin. This has not, however, led to any significant increase in my sexual activity, unless you count the virtual kind. (Which most of the time I don't.)
When not stalking my husband, or typing emails to Johnny, I continue to grow an increasingly-convincing beard, and am still dressed almost entirely by Primark, mainly in their thermal underwear. Both these factors may, I suppose, be contributing to the above-mentioned lack of sex.
With regard to the kids: Connie and Josh remain locked in sibling rivalry, and united only by their sense of having been utterly failed by their parents. Connie is spending this year working as an underpaid and overworked intern; has been dumped by her chilli-fetishist boyfriend, and continues to struggle with the definition of normal behaviour. Not to mention with the concept of flexi-time.
Meanwhile, Josh has managed to fail almost all his A-levels and now has a job that seems entirely without prospects, unless you count the odd free cinema ticket. His skateboarding abilities have not improved at all, and nor have his skills in the martial arts. He continues to visit Accident & Emergency rather more often than we would like, though the orthopaedics department always enjoy hearing how his injuries were caused.
As far as my working life goes, I have had no pay rise, no promotion, and no recognition whatsoever, though I do apparently have the distinction of being possibly the lowest-paid member of staff on the House of Commons payroll. I am fully expecting to be replaced by a younger model as soon as The Boss can think of a good enough excuse to get rid of me.
Max has no sympathy for those of us working in the public sector, however - having had to take two pay cuts during this year alone. He has also ceased to earn any commission, due to the fact that no-one is actually buying any furniture, though this has not discouraged him from spending more and more time at work. Or, at least, that's where he claims to be spending it.
Mum has broken her wrist; had a nasty fall while unaccountably wearing no pants, and has accumulated at least seven more side tables since last year, while Ted continues to enjoy fishing and to avoid lengthy telephone calls like the plague.
Dad is currently unmarried, though we do not expect this situation to last much longer. Stepmother Mark IV seems likely to be an inappropriately young woman called Porn-Poon, who apparently finds the physiques of seventy-five year old men irresistible. Dad is sure that this has nothing to do with the size of their pensions, or the attractions of a British passport.
Stepmothers Mark I, II and III remain very glad to have divorced Dad and are trying to avoid taking offence at his claims that all the women in the UK are now "too old" for him.
Sister Dinah remains committed to smoking, swearing, and not listening to a word I say; whilst idiot brother Robin continues to preach compassion while exercising very little of it in practice. He is currently wrestling with the difficult decision of whether to become a Buddhist monk or a rap artist.
The Labour Party has had its own problems with siblings during the recent leadership election, and the result remains a subject of considerable ill-natured debate within Northwick *CLP. The general public seem less bothered, probably because the ConDems have, of course, been running the country since the General Election. This has made a nice change, as at least it means that there is someone other than the Labour Party to blame for all the things that constituents complain about.
Talking of constituents, the ratio of sane to insane enquiries has definitely taken a turn for the worse, and it has not yet been possible to work out whether the proposed boundary changes will improve or worsen matters. My colleague, Greg, is confident that the detonation of a nuclear bomb over Easemount would alleviate the problem, but has not yet succeeded in obtaining one. His enthusiasm for the project remains undiminished, however.
Meanwhile, The Boss has become convinced that everyone in the Party is out to get him and, if he continues to allow paranoia to dictate his behaviour, this may well prove to be the case - though there is likely to be heated debate as to who will be allowed to take the first shot. I suspect that his wife may decide to render any such discussion academic, if a certain intern isn't soon given her marching orders.
So, all in all, 2010 has been a year of considerable highs and lows. While the lowest of these may well have been the significant birthday I supposedly celebrated back in May, the greatest highlight was undoubtedly surviving anthrax poisoning, and the usual suspects' attempts at strangulation.
We do hope that all is going as well for you and yours as it is for us, and look forward to seeing you all in 2011.
Lots of love from
Molly, Max, Connie and Josh (Bennett).
Greg says this should do the trick - if having an improved social life is not one of my New Year resolutions. On the basis of the last two events I've attended, this is a risk I'm more than prepared to take.
*CLP - Constituency Labour Party. A rather motley crew, not known for their combined senses of humour.
What is the point of round robins? My in-box is rapidly filling up with them and, to make matters worse, the postman hands me five more of the damned things as I pass him on my way into work this morning.
I read them as soon as I sit down at my desk but, by the time I've finished, I wish I hadn't bothered. Why doesn't anyone ever admit to any failures during the preceding year? And don't they know it's bad manners to boast?
Greg spots my expression and asks me what's up.
"Round robins," I say. "I never have a clue what to say in reply, seeing as it's not as if I've I got anything impressive to report. And, as for the kids, it's probably a case of the less said the better - at least where Josh is concerned."
"Well, you could always try doing a truthful version," says Greg. "Treat it like Writing Honest Letters hour."
So, in the absence of any better suggestions, here's the Bennett Family Round Robin for Christmas 2010:
Dear All,
Merry Christmas and a very happy New Year to you! Or to those of you who don't flaunt your good fortune in the faces of the rest of us, anyway.
Many unexciting changes have occurred in the Bennett household during 2010. There has been a marked decrease in the level of marital sexual activity, even from the baseline set by last year's record low. This may or may not be due to Max having an affair - either with Ellen, our nymphomaniac neighbour, or with an irritatingly faun-like colleague with a penchant for red wine.
As revenge, I may or may not be having an affair with Johnny Hunter - an International Director of a Global Oil Company who bears an unnerving resemblance to Vladimir Putin. This has not, however, led to any significant increase in my sexual activity, unless you count the virtual kind. (Which most of the time I don't.)
When not stalking my husband, or typing emails to Johnny, I continue to grow an increasingly-convincing beard, and am still dressed almost entirely by Primark, mainly in their thermal underwear. Both these factors may, I suppose, be contributing to the above-mentioned lack of sex.
With regard to the kids: Connie and Josh remain locked in sibling rivalry, and united only by their sense of having been utterly failed by their parents. Connie is spending this year working as an underpaid and overworked intern; has been dumped by her chilli-fetishist boyfriend, and continues to struggle with the definition of normal behaviour. Not to mention with the concept of flexi-time.
Meanwhile, Josh has managed to fail almost all his A-levels and now has a job that seems entirely without prospects, unless you count the odd free cinema ticket. His skateboarding abilities have not improved at all, and nor have his skills in the martial arts. He continues to visit Accident & Emergency rather more often than we would like, though the orthopaedics department always enjoy hearing how his injuries were caused.
As far as my working life goes, I have had no pay rise, no promotion, and no recognition whatsoever, though I do apparently have the distinction of being possibly the lowest-paid member of staff on the House of Commons payroll. I am fully expecting to be replaced by a younger model as soon as The Boss can think of a good enough excuse to get rid of me.
Max has no sympathy for those of us working in the public sector, however - having had to take two pay cuts during this year alone. He has also ceased to earn any commission, due to the fact that no-one is actually buying any furniture, though this has not discouraged him from spending more and more time at work. Or, at least, that's where he claims to be spending it.
Mum has broken her wrist; had a nasty fall while unaccountably wearing no pants, and has accumulated at least seven more side tables since last year, while Ted continues to enjoy fishing and to avoid lengthy telephone calls like the plague.
Dad is currently unmarried, though we do not expect this situation to last much longer. Stepmother Mark IV seems likely to be an inappropriately young woman called Porn-Poon, who apparently finds the physiques of seventy-five year old men irresistible. Dad is sure that this has nothing to do with the size of their pensions, or the attractions of a British passport.
Stepmothers Mark I, II and III remain very glad to have divorced Dad and are trying to avoid taking offence at his claims that all the women in the UK are now "too old" for him.
Sister Dinah remains committed to smoking, swearing, and not listening to a word I say; whilst idiot brother Robin continues to preach compassion while exercising very little of it in practice. He is currently wrestling with the difficult decision of whether to become a Buddhist monk or a rap artist.
The Labour Party has had its own problems with siblings during the recent leadership election, and the result remains a subject of considerable ill-natured debate within Northwick *CLP. The general public seem less bothered, probably because the ConDems have, of course, been running the country since the General Election. This has made a nice change, as at least it means that there is someone other than the Labour Party to blame for all the things that constituents complain about.
Talking of constituents, the ratio of sane to insane enquiries has definitely taken a turn for the worse, and it has not yet been possible to work out whether the proposed boundary changes will improve or worsen matters. My colleague, Greg, is confident that the detonation of a nuclear bomb over Easemount would alleviate the problem, but has not yet succeeded in obtaining one. His enthusiasm for the project remains undiminished, however.
Meanwhile, The Boss has become convinced that everyone in the Party is out to get him and, if he continues to allow paranoia to dictate his behaviour, this may well prove to be the case - though there is likely to be heated debate as to who will be allowed to take the first shot. I suspect that his wife may decide to render any such discussion academic, if a certain intern isn't soon given her marching orders.
So, all in all, 2010 has been a year of considerable highs and lows. While the lowest of these may well have been the significant birthday I supposedly celebrated back in May, the greatest highlight was undoubtedly surviving anthrax poisoning, and the usual suspects' attempts at strangulation.
We do hope that all is going as well for you and yours as it is for us, and look forward to seeing you all in 2011.
Lots of love from
Molly, Max, Connie and Josh (Bennett).
Greg says this should do the trick - if having an improved social life is not one of my New Year resolutions. On the basis of the last two events I've attended, this is a risk I'm more than prepared to take.
*CLP - Constituency Labour Party. A rather motley crew, not known for their combined senses of humour.
Sunday, 21 November 2010
Why Erect Is Not Always A Good Thing.
Let's just say I am not having an Edith Piaf moment. I could not regret this haircut more.
I nearly have a heart attack when I spot myself in the mirror this morning.
"Holy shit," I say to Max. "What the hell happened to my hair in the night? Was I actually swirling around?"
"It's just sticking up a bit," he says.
Given the lack of gold stars, I don't know how he considers himself an expert on such matters, but I refrain from mentioning that. Instead, I start trying to resurrect my hairstyle, which takes a lot longer than you'd think.
"Brilliant," I say. "Now I'm going to have to go through all this every bloody morning."
"It does look much better short, though," says Max.
As far as I'm concerned, this is right up there with "You have a great body for your age" in terms of being a backhanded compliment. Why didn't Max tell me my longer hair looked terrible at the time?
My ostentatious sulking seems to have no effect whatsoever on anyone, though - probably because there's no-one at home to witness it. Josh and Max decide to go into town, while I go back to bed in an effort to stop the room moving.
When they arrive back home - after what appears to have been a diversion to the pub - I decide to risk returning to an upright position, and am rewarded with both good and bad news. The bad news is that lying down has made my hair stick up again, but the good news is that Dad has sent me another email.
There are more photographs attached but, yet again, there's no text to give me a clue as to the contents, so I call Josh and order him to open the files. You can't be too careful, after all.
As I put my hands over my eyes, just in case of a sudden vertigo-inducing attack of naked Thai brides or man-boobs, Josh starts double-clicking.
"Here we go," he says.
We both stare at the screen in disbelief.
"Fish," I say.
"Yes, indeed, Mother," says Josh. "Nothing gets past you."
"Very funny. But fishing? For fish?"
It's hardly a common hobby for a man with a short attention span, is it? But at least Dad's got a new interest. Maybe he'll decide to come back home now, and the Porn-Poon saga will be over. Stepmother Mark IV averted.
"Yes!" I say, and punch the air. Josh raises his eyebrows.
"Yes, what?" he says. "Since when do you like fishing?"
"I don't," I say. "But this means Dinah's right: Dad must be bored."
"He's probably just passing the time 'til he can get score some more Viagra," says Josh. "I wouldn't get your hopes up."
After yesterday's triumph of reality over optimism, this is probably good advice, but it has given me an idea: I wonder how Max would react to Viagra? You could probably extract it from my hair. That's definitely got a problem with frequent erections.
I nearly have a heart attack when I spot myself in the mirror this morning.
"Holy shit," I say to Max. "What the hell happened to my hair in the night? Was I actually swirling around?"
"It's just sticking up a bit," he says.
Given the lack of gold stars, I don't know how he considers himself an expert on such matters, but I refrain from mentioning that. Instead, I start trying to resurrect my hairstyle, which takes a lot longer than you'd think.
"Brilliant," I say. "Now I'm going to have to go through all this every bloody morning."
"It does look much better short, though," says Max.
As far as I'm concerned, this is right up there with "You have a great body for your age" in terms of being a backhanded compliment. Why didn't Max tell me my longer hair looked terrible at the time?
My ostentatious sulking seems to have no effect whatsoever on anyone, though - probably because there's no-one at home to witness it. Josh and Max decide to go into town, while I go back to bed in an effort to stop the room moving.
When they arrive back home - after what appears to have been a diversion to the pub - I decide to risk returning to an upright position, and am rewarded with both good and bad news. The bad news is that lying down has made my hair stick up again, but the good news is that Dad has sent me another email.
There are more photographs attached but, yet again, there's no text to give me a clue as to the contents, so I call Josh and order him to open the files. You can't be too careful, after all.
As I put my hands over my eyes, just in case of a sudden vertigo-inducing attack of naked Thai brides or man-boobs, Josh starts double-clicking.
"Here we go," he says.
We both stare at the screen in disbelief.
"Fish," I say.
"Yes, indeed, Mother," says Josh. "Nothing gets past you."
"Very funny. But fishing? For fish?"
It's hardly a common hobby for a man with a short attention span, is it? But at least Dad's got a new interest. Maybe he'll decide to come back home now, and the Porn-Poon saga will be over. Stepmother Mark IV averted.
"Yes!" I say, and punch the air. Josh raises his eyebrows.
"Yes, what?" he says. "Since when do you like fishing?"
"I don't," I say. "But this means Dinah's right: Dad must be bored."
"He's probably just passing the time 'til he can get score some more Viagra," says Josh. "I wouldn't get your hopes up."
After yesterday's triumph of reality over optimism, this is probably good advice, but it has given me an idea: I wonder how Max would react to Viagra? You could probably extract it from my hair. That's definitely got a problem with frequent erections.
Tuesday, 28 September 2010
The First Wives' Club, and Other Forms of Rivalry.
Blimey. Sounds like things aren't going at all well at conference. Well, not for Greg, anyway. (David Miliband might say the same, I suppose, but that's another story.)
I'm not used to Greg sounding insecure but, just before I leave work after a fairly hellish day fending off the the usual suspects, he phones to say that he thinks he's been rendered surplus to requirements by Vicky. God knows what's going on.
"I don't mind not having to do The Boss's buttons up anymore, Mol, but she's getting on my bloody nerves marching about carrying all his papers, and making me walk two steps behind them."
I don't like the sound of this at all.
"Well, how did he meet up with her?" I say.
"No idea. It must've been the night that he disappeared. When I finally found him the next day, she was already in tow."
"Good God," I say. "You don't think -"
"Who knows?" Greg says. "Anyway, it's horrible. I feel like a member of the First Wives Club. Redundancy can only be a short step away."
This is a very unnerving thought. On my way home, I am so distracted by wondering what Andrew and Vicky are up to, that I almost walk into Ellen who is coming the other way.
"Molly," she says. "How are you? Long time no see."
I consider saying, "not long enough" but, before I can pluck up the courage, she continues,
"Max was late home last night, wasn't he? Wonder what he'd been up to?" Then she winks, says, "By-ee!" and carries on walking. How does she know that? And does she have to sound so bloody smug about it? I bet that's exactly how Vicky's behaving. No wonder Greg feels like a wife who's about to be traded in.
When I finally arrive home, Max is busy chatting to Connie on his mobile so I glare at him and then, mindful of the subject of wife trading, decide that I'd better keep my promise to Dinah.
I am tasked with phoning Dad to see what I can find out about the Thai Bride situation, Dinah having got nowhere with the attempt she made. She blames her poor information gathering on her having been forced to hang up on Dad when he claimed that"everyone looks the same age in the dark."
So now it's Muggins' turn. I brace myself and dial the number.
"Ah, Molly," says Dad. "Bad timing. I'm just going out with the boys."
"Oh, not to worry. I just wanted to check you were okay," I say. "I won't keep you if you're busy."
Dad being out with the boys is quite a relief. For two reasons. Firstly, I am temporarily spared having to listen to him describing his "romance" in Shakespearean terms - which would probably lead me to snap and mention Gary Glitter again.
The second reason is that, with any luck, I've lost my bet and Dad's had his fill of his Thai adventure and is going to settle down and grow old gracefully. (Dinah has been running a book on what will happen next in the Thai Bride saga. I wagered Dad would marry Porn-Whatever-Her-Name-Is during his most recent visit and would try to bring her back with him.)
"I'll phone you later in the week when I've got more time," Dad says. "I've got something important to talk to you about."
Oh my God. Now what? Dinah's going to go nuts if I've won the bet. And not just because she'll owe me money either. Bloody men. This is turning out to be a very bad week - and it's still only Tuesday.
I'm not used to Greg sounding insecure but, just before I leave work after a fairly hellish day fending off the the usual suspects, he phones to say that he thinks he's been rendered surplus to requirements by Vicky. God knows what's going on.
"I don't mind not having to do The Boss's buttons up anymore, Mol, but she's getting on my bloody nerves marching about carrying all his papers, and making me walk two steps behind them."
I don't like the sound of this at all.
"Well, how did he meet up with her?" I say.
"No idea. It must've been the night that he disappeared. When I finally found him the next day, she was already in tow."
"Good God," I say. "You don't think -"
"Who knows?" Greg says. "Anyway, it's horrible. I feel like a member of the First Wives Club. Redundancy can only be a short step away."
This is a very unnerving thought. On my way home, I am so distracted by wondering what Andrew and Vicky are up to, that I almost walk into Ellen who is coming the other way.
"Molly," she says. "How are you? Long time no see."
I consider saying, "not long enough" but, before I can pluck up the courage, she continues,
"Max was late home last night, wasn't he? Wonder what he'd been up to?" Then she winks, says, "By-ee!" and carries on walking. How does she know that? And does she have to sound so bloody smug about it? I bet that's exactly how Vicky's behaving. No wonder Greg feels like a wife who's about to be traded in.
When I finally arrive home, Max is busy chatting to Connie on his mobile so I glare at him and then, mindful of the subject of wife trading, decide that I'd better keep my promise to Dinah.
I am tasked with phoning Dad to see what I can find out about the Thai Bride situation, Dinah having got nowhere with the attempt she made. She blames her poor information gathering on her having been forced to hang up on Dad when he claimed that"everyone looks the same age in the dark."
So now it's Muggins' turn. I brace myself and dial the number.
"Ah, Molly," says Dad. "Bad timing. I'm just going out with the boys."
"Oh, not to worry. I just wanted to check you were okay," I say. "I won't keep you if you're busy."
Dad being out with the boys is quite a relief. For two reasons. Firstly, I am temporarily spared having to listen to him describing his "romance" in Shakespearean terms - which would probably lead me to snap and mention Gary Glitter again.
The second reason is that, with any luck, I've lost my bet and Dad's had his fill of his Thai adventure and is going to settle down and grow old gracefully. (Dinah has been running a book on what will happen next in the Thai Bride saga. I wagered Dad would marry Porn-Whatever-Her-Name-Is during his most recent visit and would try to bring her back with him.)
"I'll phone you later in the week when I've got more time," Dad says. "I've got something important to talk to you about."
Oh my God. Now what? Dinah's going to go nuts if I've won the bet. And not just because she'll owe me money either. Bloody men. This is turning out to be a very bad week - and it's still only Tuesday.
Sunday, 29 August 2010
A Rescue Mission in the Middle of the Night, and News of an Oddly-Appropriate Name
Max and I are knackered when we finally get back from Connie's. No sooner has he said, "I am never moving Connie again," than he falls asleep. Not for long, though. The phone rings at 4:00am. Poor old Max has to join Robbie's dad in a rescue mission. Honestly, you couldn't make it up.
It turns out that the much-hyped beach "house" is actually a beach hut. Where staying overnight is prohibited. Josh and the others had unwisely dug an enormous fire pit late at night, which eventually got a bit out of control and caught the attention of the guy who supervises the car park. He went to investigate, and was wholly unamused to find eight teenage boys stacked on top of each other in the tiny hut.
Apparently most of the boys were sound asleep, despite the cramped conditions - but they weren't well-hidden, as their feet were sticking out of the doorway. The supervisor ordered them to leave immediately, but they were all far too drunk to drive. Hence the calls to the parental emergency services.
Josh seems to have sobered up a bit by the time Max brings him home, although his relief at being rescued appears to be based solely on having thus escaped from Robbie's snoring, which he says prevented him from getting any sleep.
"Join the bloody club," says Max.
"Well, it's not my fault," says Josh. "I was still awake when the supervisor arrived, but I was stuck under Jim and Robbie, and couldn't wriggle out. Otherwise, I'd have slept on the bloody beach. Robbie's snoring's almost as bad as Dad's"
"I'd shut up about my snoring, if I were you," says Max.
"Sorry, Dad - I'm just tired. It's been a stressful night." Josh yawns, and sets both me and Max off too.
"Stressful? I think you ought to count your lucky stars I got rid of the supervisor before it got light," says Max. "If he'd seen that giant sand phallus you lot built, you'd have been in even more trouble."
"So how big was this beach house?" I ask Max.
"About six foot by six foot," says Max. "For Chrissake. They need their heads testing."
"Being so cramped made my broken arm a bit sore," says Josh - who never knows when to shut up.
"It's not broken," says Max. "Or not yet, it isn't. But it could be arranged if you ever pull any more stunts like that. I'm going back to bed."
That sounds like a damned good idea to me, too - so I follow suit, but we seem doomed not to get any sleep this weekend. As soon as we've both snuggled back down - temporarily united by our despair at Josh's latest shambolic adventure, my mobile starts beeping. I can't ignore it - not now Connie's no longer at home. It could be her. Instant panic. Now what's happened?
I blunder around looking for my glasses. It's such a drag not being able to read texts without them. When I can finally see, I realise that the text is from Dinah. Oh, the relief - but even that's only momentary. The message says,
"Oh. My. God. Guess what the Thai Bride's name is?"
"What is it now?" Max's voice is muffled by the pillow he's pulled over his head.
"Dinah," I say. "She wants us to guess what the Thai Bride's name is."
"Yung-Fuk," says Max. I text this suggestion to Dinah.
"It's a great guess, but it's not the one," she replies. "Was that one of Max's? Try again." Who does she think she is? Bloody Roy Walker?
"Dinah, I can't be bothered with playing Catchphrase. It's the middle of the night. Just TELL ME!"
"Porn!" is her reply. "Though you probably don't spell it exactly like that."
Christ almighty. I'm about to tell Max, when he lets out an enormous snore. It's like a flashback. I've had quite enough of that this week. In fact, I've had quite enough of this week, full stop.
It turns out that the much-hyped beach "house" is actually a beach hut. Where staying overnight is prohibited. Josh and the others had unwisely dug an enormous fire pit late at night, which eventually got a bit out of control and caught the attention of the guy who supervises the car park. He went to investigate, and was wholly unamused to find eight teenage boys stacked on top of each other in the tiny hut.
Apparently most of the boys were sound asleep, despite the cramped conditions - but they weren't well-hidden, as their feet were sticking out of the doorway. The supervisor ordered them to leave immediately, but they were all far too drunk to drive. Hence the calls to the parental emergency services.
Josh seems to have sobered up a bit by the time Max brings him home, although his relief at being rescued appears to be based solely on having thus escaped from Robbie's snoring, which he says prevented him from getting any sleep.
"Join the bloody club," says Max.
"Well, it's not my fault," says Josh. "I was still awake when the supervisor arrived, but I was stuck under Jim and Robbie, and couldn't wriggle out. Otherwise, I'd have slept on the bloody beach. Robbie's snoring's almost as bad as Dad's"
"I'd shut up about my snoring, if I were you," says Max.
"Sorry, Dad - I'm just tired. It's been a stressful night." Josh yawns, and sets both me and Max off too.
"Stressful? I think you ought to count your lucky stars I got rid of the supervisor before it got light," says Max. "If he'd seen that giant sand phallus you lot built, you'd have been in even more trouble."
"So how big was this beach house?" I ask Max.
"About six foot by six foot," says Max. "For Chrissake. They need their heads testing."
"Being so cramped made my broken arm a bit sore," says Josh - who never knows when to shut up.
"It's not broken," says Max. "Or not yet, it isn't. But it could be arranged if you ever pull any more stunts like that. I'm going back to bed."
That sounds like a damned good idea to me, too - so I follow suit, but we seem doomed not to get any sleep this weekend. As soon as we've both snuggled back down - temporarily united by our despair at Josh's latest shambolic adventure, my mobile starts beeping. I can't ignore it - not now Connie's no longer at home. It could be her. Instant panic. Now what's happened?
I blunder around looking for my glasses. It's such a drag not being able to read texts without them. When I can finally see, I realise that the text is from Dinah. Oh, the relief - but even that's only momentary. The message says,
"Oh. My. God. Guess what the Thai Bride's name is?"
"What is it now?" Max's voice is muffled by the pillow he's pulled over his head.
"Dinah," I say. "She wants us to guess what the Thai Bride's name is."
"Yung-Fuk," says Max. I text this suggestion to Dinah.
"It's a great guess, but it's not the one," she replies. "Was that one of Max's? Try again." Who does she think she is? Bloody Roy Walker?
"Dinah, I can't be bothered with playing Catchphrase. It's the middle of the night. Just TELL ME!"
"Porn!" is her reply. "Though you probably don't spell it exactly like that."
Christ almighty. I'm about to tell Max, when he lets out an enormous snore. It's like a flashback. I've had quite enough of that this week. In fact, I've had quite enough of this week, full stop.
Sunday, 13 June 2010
Dinah's Forecast of Doom, Plus a Meditation on Anniversaries.
God, I'm feeling fragile after last night’s drinking session. This is not helped when Dinah emails me a link to an article about Derrick Bird.
It seems to imply that he was driven to do what he did by falling for a young Thai woman, who allegedly encouraged him to send her loads of money and then dumped him unceremoniously. Dinah simply writes,
“There goes our inheritance, and our social standing.”
I don't bother to reply, as God knows what she expects to inherit anyway. When a man's been married as many times as Dad, there's not exactly a limited number of children and step-children to share the proceeds of one small bungalow and a (probably-fake) Rolex watch.
My mood doesn't improve when Josh informs me that today is the day that he and girlfriend Holly celebrate their third anniversary. What is wrong with young people these days? Why don’t they make the most of their freedom? I say this to Max, who agrees rather too wholeheartedly, but out of earshot of Josh. Sometimes he's so sneaky.
I can't stop once I've started though. Since when are you allowed to even have anniversaries of when you started going out together? Anniversaries are supposed to be treats in recognition of hard labour at the coalface of marriage, not trivialised in this way! I do not say “congratulations,” and now Josh is in a mood with me. Max does and is, as usual, the favourite parent. Creep.
I assume that this craven behaviour is what Max is referring to when, much later, he sidles up to me in bed, and says that he's sorry but, as usual, I'm wrong. He's trying to prepare me for bad news, instead: that he will be away on a business trip to Germany on our anniversary. I go ballistic, but he says he doesn't have a choice, and that the company are talking about redundancies.
He seems so worried that I don't have the heart to keep moaning. I wonder if that's why he's off sex? It seems as if Dad and MPs like Caroline Nokes are the only ones having any sex at all at the moment. Life is so unfair.
It seems to imply that he was driven to do what he did by falling for a young Thai woman, who allegedly encouraged him to send her loads of money and then dumped him unceremoniously. Dinah simply writes,
“There goes our inheritance, and our social standing.”
I don't bother to reply, as God knows what she expects to inherit anyway. When a man's been married as many times as Dad, there's not exactly a limited number of children and step-children to share the proceeds of one small bungalow and a (probably-fake) Rolex watch.
My mood doesn't improve when Josh informs me that today is the day that he and girlfriend Holly celebrate their third anniversary. What is wrong with young people these days? Why don’t they make the most of their freedom? I say this to Max, who agrees rather too wholeheartedly, but out of earshot of Josh. Sometimes he's so sneaky.
I can't stop once I've started though. Since when are you allowed to even have anniversaries of when you started going out together? Anniversaries are supposed to be treats in recognition of hard labour at the coalface of marriage, not trivialised in this way! I do not say “congratulations,” and now Josh is in a mood with me. Max does and is, as usual, the favourite parent. Creep.
I assume that this craven behaviour is what Max is referring to when, much later, he sidles up to me in bed, and says that he's sorry but, as usual, I'm wrong. He's trying to prepare me for bad news, instead: that he will be away on a business trip to Germany on our anniversary. I go ballistic, but he says he doesn't have a choice, and that the company are talking about redundancies.
He seems so worried that I don't have the heart to keep moaning. I wonder if that's why he's off sex? It seems as if Dad and MPs like Caroline Nokes are the only ones having any sex at all at the moment. Life is so unfair.
Friday, 11 June 2010
Feeling The Love In The Room
Thank God Greg and I refused to go out for the Christmas meal at lunchtime, as surgery is quite bad enough anyway. I try to persuade Greg to go in with The Boss for a change, on the grounds that I've already been lumbered with doing tomorrow’s supermarket surgery, (not to mention missing a gathering of the glitterati as a result), but Greg is having none of it.
“I am still suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,” he says, and takes a long look into a pocket mirror to add an air of verité.
So, as usual on a Friday morning, I have to sit listening to The Boss promising the impossible to each constituent who has an appointment, before he leans back and basks in the love in the room. Later, it’ll be down to me to tell them that what he’s promised is unfeasible, or against regulations, or whatever - and then the constituents will phone him to complain about my attitude.
“I am still suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,” he says, and takes a long look into a pocket mirror to add an air of verité.
So, as usual on a Friday morning, I have to sit listening to The Boss promising the impossible to each constituent who has an appointment, before he leans back and basks in the love in the room. Later, it’ll be down to me to tell them that what he’s promised is unfeasible, or against regulations, or whatever - and then the constituents will phone him to complain about my attitude.
Today he assures a single woman with one small child that he can get her a four-bedroomed council house in the same street as her mother, “no problem.” This is despite my resorting to kicking him under the table and making my “Infected” face.
Then Andrew promises a slimy old man who’s just got out of prison for an unspecified sexual offence that, “of course” we can get him a visa for his Thai bride - whom he hasn’t even met yet. (This leads to me fretting about Dad, and briefly losing concentration, so I can’t recall what the next constituent is promised.)
Then Andrew promises a slimy old man who’s just got out of prison for an unspecified sexual offence that, “of course” we can get him a visa for his Thai bride - whom he hasn’t even met yet. (This leads to me fretting about Dad, and briefly losing concentration, so I can’t recall what the next constituent is promised.)
We do have one case that gets me really “exercised,” as The Boss would say, though. A sweet little guy, called Mr Something-or-other-totally-unintelligible, but which sounds like Mr Meeeeurghn, wants us to see if we can get his passport back from the Home Office as he wants to go home to see his family.
He gives his address as the bail hostel on Seymour Road. For Godsake, what is this country coming to, when we put traumatised refugees up in places like that?
Dad would approve though - as long as the refugees weren't young and attractive. And Thai.
After we’ve finished surgery, The Boss heads for the Oprah Room to do an interview with a reporter from the local paper. (Normally, we only use the room when Andrew needs a lie-down after a particularly hard-drinking lunch, as it contains a comfy couch and is soundproof enough to dull the sound of snoring - but this time it’s being used for its proper purpose.)
Greg and I keep our ears pressed to the door as a precautionary measure, only to hear Andrew say that he’s had enough of the red ink letters, and has decided to “speak out.” In response to the reporter’s murmurs of encouragement, he continues:
"I refuse to be intimidated and will not be prevented from opening my mail, which consists of important letters from constituents.”
Local vox pops later applaud his courage. The Boss doesn’t open his letters. I do.
He gives his address as the bail hostel on Seymour Road. For Godsake, what is this country coming to, when we put traumatised refugees up in places like that?
Dad would approve though - as long as the refugees weren't young and attractive. And Thai.
After we’ve finished surgery, The Boss heads for the Oprah Room to do an interview with a reporter from the local paper. (Normally, we only use the room when Andrew needs a lie-down after a particularly hard-drinking lunch, as it contains a comfy couch and is soundproof enough to dull the sound of snoring - but this time it’s being used for its proper purpose.)
Greg and I keep our ears pressed to the door as a precautionary measure, only to hear Andrew say that he’s had enough of the red ink letters, and has decided to “speak out.” In response to the reporter’s murmurs of encouragement, he continues:
"I refuse to be intimidated and will not be prevented from opening my mail, which consists of important letters from constituents.”
Local vox pops later applaud his courage. The Boss doesn’t open his letters. I do.
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