How to Kill Your Husband (and other handy household hints)

by Kathy Lette

  As a teacher you become au fait with every excuse imaginable. The absentee notes from parents provide much mirth in the staffroom.

  Please excuse Kylie for being absent on the 29th, 30th, 31st and 32nd of February.

  Please excuse Jackson for being. It was his dad’s fault.

  Please excuse Chardonnay for being absent yesterday. Me and her Dad had her shot coz she was real sick.

  Even adulterers like Rory had excuses. Please excuse me from my marriage but I have fidelity fatigue. He was the one having the affair, yet I was the one made to feel at fault. But what excuse could I give for abandoning twenty children at the Science Museum?

  Planning is a vital part of any trip. Just ask Scott of the Antarctic. I planned to take my class to the museum, then leave them there with Lucy, the other teacher from my form who is a good mate, and the six parental helpers drafted in for the day. I would then dash to my daughter’s Sports Day in Hampstead Heath, compete in the Mothers’ Race, and catch the Northern Line back in time for the return coach journey to school.

  I knew the dangers of bunking off from a school excursion. It was no doubt a sacking offence. However, the school policy cited that a teacher had to be given three written warnings, before he or she could be sacked. Which was at least fairer than marriage. Three written warnings then divorce would be preferable to the sudden rejection Rory had sprung on me.

  Oh yes. Preparation can make all the difference between not getting a promotion and not even getting close.

  On the way to Jenny’s Sports Day, I was so nervous, I devoured two Mars bars, swigged down a cappuccino and crunched my way through a packet of crisps. Not the ideal way to train for a race. I had to sprint from the tube to the sports ground, a matter of some 300 yards, but that left me bent double at the waist, wheezing and praying for death. I was so bloody unhealthy I could hardly stand upright. I traversed the last stretch with the speed of a tree sloth through treacle. Hampstead Heath had been chock-a-block for weeks with deranged mothers panting along with their personal trainers, trying to achieve Olympian stamina for their mothers’ races. And here was me, shuffling along, as though trekking across snow.

  There was also the drawback of what I was wearing. Having crashed out in the surgery flat, I’d slept in the clothes I’d worn teaching yesterday – a skirt and a short-sleeved top. Luckily, I’d put on my trainers before leaving the flat for Bianca’s. But I’d hoiked off my old grey bra during the night and, in my haste that morning, hadn’t put it back on. Never mind, I told myself. My bras weren’t that supportive anyway. A truly supportive bra would tell me that I’m not half a stone overweight and have no stretchmarks.

  Once I got to the sports ground, the children’s races were coming to an end. I was just in time to cheer Jenny on. I sat with the other parents, writhing in our seats, as though being tickled by gigantic invisible fingers, as we craned for the best view of the finishing line. Heads bobbed like popcorn exploding in a pan, amid the flash of digital cameras and the whir of camcorders.

  ‘Mu-um!’ Jenny cringed when I hugged her at the finishing line, ecstatic that she’d come third, ‘You’re not wearing a bra. Eeeww. You’re just sooo embarrassing.’ In a spirit of reconciliation, she offered to run away if I embarrassed her again. All I could think was that she’d better start packing, because pretty soon her mother would be sprinting, skirt tucked into knickers, tits to the wind.

  ‘Have you seen your dad?’ I asked, trying to keep the hysteria and pain out of my voice.

  She hooked a thumb towards the amenities block. I meandered as casually as possible in that direction. The wind whipped through the long grass, this way and that, making it seethe and twitch like a sea of green snakes. It was quiet behind the toilet shed and quite secluded. Trying to quell my emotions, I peeked around the corner of the building. And there they were, stealing a kiss. I couldn’t breathe. I was gasping. It was an emergency situation. If I’d been on a plane, an oxygen mask would have been dropping from the overhead lockers.

  After they’d sauntered back to join the other parents, I walked to the place where they’d been standing. They’d left two perfect casts of their shoes pressed into the soil. Like the scene of a crime. But at least Bianca was wearing kitten heels and a summer frock, which meant I might not have to run after all.

  Then the mothers’ race was cracklingly announced over the Tannoy. Devoted mums suddenly flung their children out of their arms as though flamenco dancing and hurtled towards the starting line.

  Once upon a time, there would have been a few fun, gentle heats, mums running in their stockinged feet, perhaps balancing an egg on a spoon; the biggest danger being if your wrap-around skirt came undone and fell down. But not now. Not since the advent of the alpha mums, those women with their polished granite kitchen worktops, down lights and number plates which read A1 Mum. They’d had their meteoric careers, then bred late; giving up their high-powered jobs to be high-powered mummies. But the killer competitive instinct still oozes out of them. The traditional big-thighed mothers, women testing the limits of Lycra, were so cowed by the ferocity of the supermums, each muscle and sinew flexing intimidatingly, that they’d given up competing and now just sat glumly on the sidelines.

  Bianca suddenly peeled off her frock to reveal a state-of-theart, high-tech Lycra running ensemble, which wouldn’t be out of place in the Olympic village. She kicked off her kitten heels and bent to lace herself into trainers, too white to be anything but brand new and purpose bought, I reflected wrathfully. She then rose like an Amazonian warrior. The flowers seemed to curtsey in the wind before her. Christ. Even Mother Nature adored the man-eating bitch.

  Strolling to the lane next to mine, Bianca, in full make-up – including fake eyelashes, looked me up and down. ‘It doesn’t matter if you win or lose because . . . you’re gonna lose.’ She stretched, as languorously at ease in her skin as a cat.

  ‘Well, I just hope you’ve got a spare medical team on hand, because you are going to need it,’ I bluffed, tucking my skirt into my knicker-leg elastic, a look I felt was probably not going to catch on at the next Olympics. ‘With any luck your eyelashes will break your fall.’

  I was tortured by thoughts of what the other mothers knew. Was I imagining the furtive glances behind my back? These perfect, cake-baking domestic goddesses, the type who make you want to stick your head in your food processor, aren’t competing for the attention of men, but to outperform each other. ‘Did you see she’s getting cellulite?’ ‘Her children are feral. Why doesn’t she discipline them?’ ‘I’m sure she got a boob job for Christmas.’ They were more judgemental than the High Court.

  ‘On your marks . . .’ We all leaned forward into our starting positions. The white finishing-line tape looked nauseatingly far away. I glanced down the row of runners. Normally mild-mannered mothers had acquired a look reminiscent of hunters about to bludgeon baby seals at the North Pole. Nails outstretched, elbows jutting, they pawed at the starting line like bulls who’ve seen their matador.

  ‘Get set . . .’

  ‘Jenny and I got on wonderfully, by the way,’ Bianca imparted. ‘She has such . . . potential. It’s a shame you haven’t maximized it. But there’s still time and a girl her age is so malleable.’

  ‘Go!’

  If Bianca’s comment had intended to unsettle me, it actually had the opposite effect. Fuelled by hatred, I ran as though I were on crystal meths. I ran as though there were free Jimmy Choo shoes at the finishing line, being given out by Brad Pitt, naked.

  The woman on my left moved forward like an ostrich, head and neck outstretched, her upper body apparently having nothing to do with her legs. Others ran with bent, averted heads, like small harvest animals. But I felt myself passing them all. Waves of wind spanked my face as I ploughed ahead, pinballing off other runners. As the crowd thinned, I glanced over my shoulder. And there was Bianca. She was flinging other women out of her way, hurling them into bushes. That glance cost me a few seconds and I turned to focus on
the white tape, held by the school secretary and the music teacher. I could feel Bianca running up behind me, close as a whisper. The finish line came closer, closer. I was panting, panting, legs like pistons, when I felt the push. I executed a dervish thrashing of arms, but could feel myself falling. I caromed sideways, missing giving the Headmistress a full frontal lobotomy by half a millimetre. Other runners tripped over my falling body, until we lay on the lawn, our tangle of black leggings and brightly coloured tops giving us the look of a large liquorice allsort having an epileptic fit.

  ‘You fucking idiot,’ spat one earth mother. ‘What the fuck did you do that for!’

  ‘I . . . I . . . was p . . . pushed.’ My lungs scrambled for fresh air.

  ‘You should be banned, you stupid bitch!’

  ‘But . . . but . . .’ My justifications were lost in a general hubbub of disgruntled fury. Talk about a fall from grace. The light under the trees thickened, turning malevolent. Ill-will surrounded me. I was finding it hard to breathe.

  ‘Mum, are you all right?’

  ‘Sure. I always bleed from the ears like this,’ I wheezed. ‘And my ankle often flaps off the end of my leg in this rather curious manner.’

  I found Jenny’s calf and groped for purchase, pulling myself up. ‘She pushed me, did you see that?’ I gasped. ‘I was winning and Bianca pushed me.’

  ‘Oh Mum, don’t be a bad loser.’

  Rory was moving reluctantly in my direction, with Bianca not far behind, clutching her winning bottle of champagne.

  ‘You should be awarded something for competing without a bra. A bravery medal perhaps. Are you okay?’ he asked begrudgingly.

  ‘She pushed me! That cow pushed me. Doesn’t anyone believe me?’ I inwardly cursed my name, Cassandra – one whose warnings go unheeded. No one had believed her about the Trojan Horse either.

  ‘Bubbles!’ Bianca’s eyes were aglow with a chilling triumphalism. ‘I just love bubbles.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, why don’t you just go fart in the bath.’

  ‘Mum,’ Jenny shushed me. ‘Stop it. Haven’t you been embarrassing enough for one day?’

  ‘Do you want to, um, you know, join us? Bianca brought a picnic lunch,’ Rory asked, half-heartedly.

  Of course she had. ‘No. I’ve, I’ve got to get back to work.’

  In the midday sun, the wedge of shade from the amenities block had retreated to a thin line. I limped there to lick my wounds before making the crazed dash back to my science excursion. Desolate and ruined, I thought I might start crying, but then rallied. I hadn’t wet my pants, so all in all, it was a success of a kind.

  As I said, planning is a vital part of any trip. I had timed things so that I had an hour to get back to my class. But what I hadn’t planned on was firstly, a sprained ankle and secondly, a ‘person on the line’, which is a London Transport euphemism for suicide on the track. And finally, an uncharged mobile.

  After hobbling to the tube, there was a delay which meant when the train finally came, I had to work my elbows like oars to fight my way into a carriage, where we sat motionless for the next ten minutes. There is no air conditioning on London’s underground. My T-shirt, already wet with sweat from the run, stuck to me like a cotton skin. When the announcement of the line closure came, I staggered above ground to find a taxi. When no taxi appeared, I lurched onto a bus.

  The roads were blocked with North London standard parental-issue behemoths. The bus trundled along at a geriatric pace. I reached for my mobile to call my fellow teacher, Lucy, but the phone was as flat as I felt. I had slept in the surgery the night before so hadn’t had the chance to charge it. I tried telling myself it was all part of the great adventure of living in London, but was quietly having a panic attack. I began making inventive promises to God about all the charitable acts I would perform if only I was able to make it back to the Science Museum in time.

  When the bus lumbered into Baker Street, I hopped off, literally, and doddered into the underground once more. Two changes and I’d be there. As I waited and waited for a tube, with more and more delays announced, I began to think of career alternatives; jobs as a chicken de-sexer or armpit sniffer for deodorant testing clearly beckoned.

  At South Kensington station, I kangarooed all the way to the museum. By the time I lumbered into the foyer, there was no sign of my class. I shuffled about a bit, pain oozing from me in rancid sweat, frantically crying out the name of my fellow teacher, ‘Lucy? Lucy!!’ My T-shirt had been torn in the race, I was covered in grass stains from the fall, my hair was knotty and dishevelled, I was jigging around on one foot, bra-less boobs bouncing, and the security guards seemed to be looking at me in an over-attentive manner. When I pushed ahead of the line to ask whether North Primrose Primary School had left the premises, I was told to wait my turn or go to hell.

  Since I was limping from a very painful and swollen ankle, mid-heart attack and three-quarters of an hour late for the coach back to school, at this juncture hell actually seemed like the better destination.

  One £40 cab fare later, I was back at Primrose Hill. While stuck in traffic, I’d prepared my defence. I would plead mental unfitness and retire early on a pension. To back up my claim, I’d put mosquito netting around my staffroom chair and only play bongo music.

  As it happened, I was getting plenty of practice at jungle warfare. The only way to sneak into the school was to sidle, back to the wall, underneath the security camera and then crawl on my belly commando-style past Scroope’s office window.

  It was three o’clock when my covert operations concluded with a successful infiltration of the first floor and a Geronimotype entrance through the side window into Lucy’s classroom, where she was entertaining my pupils as well as her own. Not being a ‘chalk and talker’, Lucy whispered that as she’d covered my rear so well I owed her a beer. Exhausted with relief, I slunk into my classroom to retrieve the register – and stopped dead with shock, gorgonised to the spot by her steely stare.

  ‘And where, may one ask, have you been?’ Perdita Pendal moved into my path faster than the Pentagon Rapid Response Force, and with just as much dedication to passive diplomacy. ‘Do you know the penalty for leaving your class on an excursion?’ When Perdita talked, her thin, lacquered lips looked to me like two pink worms wrestling. ‘I believe it is a sackable offence.’

  Thousands of illegal immigrants, possibly packing Anthrax, are setting up terror cells around England, and can the security forces find them? No. One and a half hours late back from a school excursion and Perdita was on to me. Why she isn’t on Scotland Yard’s anti-terror pay-roll remains a mystery. I closed the door behind me and prepared to grovel.

  ‘Look, it was an emergency. The kids were fine. On excursions you’re supposed to have a one to ten parent-child ratio, right? Well, I made sure there was a one to six ratio, by drafting in extra parents. And Lucy was there. It was a family crisis. Nobody needs to know. I mean, everything’s worked out fine.’

  ‘Hasn’t it just,’ she said, with the demeanour of a Victorian governess.

  ‘Perdita, I’m begging you. Please don’t tell Scroope. I’ll do all your playground duty for the rest of the year, if you just don’t say anything.’ I had gravel rash on my knees from grovelling, but persevered. ‘Have some compassion. Some teacherly loyalty. Some sisterly solidarity?’ I begged. But Perdita had the compassion of a Medellin drug cartel.

  ‘Duty before friendship,’ she replied ominously. Her crisp tone told me that it was pointless pleading.

  At four o’clock when the kids exploded out of the door for home, I saw Scroope in the quadrangle. His face was rigid, his mouth pinched up like a rectum straining for a bowel movement. ‘My office,’ he ordered.

  Dragging my hurt foot towards my doom, I wondered if it might help to tell him about much worse things that had happened on school excursions. A friend of mine from college had taken her Year Six girls camping in the New Forest, where they went mushrooming . . . only they turned out to be magic mushrooms
. Her entire class were in Intensive Care for a day, hallucinating. It gave a very literal meaning to ‘school trip’ . . . But I changed my mind when I saw his eyes at close range. I looked around for a weapon to protect myself, wondering desperately if perhaps I could set his laser printer to ‘Stun’? My Headmaster’s moods ranged from obnoxious to Satanic. And that was on a good day. His rage, when it came, was tornadic.

  ‘YOU LEFT YOUR CLASS?!!!’

  For the next half an hour, he just went off, like Hurricane Katrina, words pouring out of him instead of rain. He was apoplectic with rage about breaches of Health and Safety. The cords of his neck stood out like cables as he screamed about the risks, the dangers and hazards, the possible outcomes of such a reckless act. I was irresponsible, immoral, immature . . . If it were up to him, he said, he would sack me on the spot. Yes, teachers had to receive three written warnings before they could be fired. But this was so serious that he was going to take it before the Board of Governors and ask them to consider dismissing me immediately.

  I should have stood up for myself, but now I simply wondered how I could ever have thought I would get away with it. If I wrote an autobiography it’d be called It’s Time To Take a Good Hard Look at Your Pathetic Excuse of a Life, You Bloody Idiot.

  I kept my eyes on the wall behind him which was painted institutional beige and, as he ranted, found myself pondering what subjects he’d been good at teaching before his inexplicable rise to Headmaster? Cringing and Quaking perhaps? Torture Techniques? My parting gift would be a sign for his office which would read You don’t have to be a misogynistic, misanthropic bastard to work here, but it helps.

  After Scroope had ushered me from his sight, no doubt so that he could play some more with his gun collection, I thunked my head against the wall. But the school and all its tribulations might as well have been on Pluto. They seemed so paltry by comparison to the rest of my woes. I had lost my husband’s heart. And embarrassed my daughter, which meant I’d practically thrown her into Bianca’s sinister embrace. I had a feeling that the light at the end of the tunnel was from a train. And I was tied to the tracks.