Ensuing discussion was punctuated by texts from Talitha who had, of course, immediately found a Celebrity Nit Nurse in Notting Hill and was texting me a running commentary.
Was too polite to ask Talitha to stop texting, because felt guilty and clearly needed to support her.
Talitha texts got worse and worse.
Talitha really must be in a state because normally she would never do anything to make you feel guilty. Have ruined Talitha’s life and career. And character.
Felt was the least I could do to offer to take them out for her if she comes round.
Talitha then came up with the brilliant plan of us all going to the Celebrity Nit Nurse tomorrow. ‘So at least that’s one less thing for you to worry about! And it will be a nice outing for us all! It’ll be fun!’
11 p.m. Fantastic evening taking out Talitha’s hair extensions. Was incredibly challenging, as had to rub oil into the glue bits, and pull out, then inspect for nits. Was a bit like Anne Hathaway dying of a bad haircut in Les Misérables, except more moaning and crying. We didn’t find any actual insects as the Celebrity Nit Nurse had got all of those, but we did find quite a lot of dark dots actually in the glue.
Worst is that hair extensions will cost hundreds of pounds to put in again.
‘It’s all my fault. I’ll pay for them,’ I said.
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, darling,’ Talitha said. ‘That’s not the point. The point is, I can’t put them back in for a week in case we missed any, because the nit cycle is a week. What am I going to do?’
She seemed suddenly to lose heart, looking at herself with nit oil smeared in her real hair. ‘Oh, good, I look a hundred years old. What is Sergei going to say? And I have to go on TV. Oh, darling, this is what I always feared would happen. I’ll get trapped on a desert island where they have no hair-extension specialist or Botox aesthetician and all my artifice will drain away.’
Trying not to think about my eighteenth-century wig theory, I pointed out that this was most unlikely to happen – no one looks at their best with their hair smeared down with hair-extension and nit oil – and washed Talitha’s hair and blow-dried it. Actually, she looked really sweet. It was all fluffy, like a little chicken.
‘I mean, the whole point about celebrities is that they change their look!’ I said encouragingly. ‘Look at Lady Gaga! Look at Jessie J. You could wear . . . a pink wig!’
‘I’m not Jessie J!’ said Talitha, at which Mabel, who had been watching solemnly, burst out, ‘Kerching, kerching! Berbling, berbling!’ while looking at us expectantly, as if we were going to say, ‘No, YOU are Jessie J!’ Then, crestfallen, she whispered, ‘Why does Talitha look so sad?’
Talitha surveyed our faces.
‘It’s all right, darlings,’ she said, as if we were both five-year-olds. ‘I’ll simply get some pieces put in at Harrods. They’ll come in useful later. As long as they don’t have nits in them.’
11.30 p.m. Talitha just texted:
Talitha really is a sophisticated human being. She has this theory about people who are in ‘primitive states’, i.e. they don’t really know how to behave.
Also am sure that if Talitha actually thought it was my fault, i.e. I’d knowingly hugged and nuzzled her, whilst aware I might have nits, without telling her I knew I might have nits, then she’d have been completely straight about it.
Tom texted:
Saturday 27 April 2013
Nits and nit eggs extracted 32, pounds forked out per dead nit £8.59.
Nit-nurse expedition was, as Billy put it, ‘extreme, extreme fun’ and everyone thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Caring assistants, entirely swathed in white, sucked at all our hair with a vacuum, said they’d found nothing, and then blew us very fiercely with a very hot hairdryer. It was ‘extreme, extreme fun’, that is, until the bill came – 275 quid! We could all have gone to Euro Disney for that! – with the right amount of well-timed googling.
‘How does this actually work?’ I said. ‘Couldn’t I do it at home using the mini-vacuum, then blasting us all with a really hot hairdryer?’
‘Oh no,’ said the Celebrity Nit Nurse airily. ‘It’s all very specially designed. The vacuum comes from Atlanta, and the Heat Destroyer is made in Rio de Janeiro.’
FIRE! FIRE!
Wednesday 1 May 2013
Blimey. This morning, instead of staying in the bedroom when I went down to deal with the kids, Roxster said, ‘I think I should come down to breakfast.’
‘OK,’ I said, pleased, a little nervous in case a knife-wielding bloodbath broke out between the children, at the same time wondering if Roxster was driven by a desire to participate in family life, or simply the notion of food. ‘I’ll just get things ready, then come down!’
Everything was going perfectly! Billy and Mabel were dressed and sitting nicely at the table and I decided to cook sausages! Knowing how much Roxster likes a full English breakfast!!
When Roxster appeared, looking fresh-faced and cheerful, Billy made no reaction and Mabel carried on eating, while staring solemnly at Roxster, never taking her eyes off him. Roxster laughed. ‘Hello, Billy. Hello, Mabel. I’m Roxster. Is there anything left for me?’
‘Mummy’s cooking sausages,’ said Billy, glancing towards the cooker. ‘Oh,’ he said, eyes lighting up. ‘They’re on fire!’
‘Dey’re on fire! Dey’re on fire!’ Mabel said happily. I rushed over to the cooker, followed by the children.
‘They’re not on fire,’ I said indignantly. ‘It’s just the fat underneath. The sausages are fine, they—’
The smoke alarm went off. Oddly, the smoke alarm had never gone off before. It was the loudest noise you’ve ever heard. Deafening.
‘I’ll try and find where it is,’ I said.
‘Maybe we should put the fire out first,’ bellowed Roxster, turning off the gas, removing the sausages and the tinfoil in a smooth movement, dumping them in the sink, shouting above the din, ‘Where’s the food-recycling bin?’
‘Over there!’ I said, looking frantically through various files on the cookery bookshelf to see if I could find the instruction leaflet for the smoke alarm. There was nothing apart from instructions for a Magimix, which we didn’t have any more. Also, where did the fire alarm, as it were, stem from? Suddenly looked round to see that everyone had disappeared. Where had they gone? Had they all collectively decided I was rubbish, and run off to live with Roxster and his flatmates, where they could play video games all day, uninterrupted, and eat perfectly barbecued sausages whilst listening to popular music which was actually current instead of Cat Stevens singing ‘Morning Has Broken’?
The smoke alarm stopped. Roxster appeared down the stairs, grinning.
‘Why has it stopped?’ I said.
‘I turned it off. There’s a code written on the box – which would be bad if you were a burglar, but good if you’re a toy boy and there are burning sausages.’
‘Where are the children?’
‘I think they went upstairs. Come here.’
‘I make such a bugger of things.’
‘No, you don’t,’ he whispered. ‘Fires, insect plagues, sort of thing which can happen to anyone.’ We started kissing. ‘We’d better stop this,’ he said, ‘or we’ll have more burning sausages to extinguish.’
We went upstairs in search of the children, to find they had calmly gone to their bedroom and were playing with their dinosaurs.
‘Well! Shall we go to school?’ I said brightly.
‘OK,’ said Billy, as if nothing at all unusual had happened.
So the motley crew of me, Billy, Mabel and Roxster emerged from the front door to be greeted by an uptight lady from up the road who looked suspiciously and said, ‘Have you had a fire?’
‘You betcha, baby,’ said Roxster. ‘Bye, Billy. Bye, Mabel.’
‘Bye, Roxster,’ they said cheerfully at which he patted me on the bottom and headed off to the tube.
But now, maybe I am having a panic attack. Does this mean things are moving to a more serious level? And surely is inadvisable to have Roxster bond with the children in case . . . Maybe I will text him and invite him to Talitha’s party!
10.35 a.m. Impulsively sent text:
10.36 a.m. No reply. Did not mention had remembered was Roxster’s thirtieth same night (lest thought self stalker-esquely focused on him), but why did I say sixtieth? Why? What could be more off-putting? Why cannot one delete sent texts?
10.40 a.m. Roxster has not replied. Gaah! Telephone! Maybe Roxster is calling to break up with me for having sixty-year-old friend.
11 a.m. Was George from Greenlight. Had rather testy conversation which seemed to go, in the space of a few minutes, from George being in a limousine, to George being in a gift shop, to George getting on a plane whilst simultaneously giving me notes on the rewrite and saying things like, ‘No! Don’t wrap it up! I’ve got a plane to catch, actually do wrap it.’
In the end I said, hoity-toitily, as I opened another text from Roxster, ‘George, I’m actually finding it rather difficult to make sense of your notes when you seem so distracted.’
But I’m not sure he heard this because his phone cut out.
Hurrah. Text from Roxster said:
And then another saying:
And another.
I texted patiently.
And another.
< Just to be absolutely clear, you really mean two dinners? Counting the party?>
THE TROUBLE WITH SUMMER
Tuesday 7 May 2013
136lb (oh no, oh no, disaster), outfits suitable for summer 0, outfits suitable for modern world 1 (navy silk dress).
9.31 a.m. Summer is here! Finally, the sun is out, the trees are in blossom and everything is marvellous. But oh no! My upper arms are not ready.
9.32 a.m. Also feel familiar sense of panic that must make the most of it as it might be the last and only sunny day of the year. And what about the summer season coming up when everyone will be going to festivals in Effortless Festival Chic like Kate Moss or to Ascot dressed like Kate Middleton and wearing a fascinator? I haven’t got any summer events to go to or a fascinator.
9.33 a.m. Oh, phew. It’s started raining again.
Wednesday 8 May 2013
9.30 a.m. School run has become impossible outfit obstacle. It is that confusing time before summer has got its confidence going, when you keep leaving the house either in winter woollies, at which it turns out to be sunny and 26 degrees, or wearing a floaty summer dress, and then it starts hailing, leaving you freezing to death whilst noticing your toenail polish is revolting. Must turn attention to clothes and grooming. Also writing.
Thursday 9 May 2013
7 p.m. Gaah! Just watched Good Luck Charlie on Disney Channel with Mabel and realized the mum in Good Luck Charlie wears outfits exactly like I have been wearing all winter – apart from the navy silk dress: black jeans tucked into boots, or tight black flared sweatpants when at home, a white scoop-necked vest and a V-necked sweater on top in either black, grey or some other muted colour. Has what I thought was my monochrome, slightly edgy dressing become, in Mabel’s eyes, the equivalent of Mum and Una’s former Country Casuals two-pieces? Maybe will try to be more eclectic, like Good Luck Charlie teenage daughter.
Monday 13 May 2013
Minutes spent on outfit websites 242, minutes spent looking at Yahoo! stories 27, minutes spent arguing with Mr Wallaker 12, minutes spent listening to Jude 32, minutes spent on homework chart 52, minutes spent doing any work whatsoever 0.
9.30 a.m. Right. Must get down to some serious writing now, but will just have a quick look at websites for River Island, Zara and Mango, etc. to get ideas for updated summer outfits.
12.30 p.m. Right! Work! Will just check Unexploded Email Inbox.
12.45 p.m. Ooh, Yahoo! story: ‘Biel Disappoints in Less-Than-Sexy Pantsuit.’ Pah! Are women now judged by the Distance-From-Sexiness of their pantsuits? V. relevant to Hedda updating. Vital to read.
1 p.m. In frenzy of indignation. I mean, honestly, the only role models women have these days are these . . . these RED CARPET GIRLS who just turn up at events wearing clothes that people have loaned to them, then have their photos taken, which appear in Grazia, then go home again to sleep until lunchtime and get some more free clothes. Not that Jessica Biel is a Red Carpet Girl. Is actress. But still.
1.15 p.m. Wish I was a Red Carpet Girl.
2.15 p.m. Maybe will go out and get Grazia magazine so as not to disappoint in less-than-sexy mother-from-Good Luck Charlie outfit. Not, of course, that mother in Good Luck Charlie is less than sexy.
3 p.m. Just back from newsagent’s with new Grazia magazine. Realize whole of my style is outdated and wrong and must wear skinny jeans, ballet pumps and shirt buttoned up to the collar, and blazer for school run plus enormous handbag and sunglasses in manner of celebrity at airport. Gaah! Is time to pick up Billy and Mabel.
5 p.m. Back home. Billy came out of school looking traumatized.
‘I came second bottom in the spelling test.’
‘What spelling test?’ I stared at him aghast as the other boys poured down the steps.
‘It was an epic fail,’ he said sadly. ‘Even Ethekiel Koutznestov got better than me.’
Terrible sense of failure. Whole homework thing is completely incomprehensible with random bits of paper, pictures of multi-armed Indian gods and half-coloured-in recipes for toast in different books.
Mr Pitlochry-Howard, Billy’s anxious, bespectacled form teacher, hurried up to us.
‘The spelling test is nothing to worry about,’ he said anxiously. Mr Wallaker wandered up to eavesdrop. ‘Billy’s a very bright boy, he just needs—’
‘He needs more organization at home,’ said Mr Wallaker.
‘But, you see, Mr Wallaker,’ said Mr Pitlochry-Howard, blushing slightly, ‘Billy has had a very difficult—’
‘Yes, I know what happened to Billy’s father,’ Mr Wallaker said quietly.
‘So we must make some allowances. It will be fine, Mrs Darcy. You are not to worry,’ said Mr Pitlochry-Howard. Then he pottered off, leaving me glowering at Mr Wallaker.
‘Billy needs discipline and structure,’ he said. ‘That’s what will help him.’
‘He does have discipline. And he gets enough of your sort of discipline on the sports field. And in the chess class.’
‘You call that discipline? Wait till he gets to boarding school.’
‘Boarding sch
ool?’ I said, thinking of how Mark had made me promise not to send them away like him. ‘He’s not going to boarding school.’
‘What’s wrong with boarding school? My boys are at boarding school. Pushes them to their limits, teaches them valour, courage—’
‘What about when things go wrong? What about someone to listen to them when they don’t win? What about fun, what about love and cuddles?’
‘Cuddles?’ he said incredulously. ‘Cuddles?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘They’re children – they’re not productivity machines. They need to learn how to manage when things don’t go right.’
‘Get on top of the homework. More important than sitting in the hairdresser’s.’
‘I will have you know,’ I said, drawing myself up to my full height, ‘that I am a professional woman and am writing an updating of Hedda Gabbler by Anton Chekhov, which is shortly to go into production with a movie company. Come along, Billy,’ I said, sweeping him off towards the school gates muttering, ‘Honestly. Mr Wallaker is so rude and bossy.’
‘But I like Mr Wallaker,’ said Billy, looking horrified.
‘Mrs Darcy?’
I turned, furious.
‘Hedda Gabbler, you said?’
‘Yes,’ I said proudly.
‘By Anton Chekhov?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think you’ll find it’s by Henrik Ibsen. And I think you’ll find Gabbler is spelt, and indeed pronounced, with just the one b.’
6 p.m. Oh, fuck. Just googled Hedda Gabbler and it IS by Henrik Ibsen and spelt with one b but ‘Hedda Gabbler by Anton Chekhov’ is now all over the front page of everyone’s script. Never mind. If nobody at Greenlight has noticed it, there’s no point telling them now. I can always pretend it was intelligent irony.
9.15 p.m. Kitchen table is covered in charts. These are the charts as follows:
CHART ONE – DAY HOMEWORK IS ISSUED
e.g. Monday: maths, word problems and suffixes, for Tuesday morning. Tuesday: Indian god colouring and evaluate Craft and Design – bread, mice, etc.
CHART TWO – DAY HOMEWORK IS TO BE DELIVERED
Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy Page 19
