The torture wasn’t over.
Next I had to endure the story of Little Jonny’s first day at pre-school. I felt as though I had been alongside Little Jonny every step of the way. He was the first baby from the post-natal group of friends to smile and the first one to speak – unbelievably his first word was dinosaur! I imagined Little Jonny was the first one out of his friends to walk; Penelope confirmed this a second later – he was. Penelope was bursting with pride as she told me all about her Little Jonny.
Surely Penelope would change the subject soon. We were half an hour into this walk and I had started to up the pace, pushing the buggy faster just to get home quicker and hopefully never hear the name Little Jonny again. No such bloody luck. She carried on and on. I heard how Little Jonny had stood out from his peers on his first day at school; he was so gifted and talented. Little Jonny could add tens and units at age five. He could recite all his times tables by the age of six and by the time he reached seven, he could write joined up and already he knew he was going to be a palaeontologist. And he could spell it as well! I guessed Penelope must have locked him in his bedroom and didn’t allow him out until he could spell it. Penelope was beaming, informing me that Little Jonny could name every dinosaur that existed and could name up to five facts about each of them. I could name one fact – they are all extinct. I wished Penelope was a dinosaur. I wasn’t a violent person but I did consider giving Penelope a short, sharp slap to knock her back down to earth. She had bigged him up so much that there was only one way for Little Jonny to go in the future and that was down, hitting his head on the floor as he fell off his pedestal. Only time would tell. Little Jonny was going to Oxford. Little Jonny was going to be rich and famous. Little Jonny was going to have a beautiful family.
‘Let’s hope Little Jonny doesn’t take after his father then,’ I managed to whisper under my breath.
It was Little Jonny this and Little Jonny that but no mention of the golden child’s sister, Annabel. I was so thankful to arrive back at the top of my lane. I greeted Mr Fletcher-Parker as he popped up from behind a bush to give me a wave. I’d had enough, a bloody belly-full to be precise. I wondered if Rupert was an alcoholic too – I definitely needed a drink. I had missed Knit and Natter so there was no sherry for me today, I would have to take out my frustrations later at clog dancing.
I continued up the lane when Penelope called after me.
‘Same time tomorrow then.’
I couldn’t wait.
For the next week I pushed the buggy and walked alongside Penelope every morning without fail (she didn’t work mornings – her child-minding duties always started in the afternoon). During this time, in between singing Little Jonny’s praises of course, she came up with a plan. This plan was to monitor our weight loss. I wasn’t walking to lose weight – in fact I didn’t have a clue why I was walking. Her plan involved Fridays. I was hoping the plan would involve Friday lunch at the pub as this was the law up north – and Monday to Thursday too! Unfortunately not though; her plan was to weigh ourselves at her house every Friday, record it and add up the pounds of fat lost each week. My plan was definitely the better of the two; I was certainly the brains of this outfit. Oh, and the thinner one too, well at this moment in time.
Every week I spoke to Fay, my best mate in the world ever. I updated her on my new friends in the village.
We were of the same opinion; none of these people would pass the seven-year rule.
In her words: ‘Get them on the bus!’
The first Friday big weigh-in arrived. We walked our walk and Penelope talked her talk, reeling off the achievements Little Jonny had made that week. This kid was amazing – according to Penelope. He was the top striker and top defender in every game for the local football team. I don’t profess to know too much about football but it sounded like he was already better than Eric Cantona. Penelope suggested the rest of the team were useless, they were nothing without Little Jonny.
I wanted to scream, ‘One lad doesn’t make a team,’ but no matter how loud I screamed she would never have heard me or taken any notice. So I just didn’t bother.
That Friday morning, once we had finished the walk, Penelope invited me into her house. Following her into the kitchen I pushed the buggy to the side of the kitchen table. I noticed the weighing scales were already positioned on the floor, on a particular square tile. Penelope informed me that in order to give an accurate reading the scales had to be placed on the same tile each week. I wasn’t sure why I was doing this, I wasn’t sure I had even agreed to do this.
Penelope disappeared, muttering about needing to get changed. I didn’t have a clue what she meant. Rupert sauntered into the kitchen while I was standing staring at the scales. Glancing up in his direction I did a double-take. He was dressed in a flowery apron and was holding a bright multi-coloured feather duster in one hand and pushing a Hoover with the other.
I had to do everything in my power to stop the lyrics of the famous Queen song ‘I Want to Break Free’ flying out of my mouth.
Annie had had a lucky escape if you ask me. Poor bloke – this must have been Penelope’s way of making him pay for his indiscretions.
‘Nice apron,’ were the only words I could muster up.
A few minutes later Penelope reappeared and that’s when I did my second double-take of the morning. Was this for real? Penelope looked like she should be a plus size model in Climber Weekly. She was dressed in clobber that would not be out of place on an expedition about to climb Mount Everest. This woman was barmy, end of discussion. She approached the scales dressed in a hat, ear muffs, ski jacket, salopettes, numerous thermals and massive snow boots. I was fascinated by her madness. I was mesmerised. This was a photo opportunity, evidence for when the men in white coats came to take her away – and in my opinion, the sooner the better. I thought we were meant to be losing weight, not adding it on. She looked ridiculous. Surely they had mirrors in this house? She stepped onto the scales and took her reading. There was a muffled sound escaping from under her balaclava. I was hoping she had suffocated but she was simply informing me that it was my turn to stand on the scales. I removed my coat, hat and boots and stood on the scales. The display flashed and my weight was revealed.
The next moment Penelope opened a kitchen cupboard door – which was a bizarre green colour but a step-up from avocado – and out it came. After taking off her ski gloves she was clutching a little black book. It wasn’t just any old little black book – it was THE little black book. I thought she had uncovered more evidence and was about to show me detailed records of Rupert’s misdemeanours, but no. She bent back the cover revealing the first page. In the first column was written the word NAME, in the second column was written WEIGHT and scribbled in the third column was a plus and a minus sign. This was serious stuff. Every Friday, Penelope was going to record the weight loss – hopefully not a gain! She was in charge of this little black book and all evidence would be recorded in it. This was all very well but I weighed in at nine stone – Penelope uttered something under her breath when my weight was revealed but I didn’t challenge her to repeat it as it didn’t sound very complimentary. I wasn’t over-weight in the first place and I wasn’t bothered about losing any more. Then it hit me, I was just here to make her feel good about herself.
I had already planned my excuses to leave as soon as the weigh-in was over and I couldn’t stay for a moment longer. Quickly wheeling the pushchair towards the door I said my goodbyes and returned home to the Shack. I made myself a warm, milky brew and scoffed half a pack of chocolate digestives and thanked God I wasn’t Penelope.
At the same time next morning, Penelope was waiting for me for our now daily walk. She was getting herself into a little routine, just like Mr Fletcher-Parker who was still spontaneously appearing from behind hedgerows at different times of the day to give me a wave. I had never spent so much time in anyone’s company before. I was beginning to tire of these walks, I was so desperate to block out her dulcet tones th
at even Gina G’s ‘Ooh Aah, Just a Little Bit’ song on my iPod was more appealing than another hour of Penelope wittering on. I was losing the will to live. Penelope took care of all the talking on our walks, I just nodded in what I thought were the right places.
However, this morning was different, had Christmas come early? Surely it had as there was actually a change in the topic of conversation. Hallelujah! Flipping heck, Little Jonny had been relegated and was kicked off her agenda for this morning’s torture. This morning was all about Wendy Barthorpe.
Penelope spluttered with great pleasure that Wendy Barthorpe wasn’t at all happy with me.
Gosh, I felt awful, what had I done?
There was no stopping Penelope this morning or any other morning for that fact.
Apparently Wendy was a little upset that I hadn’t accepted her Facebook request. Obviously, Penelope was such a good friend of hers that she hadn’t told Wendy she was the one who demanded I didn’t accept her request.
‘I thought Wendy was a good friend of yours?’ I enquired innocently.
A stupid question on my part and I wish I had bitten my lip because Penelope then spent the next hour slating her so-called best mate.
Firstly Penelope prattled on about Wendy’s dress sense. According to Penelope, Wendy dressed herself in drab dark colours, over-sized t-shirts and jeans that were worn out, faded and had seen better days. Her trainers were so old that they had come back into fashion. Her hair hung around her face with no shape whatsoever and hadn’t been cut for years. It was never high on my agenda to notice what clothes Wendy was wearing. When I looked myself up and down I realised that Penelope had just described me – that was exactly what I looked like! I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d had my hair cut. I was a little taken aback that Penelope was talking about her friend in this manner; goodness only knows what she was saying about me behind my back.
I only had Penelope’s word that Wendy was narked because I hadn’t accepted her friend request, yet it was Penelope that had caused this upset by begging me not to accept it in the first place. I didn’t get the logic behind any of it.
From what I could gather, and it didn’t take a genius to work out, Penelope was trying to influence what I thought about Wendy but I wasn’t going to judge Wendy on someone else’s opinion and especially not Penelope’s. As far as I was concerned it was nothing to do with me.
Penelope continued. She claimed that even though Wendy was paid as a child-minder – to educate and stimulate other people’s children – she actually spent her day on social networking sites, cultivating her make-believe farm. She would wait in anticipation for her phone to ping with the latest comments that made her feel wanted and important and in between, she constantly posted status updates, made frequent cups of tea and scoffed numerous chocolate brownies.
I had to listen to this character assassination for over an hour. The amusing thing about this conversation was that I had heard this conversation before; this is exactly what Imogen had said about Penelope! I knew none of this was true. Wendy was always out at the park or swimming baths and stimulating the children she looked after – and Penelope had accompanied her on many occasions! Wendy was the salt of the earth; this was the general opinion of Wendy in the village. She had three children and would work every hour to give her children what they needed. Wendy was the type of woman that would give you her last pound and would never think about putting herself first.
I agreed with Imogen and got the impression Penelope was describing herself rather than Wendy and this was quite evident as I kept receiving farm game requests via Facebook from her. She was the one feeling insecure in case I made another friend in the village – heaven forbid! I was too busy with my own life, family and friends to waste time commenting on Penelope’s fake statuses while she sought constant attention on the World Wide Web.
This particular morning was not a good one for me. I had the dreaded women’s bug; you took your life into your own hands if you even breathed the same air as me. The medicine to cure this monthly bug was any form of chocolate or, failing that, custard creams. I had PMT! I wanted to stay home, drink tea and eat three thousand calories of sugary snacks. I’m not sure how Penelope survived the next hour as she continuously belly-ached about Wendy. I blocked out her words from my mind and started to fantasise about gagging her. I ventured into the deep, dark depths of my coat pockets grabbing at anything, praying for just a hint of chocolate. Even the smell of a chocolate wrapper would help anaesthetise the suffering of this monthly pain. Luckily for Penelope she escaped my clutches and was unscathed and lived to walk another morning, which was unfortunate for me.
The month of March had seen me observe Penelope’s vicious jealous streak on two occasions. One occasion would have been enough for anyone. Day after day I persevered with the mental torture of her conversation, Little Jonny this and Little Jonny that. Little Jonny appeared to be the only positive thing in her life. The rest of the time she oozed negativity. It was the world’s fault she hadn’t won the lottery, it would have flippin’ helped if she had bought a ticket in the first place. It was ‘the scrubber’s’ fault her husband had been enticed away.
Recently Penelope had fallen out with her mother too. Penelope thought it was unreasonable that her mother spent her own money taking herself off on foreign holidays in her retirement. Penelope thought this money should be saved up to send Little Jonny to Oxford. Penelope had also fallen out with her father – her parents were separated – because last Christmas Penelope had requested that he buy Little Jonny and Annabel a five hundred pound flat screen telly EACH for their bedrooms. Penelope claimed her dad owed her. He had split up the family when she was a kid and she was going to milk him for all he was worth. Well clearly he wasn’t worth much as he told her that two five hundred quid tellies were excessive and instead he sent her a pen with the name ‘Penelope’ on it. She wasn’t happy to say the least. At this point she cut him right out of her life. No flat screen tellies in their house that Christmas.
The first hint of her jealousy reared its ugly head on a Friday, the day of the weigh-in. I remember this day well – in fact even when I have dementia and am sitting in my rocking chair, pissing my pants in the local nursing home, I will remember this day.
Two could play Penelope’s game – the weigh-in game that is. She had stood on the scales the first time wearing every item of thick clothing she could find from her wardrobe. Not this week, this week Penelope was wearing next to nothing. She’d put on leggings, a skimpy black top and no bra. Poor Rupert having to put up with those – I could tell that there wasn’t much fun in those cushions. A smug smile crept across her face. She then opened the little black book.
‘Last week I weighed sixteen stone,’ she piped up. ‘Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, I’ve lost eleven pounds!’ she squealed with delight.
No shit, Sherlock! Would that be because your whole outfit last week weighed approximately eleven pounds? But if she wanted to kid herself, who was I to argue? I wouldn’t have got a word in edgeways anyway.
Next it was my turn. Like any sensible person I wore the same clothes that I had been weighed in the previous week. I’m no scientist but clearly this would give me an accurate reading of any weight loss or gain. I stood on the scales. Penelope thought that there was no way I had lost much weight, if any.
As Penelope peered down at the display, a flush of anger could be seen creeping up her neck towards her face.
‘No way, the scales are broken, the battery must be going flat,’ screeched Penelope, flabbergasted.
I glanced down at the scales and saw the evidence for myself. I was five pounds lighter.
Job well done, Rachel, giving myself a pretend pat on the back.
Flippin’ hilarious!
Penelope spun round in horror and demanded to know what I had eaten all week.
I answered her calmly.
‘On Monday, I ate a burger and chips. Tuesday, I had chilli and rice. Wednesday was curry and
Thursday steak, chips and salad.’
She raised her eyebrows and her head looked like it was about to explode off her shoulders.
‘You liar! There is no way you’ve eaten all that and lost five pounds. Get out!’ she hollered. ‘Get out.’
I was completely taken aback by her reaction. She threw the little black book across the room in anger. What a drama queen, she would have won an Oscar with that performance.
‘Are you serious?’ I asked, grasping at the pushchair and headed towards the door. Shooing me forwards she slammed the front door shut behind me.
I think that was a ‘Yes’! She was serious. If anyone could have seen this it was very comical, side-splitting entertainment. I smiled to myself as I did feel ever so slightly sorry for Penelope because in all honesty I had lied – I was bloody starving! Hardly a morsel of food had passed my lips that week; I had barely eaten a thing. There was no way Penelope was getting the better of me.
I did three things in the next ten minutes. Firstly, I walked to the bakers, bought the biggest cream cake and went home to enjoy every mouthful. Secondly, after logging on to the computer I accepted Wendy Barthorpe’s friend request and thirdly, I rang Fay, my best mate in the world ever, to update her on how I was settling into the village. She thought so far so good, I was settling in very well!
So that was the first time I’d felt the wrath of Penelope’s jealous streak.
We’ve established my move to the village was for the quiet country life, even though this was not quite going to plan. The only thing going to plan was the purchase of my chickens and my ponies.
I was missing some of the gang back home. Although it goes without saying this didn’t include the International Sex God or Mrs High School Musical. I needed a catch-up with normality and decided the time was right to invite them to the Shack for a small get-together. My friends were excited too and they booked themselves into a hotel in the nearest town. The date was set for the following Friday. I also invited Penelope, Imogen, Lucinda and Meredith. Even Josie said she would pop in for a glass or two of wine.
A Year in the Life of a Playground Mother: A laugh-out-loud funny novel about life at the School Gates (A School Gates Comedy Book 1) Page 10
