by Amanda Egan
Fenella and I told Ned and Josh that we figured childbirth would be a breeze compared to dealing with a committee load of Meemies.
Yesterday - let me set the scene and its assorted cast of characters …
Fenella and me - pregnant, hormonal but totally compos mentis compared to the rest of the assembled party.
Mrs Montague and Mrs Hardy - heads of lower and upper school (AKA ‘Hinge & Bracket’, à la drag queen double act). Very sweet but one slightly twittery and arse-licky and the other a bit too jolly-hockey-sticks Sergeant Major.
The gorgeous Mr Rooney - maths teacher, CCL staff rep and general object of desire / lead role in many a bored school mum’s fantasy.
Tamara Harper-Knox - AKA ‘Shergar’. (Fenella so loves to give nicknames. Must be something to do with her boarding school days.) This particular name is just perfect as I’ve never seen a woman in possession of such equine features and the laugh is most definitely a bray. All that’s missing is the nose bag. She’s such a hateful woman though, it’s almost an insult to the species. Clearly ‘wearing the charity hat’ because she’s bored and feels it’s the ‘thing to do’, she seems the type to remind me at every available opportunity of my own near charitable status. She’s made two references already to last year’s close call. For heaven’s sake, Ned and I donated a whole year’s school fees since our good fortune - surely we qualify for a modicum of respect? Anyway, she’s our treasurer for the year but frankly, if she can add up to ten, I’ll be surprised.
Emily Hamilton - ‘Dress-up Mummy’ - hasn’t got a bloody clue about anything because her head’s so stuck in the clouds she’s practically floating. She drifts from day to day in a Prozac/weed induced haze in assorted ridiculous outfits ranging from tutus to wedding dresses. Dress-up Daddy is also rather partial to weird and wonderful attire - just this morning I spotted him in a kilt and feathered cap as he set off on his push-bike.
Millicent Finnigan-Potts - AKA ‘Barbie Mummy’. Your classic dyed-in-the-wool, yummy mummy Meemie. From the top of her oh-so-subtle highlights to the bottom of her Louboutins, it’s all about her. She shops, she lunches, she holidays, she hires and fires staff, she spends hubby’s hard earned City dosh and doesn’t give a flying shit about anyone else. I have to question her motivation for joining the fundraising committee because it’s really not in her make-up (Bobbi Brown, of course).
And finally, for your delight and delectation, may we present:
‘Letchy Dad’ - I’ve never bothered to find out his real name. Having recently taken garden leave, he obviously sees the committee as a sly opportunity to share his time with a bit of fine totty whilst trying to convince everyone that he’s actually a ‘decent and generous guy’. Being married to the Gnome (Gestapo’s diminutive side-kick), nobody could really blame him for seeking an escape and, once you whack his wandering hands a few times, he’s usually quite well-behaved and contrite.
So, heaven help us, that’s our team for the year - not exactly the most inspiring bunch of get-up-and-goers, and Fenella and I will certainly have to hone our “Will you please stop digressing, talking about yourselves and boasting” skills, but I think the meeting went rather well and my own ideas were received with some enthusiasm.
Even if Shergar did ask me how it felt to be one of the Nouveau Riche.
She’s lucky Fenella’s coffee had gone cold when it mysteriously deposited itself onto her Diane von Furstenberg skirt - people still haven’t cottoned onto the fact that Fenella is very protective of me and that no one messes with either of us or she’s likely to clock them with her Hermès.
They’ll learn!
Wednesday 17th September
Spent the morning going through the list of fundraising suggestions and have (for obvious reasons) abandoned the following:
Gymkhana - Shergar’s suggestion of course. We live in south west London for God’s sake, with barely a donkey between us. What’s the woman thinking?
Manor House Calendar Girls - Letchy Dad! No, mums with strategically placed pencils and board rubbers wouldn’t be a good idea, even though some of the Posh wannabes might jump at the chance to flash the flesh. Nice try, Letchy.
Sponsored School Sleepover - Dress-up Mummy. By the looks of her at the meeting, sleep was about the only thing she was capable of. And this morning she was her usual eccentric self in tartan pyjamas with a floppy lace bed-cap - I wouldn’t leave her in charge of Dog and Dot, let alone a school-load of kids.
Mini Makeovers and Fashion Shoot - Barbie Mummy. “Sooo cute for the little ones to dress up like their mummies and shake their little tushes on the catwalk. I know my Florence would just adore it.” Sick, just sick.
So, after abandoning those suggestions, thankfully we still have:
The Manor House Poetry and Prose Anthology - after our success with the cookbook last year, our printer dad has again volunteered to produce another compilation and we again have a captive audience with all the parents and grandparents wanting to see their little darlings’ contributions in print. Twenty quid a time, thank you very much Guv, nice doin’ business wiv ya. Barbie Mummy volunteered her services for this one as it involves no manual labour and her acrylics will remain intact. Feel she may have a little trouble with any big words though.
The ‘Manor House Has Got Talent’ Evening - planned for next June with entries being encouraged from pupils, staff and parents. Barbie Mummy has already treated us to a sneak preview of her Madonna, demonstrating her look with makeshift cones she fashioned from the A4 handouts - much to Hinge & Bracket’s horror and Letchy Dad’s drooling delight.
Auction of Promises - planned for November by last year’s committee and already delivering a ludicrous assortment of goods as each silly Meemie and hubby battle to outdo one another. “Oh we’ve volunteered our villa, car, flights and yacht for a fortnight” will be met with “Ya, we’ve done the same - only for a month and with staff.” Wouldn’t surprise me if someone donated a human organ or ovarian egg just to be the ‘goss at the gates’.
Oops, I guess in my own way I’m as big a bitch as any of them but at least, despite my new found wealth, my own feet are still firmly on the ground without a Manolo between them.
Thursday 18th September
Phone call from Nic, best gay friend in the world, today.
He and Rick are adopting a Russian baby boy!
I’m in total shock. They’ll probably collect him in November and I knew nothing about it.
“Oh Libster, we so wanted to tell you when we started this whole process but we knew how much you wanted a second child and didn’t want to upset you. Then you went and got yourself duffed, you clever old thing! We then decided we didn’t want to tempt fate and find that something had gone wrong with our application for little Mikhail, so we kept it quiet even longer. But now … well, it’s all systems go and we should have him in a couple of months. I’m soooooo excited and Rick is flitting around like a cross between Linda Barker and the Earth Mother herself, doing up the nursery.”
Wow, I’m so pleased for them. What fun we can have, all of us with our new babies. Can’t wait to tell Fenella.
Friday 19th September
Fenella’s response was trademark Fenella-esque.
“Jammy bastards! All they have to do is hop on Aeroflot and pick up their little bundle of joy. We have to push the wriggling, squirming mass through our lady-bits. Then we can’t sit down for a week, not that we could actually go anywhere because our wayward knockers will have minds of their own and squirt unsuspecting passers-by without a word of warning. Oh, Sweedie, I wish I’d said no to the bonk now and gone and bought a baby too - don’t you?”
I know she says these things in jest and when challenged she added, “Yes, of course I’m delighted to be with child again, even if it does mean I’m going to look like Attila the Hun for the third time in my life, but I can’t stop the morbid thoughts. Last night, I dreamed my waters broke in a CCL meeting and Hinge took bets on the times between contractions, Bra
cket cut the umbilical cord with a Swiss army knife and Letchy and Barbie were copulating in the corner to Madonna’s ‘Like a Virgin’.”
I agreed that was particularly unsavoury.
“Yes, Sweedie. I didn’t even know if the army knife had been sterilised.”
Oh Fenella, she really is one in a million but how lovely that we can share all this together. Three new babies, how exciting.
Saturday 20th September
Still thinking of a way to break Nic and Rick’s baby news to Max. Homophobic Hubbie says it will confuse him to think that the baby will have two dads, but we have to tell him something or he’ll be even more confused when a baby just arrives on the scene from nowhere and with no explanation.
Max knows that they live together and are ‘special friends’ but wasn’t at their wedding - sorry Ned, ‘Civil Ceremony’ - last year because of all the questions it might raise. There’s only so much a six year old can take in. So this baby issue is a bit of a tricky one.
Ned says we should just lie and say they’re babysitting for a friend. “Come on Lib. He doesn’t need to know anything else for now.”
When I explained that this baby was for life, not just for Christmas, and that babysitting generally meant that the baby went back to its parents at least occasionally, he realised he didn’t have a macho leg to stand on.
“Why don’t we just skirt around the whole ‘one mummy, one daddy’ issue and say they’re adopting a baby who needs two people to love it?” I suggested, very tentatively. “The gay issue need never raise its ugly head.”
Ned reluctantly conceded, after a slight shudder at the words ‘gay’ and ‘head’ in the same sentence, that it was probably the best way to go but added, “If this screws him up in later life you, Nic, Rick and Baby Gorbachev will have a lot to answer for.”
I love my hubbie even though he has issues.
Sunday 21st September
Max, as usual, took it all in his stride.
“Cool! It’s very sad the baby had no one to love it but how lucky Uncle Nic and Uncle Rick found him.”
Ned and I looked at one another with eyes prickling - out of the mouths of babes.
Max then added, “And how lucky that they were already husband and husband or they might not have let them have a baby, isn’t that right Daddy?”
Ned threw his eyes to the ceiling and, after exchanging a resigned look with me, reserved the right to remain silent - although I suspect there was a whole heap he wanted to say that probably wasn’t fit for such tender young ears.
Monday 22nd September
Mrs S waved us off to school this morning shouting, “Oh Libbybeta. I am very much excited. Skunk is bringing his new lady friend to visit me tonight and I have been cooking dhal and chapatis. He was telling me her name but it is not in my brain anymore, but I do remember that she is a witch doctor. Very interesting, do you not agree, Libbybeta?”
I can’t wait to see how she’s got that one wrong. It should give Skunk a good laugh too.
Chatted to Fenella at the school gates and decided we’d head into town for some maternity clothes.
“Now that you’ve got some dosh, Sweedie, you can treat yourself to some new stuff. You can’t go around housing your bump in Oxfam gear - no matter how designer it may be. You have no idea what it could do to a developing foetus. I knew a woman who only ever wore black when she was pregnant and now her eleven year old is an Emo - you know, all weird and depressed and constantly threatening to top herself.”
Couldn’t understand the relevance, and not quite sure how much of that little tale I believed, but it spurred me on to finally part with a bit of money and treat myself to some attractive tents to adorn my bun in the oven until March.
Fenella was very brave and went for little crop tops and combat trousers. Call me old fashioned. but I’m still a firm believer that pregnant flesh should be covered, no matter how beautiful you may think it is. In my mother’s day, mums-to-be wore an overcoat - rain, shine or heat wave - and did everything to avoid showing the world they’d actually ‘done the deadly deed’. Now I’m not saying I’d go that far, but I do believe in keeping it out of people’s faces. Fenella, on the other hand, is even contemplating having her belly button pierced with a Swarovski crystal to draw even more attention to her “duffedness”.
Quite pleased with my buys and, even though I’ve got nothing more than a peanut to show at the moment, threw a demure smock over my leggings before popping next door to Mrs S to introduce myself to Skunk’s ‘voodoo woman’.
Tuesday 23rd September
Skunk’s girlfriend is called Silver - no wonder it didn’t stick in Mrs S’s brain for too long!
She’s absolutely adorable - petite, hippy-chic and very easy to get along with.
Not what you’d expect from a witch doctor at all.
Of course, Mrs S had got her wires ever so slightly crossed - Silver’s an alternative therapist, specialising in aromatherapy, reflexology and head massage with a little cloud-reading on the side - must explore what that last one involves with her next time we meet.
She’s just perfect for Skunk and they seem to be very taken with one another. She was also really good with Mrs S, giving her a lovely scented hand massage which amazingly stopped her talking gobbledegook for at least an hour afterwards.
While Silver and I made some herbal tea she explained why the treatment could have had such an effect on her.
“You know, Libby, Pritesh is partly right. She is bored and she is lonely, but she isn’t doing it purposefully for attention. But spending that little bit of time pampering her like that made her feel connected. Right now she doesn’t feel she needs to spout on about Munchkins in her airing cupboard or giant mutant frogs in her knicker drawer because she’s getting a little bit of time. It’s often all old people really need.”
Felt a bit guilty as I may have been slightly neglecting Mrs S, what with our summer holiday and now the start of the school term.
Took the tea through to find Mrs S telling Skunk that she’d once been Casanova’s love slave but had escaped by employing her teleporting skills.
Silver looked at me and smiled. “I never promised it would be a miracle cure. But I’ll keep giving it a bloody good try.”
Wednesday 24th September
Had a quick word with Gestapo outside school this morning and asked her how often she and Pritesh actually visit Mrs S.
“Oh, really only when we have to, Darling. She’s terribly sweet and all that but I always find old people a little challenging on the nose.”
What a cheek! Mrs S has never been a smelly old biddy - well, a bit spicy sometimes but that’s only due to her cooking.
“And to be honest Libby, I also find her deranged ramblings a bit tricky to deal with. Does she really expect us to believe that that revolting Skunk character is shacked up with a witch doctor? I mean, I ask you.”
Wonder if Silver would be interested in taking up a spot of voodoo with me, cos I sure as hell know where I’d like to stick a few needles right now.
Can’t think what Pritesh sees in the wretched woman. Feel quite insulted to think that he used to have the hots for me and then ends up going for such a vicious and vile harridan. Guess the non-stop and varied sex must have something to do with it, but I’m still slightly put out.
Told Ned over dinner and he seized the opportunity to tease me.
“Oooh, Lib, are you jealous that your little admirer has dumped you for another?”
Whacked him with a spatula and told him, no I wasn’t jealous, I was just surprised at Pritesh’s choice.
“Well my love, I think he’d been in a bit of a drought for a while so he probably got a bit desperate. The old Gestapo might not be a candidate for the Nobel Peace prize but I’m sure Pritesh isn’t thinking that when he’s dunking his samosa.”
My husband can be so coarse sometimes, I don’t know why I married him.
Well, I do know actually, I’ve always been quite partial t
o a bit of playful vulgarity - just not when it’s at my expense.
And, as a delicate woman with child, I shouldn’t be subjected to such smut. Told him as much and then it was my turn to feel the sting of the spatula as he chased me round the kitchen until he got me in a clinch over the breakfast bar.
Yep - smut’s kind of OK!
Thursday 25th September
CCL
Had another committee meeting this evening.
Fenella was slightly late and excused herself with the news that she’d been hurling like a demon-crazed Linda Blair since six this morning so, if she was a bit whiffy, forgive her.
Hinge & Bracket smiled politely, Dress-up Mummy nodded sympathetically, Shergar and Barbie winced and Letchy and Gorgeous Rooney shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
