by Polly James
I suppose I’ll be able to work as a circus freak when Max notices them and leaves me for someone less hirsute – not that he seems to be concentrating much on me at the moment, anyway. Since Ellen’s comments at my birthday party, he’s taken to doing sit-ups, every night – much to Josh’s amusement, if not to mine.
I think it’ll take more than sit-ups, but wisely say nothing, as I am endeavouring to become an enigma. Mum, however, sadly isn’t. She phones just before I go to bed to announce her latest affliction – something to do with a painful buttock.
I endure an hour of symptom discussion before she rings off, and then I instruct Josh to shoot me if I ever become like my mother. He just raises a meaningful eyebrow.
TUESDAY, 18 MAY
Our phones don’t stop ringing all day long. It pains me to admit it, but one of the legacies of thirteen years of a Labour Government seems to have been a huge increase in victim culture. Honestly, the amount of complaining I hear from people with minor problems is incredible.
Mr Franklin phones first thing this morning, to tell me that it’s my job to get him his emergency benefit payment ‘asap’ – as he’s going on holiday tomorrow and needs to buy new clothes to take with him. He takes the opportunity to remind me several times that he is ‘severely disabled’.
I can’t remember the last time Max and I could afford a holiday, but it must be more than ten years ago – and yet here’s Mr Franklin off on yet another bloody jaunt. I wouldn’t mind so much, but the only thing wrong with him is that he’s hugely fat. I do wish he wouldn’t talk with his mouth full, too.
God knows how many meals he consumes during today’s conversation but, eventually, I manage to get rid of him by agreeing to phone the Benefits Agency to emphasise his need for outsized Hawaiian shirts.
‘Make sure you do it today,’ he says. ‘It’s an emergency, after all.’
Then he hangs up, and the phone rings again immediately, but this time the caller is an elderly man who introduces himself as George Bradley, from Silverhill. Then he apologises profusely for ‘bothering’ his MP, but says that he wonders if there is anything we can do to help him, as he’s getting nowhere by himself. Both literally and metaphorically, as it turns out.
The poor man had his leg amputated months ago, but the hospital seems to have forgotten to arrange ambulance transport to take him to his follow-up appointments – which means that Mr Bradley hasn’t even been able to get his prosthetic leg fitted yet.
‘It’s not all bad,’ he says. ‘The grandchildren love it when I fall over, but it is making caring for my wife a little tricky. She’s got Alzheimer’s, you know.’
Honestly, first Mr Bloody Franklin describes his lack of holiday clothes as an emergency, and then someone like Mr Bradley is embarrassed to have to ask The Boss for help. Sometimes I think the world is going mad. How much people complain seems to be in inverse proportion to the severity of the problems that they face – and this includes The Boss, who’s doing nothing but today.
He phones every few minutes to moan about everything: having to sit on the ‘wrong’ side of the Commons Chamber;fn8 the Speaker ignoring him, and the fact that he still hasn’t managed to persuade the Commons authorities to move his office out of Portcullis House,fn9 and back into the HOCfn10 itself.
He even starts complaining that the girls in the London office take up too much room, because their legs get in his way. As far as I can remember, it was primarily the length (and shape) of their legs that persuaded him to employ them in the first place, so I don’t exactly have much sympathy, especially when he makes it sound as if they should get their legs amputated to avoid causing him further inconvenience.
‘You should think yourself lucky your office hasn’t been moved into a broom cupboard,’ I say. ‘Given the Party’s less-than-resounding success in the general election.’
‘Well, that’s where that bloody idiot Gordy’s new office should be, then,’ says Andrew, who never hesitates to apportion blame. ‘And, anyway, I can’t spend all day talking to you. I have a cunning plan to disrupt the Coalition.’
When he explains that this involves nothing more than giving disorientated new MPs misleading directions, I congratulate him on his maturity – and he hangs up on me.
‘Hopefully, he’s the only delinquent we’ll have to deal with today,’ I say to Greg, who replies, ‘Don’t tempt fate.’
Ten minutes later, I get a call from Josh’s tutor, who says that Josh is to be in detention this afternoon, ‘for leaving class mid-lesson for no reason, and being obstreperous when told off’.
I demand an explanation from Josh when I get home from work, whereupon he informs me that the teacher is a ‘f*ckwit who doesn’t understand the meaning of the word “emergency”’.
‘Tell me about it,’ I say, which Josh misinterprets as a sign that he should continue to explain.
Apparently, he had ‘no choice’ but to rush out of the classroom when he noticed the words ‘Josh Bennett is gay’ written in large letters on the wall outside the window; and he obviously considers this slight on his heterosexuality to have more than justified his impromptu exit. He is incredulous that anyone should have found a reason to object.
‘I went straight back to class, anyway,’ he says. ‘As soon as I’d finished painting it out.’
Painting it out? Am I raising a member of the underclass? Why would Josh even possess a can of spray-paint, let alone keep one in his rucksack for so-called emergencies? On this evidence, my son could be a vandal, or involved in a gang war – not that Max is any help with either scenario.
‘Can you please deal with your son?’ I say, at which he laughs, and pats Josh on the shoulder. Things are rather frosty after that, until Max falls asleep on the sofa, and I begin to check my emails.
Greg has sent me a link to an old article about the cost of air-lifting an extremely obese man from his home, to enable him to attend a hospital appointment. ‘This’ll be Mr Franklin next, Molly,’ he says. ‘And we taxpayers will be the ones paying for it!’
Oh, good God. Are Greg and I becoming fascists, or worse, Tories? It’s very worrying indeed.
WEDNESDAY, 19 MAY
I risk the country being unable to cope without me and leave work early, because I have to go to the doctor’s for a smear test on my way home.
How on earth are you supposed to make conversation in a casual, relaxed way with your knees apart and your bits on display? I chat about the weather for a few minutes, but then my voice just trails away to nothing, while I try to pretend that I am not talking to someone while wearing nothing at all on my bottom half.
I don’t think this is what the nurse is referring to when she asks me whether I’ve noticed anything unusual, though – so I decide I’d better mention the blood last time Max and I had sex. I suppose I could have just mentioned the sex, but that doesn’t occur to me at the time.
‘How often has this happened?’ she says.
‘Once,’ I say, which is a dual-purpose answer, as I’m not quite sure whether she’s referring to the blood, or the sex. You can’t work for a politician for ten years without learning the value of the dual-purpose answer.
‘Oh,’ she says, in a meaningful way, and then tells me that she’ll refer me to a gynaecologist for further investigation. There’s something to look forward to.
When I eventually get home, I’m still so distracted that I put a pack of sanitary towels in the fridge, and forget to be cross with Josh, the nascent gang lord. I even wave to Annoying Ellen by accident so that’ll just encourage her and, before you know it, she’ll be popping round again to ‘borrow a corkscrew’. How an alcoholic can manage without one of their own, God only knows.
I quite fancy a gin myself, but Max looks disapproving when I suggest it. He’s still on his keep-fit mission, though I can’t say I’ve noticed any difference so far.
THURSDAY, 20 MAY
Good God, I wonder how many other candidates there’ll be for the leadership of the Labou
r Party by the end of the week? They’re coming out of the woodwork in droves, while trying to pretend that they’re all part of one big happy family, which I don’t think anyone believes.
I don’t, anyway – not considering the state of mine. Honestly, the press have no idea what they’re talking about. They keep bemoaning the death of the extended family, but what they don’t say is that it’s just become over-extended, due to divorce, leaving people like me with no choice but to spend all our leisure time phoning parental figures, in an endlessly repeating loop.
First you feel guilty for not phoning any of them, but then you phone one and immediately feel guilty that you haven’t phoned the other. Before you know it, that’s the whole evening gone. I sometimes think it would be much easier to be an orphan; but then that makes me feel guilty too.
I wouldn’t mind so much, if feeling guilty didn’t always give me hiccups – and, anyway, when your job involves spending all day taking calls from the usual suspects, you don’t perceive having a ‘nice long chat on the phone’ during your time off as a good thing, no matter who it’s with.
Today’s been fairly quiet on the call front, though, so by the time I get home from work I am less horrified by the sight of a phone than usual. I’d better call Mum and capitalise on this rare state of affairs – or, on second thoughts, maybe not. It’s Dad’s turn, so I try him first.
‘I went to B&Q today,’ he says. ‘Never going there again on a Thursday. Bloody awful, it was.’
‘Why?’ I say, somewhat bemused.
‘Full of bloody wrinklies,’ he says. He is seventy-five, for God’s sake.
After he has explained to me exactly what is wrong with the country – and asked me a hundred incomprehensible questions about the apparent foibles of his new computer – I finally manage to get him off the phone. One hour and forty-five minutes exactly.
I need three consecutive cigarettes before I can handle phoning Mum. She is unavailable – something to do with the painful buttock again – so Ted chats to me for five polite, step-fatherly minutes, and then that’s it. Result!
It’s only 10:45pm. If I put off calling Stepmother Mark II until tomorrow night, I might catch the end of Question Timefn11 and be able to vent the day’s aggression by shouting at the TV.
So much for best-laid plans, that’s all I can say. I miss QT when Dad phones back with ‘a quick computer question’. Two hours later, I log on to Amazon, and buy a copy of PCs for Dummies.
I arrange for it to be sent directly to Dad, labelled: ‘A gift from a well-wisher.’
FRIDAY, 21 MAY
Greg says he ran into his ex-girlfriend last night, so he spends most of the morning in a decline in the Oprah room,fn12 before returning to his desk and typing ‘creative methods of revenge’ into Google.
‘You need to get over her,’ I say. ‘And move out of your mum’s house, while you’re at it. No wonder you haven’t had a girlfriend since.’
‘Recovering from a broken heart takes time’ says Greg, ‘as does getting rid of a hint of man-boob. I still can’t believe she dumped me for that.’
‘I thought it was because she was cheating on you,’ says The Boss, ignoring my warning glance. ‘And, anyway, being single’s great. It’s the best guarantee of an active sex-life, isn’t it, Molly?’
There should be a law against mocking the afflicted. We do have feelings, too.
SATURDAY, 22 MAY
Sam arrives first thing to stay for the weekend. We haven’t seen him since my ghastly birthday party, and of course Max hasn’t phoned him at all since then.
How can you call someone your best friend when you never bother to contact them? Not that this stops Max acting as if he’s delighted to see Sam, and slapping him on the shoulder in the weirdly repressed way that men do.
Sam slaps back, but I reckon he only puts up with Max’s neglect because he still hasn’t got a girlfriend. Now he’s joined an internet dating site and wants me to check his profile for its woman-appeal.
I’d rate it at zero, unless honesty is no longer a desirable quality. Sam’s claiming to be a non-smoker (!); a moderate drinker (only true if compared to Annoying Ellen), and he’s put ‘University’ in the education section. In response to my raised eyebrow, he mutters, ‘University of Life.’
His photograph is terrible too – he looks like a middle-aged woman with a really bad haircut. Why do so many men insist on growing their hair once they get to a certain age? Thank God Max isn’t one of them – I’d wield the scissors while he slept, if necessary. (I’ve always quite liked the name, Delilah, now I come to think of it.)
It’s not just Sam(son)’s hair that ruins the photo, either. For some unaccountable reason, his neck is swathed in a scarf that could almost be one of those hideous pashmina things that everyone but me seems to be wearing. (Everyone female, and of my age, that is.) Maybe this is part of his attempt to appear metrosexual? In the ‘About Me’ section, he’s written a load of pseudo-sensitive stuff that completely belies the fact that he’s about as unreconstructed as you can get.
I’m still trying to find a subtle way to tell him that his profile and photo are rubbish, and that he’s doomed to permanent bachelorhood, when he announces that fifteen women have already contacted him in the three days since he registered on the site. Fifteen! Why do I find that so depressing? (And, talking of middle-aged women – which I was, though admittedly ten minutes ago – does my birthday mean that I’ve officially become middle-aged?)
If I have, I bet no one would be interested in dating me. I’d have to lie about my age, and smear Vaseline all over the camera lens before I took the picture for my profile. It’s different for men, obviously. They can be as old as the hills and women still want to date them. Even men as old as Dad – according to Dinah, anyway.
She calls to tell me that she’s positive that he has taken up internet dating now, and says she bases this assumption on the fact that he seems to be sending emails very late at night. ‘And he sounds suspiciously cheerful when you talk to him, too,’ she says. ‘So it’s either that, or he’s becoming obsessed with online porn.’
Good God. Is everyone having sex, apart from me? (Rhetorical question – don’t answer that.)
SUNDAY, 23 MAY
Some excitement at last! When I log on to the computer this morning, I find a private message on Facebook from someone called Johnny Hunter – who seems to remember that we had a night of passion behind the Science block, after the fifth-year end-of-term disco.
There’s no photo on his profile, and the ‘about’ section is helpfully blank, so I send a brief reply, in the hope that it won’t be too obvious that I can’t remember who the hell he is.
I forget to tell Max about it, as he and Sam have been to the pub for a so-called quickie before lunch and are incapable of intelligent conversation by the time they get home. They don’t seem to realise this, though, so I leave them to bore each other to tears while I walk into town. I shall have a sober wander around the shops instead.
Mainly stationery shops, given that I want to buy a packet of gold stars, like the ones that Connie and Josh’s primary school teachers used to stick in their school books, in recognition of particularly good pieces of work.
I’m not intending to reward quality so much as quantity, myself. The latter’s as important as the former in some situations – like how often Max and I are having sex. So, when I get home, I open the dog-eared packet of stars I finally found at the back of a shelf in Ryman, stick one onto the calendar and put the rest in the kitchen drawer.
There seem to be an awful lot of stars left unused but, luckily, Mum distracts me from thinking about this when she phones with an update on her health. She’s getting Ted to tow her around the house on a tea-tray now, as her buttock hurts if she walks. I really hope it’s not hereditary.
MONDAY, 24 MAY
In the morning, Greg and I are under orders to represent The Boss at a public meeting to reassure constituents that the powers-that-be are tack
ling anti-social behaviour – as opposed to simply wringing their hands and despairing about it.
Greg arrives before I do, and sends me a text:
“Molly, you’re late. Meet me in the lobby. I will be staring intently at the circus of freaks, losers, the mad, the bad and the weak who pay our wages.”
Even though this description doesn’t really apply to most of the audience, for once, the meeting’s ghastly anyway. It’s impossible to answer hostile questions realistically while constrained by political correctness, let alone while having to contend with Greg’s increasingly demented texts. I can’t even kick him, because he’s sitting four places away from me, holding his mobile underneath the table and typing away furiously while wearing his usual angelic expression. I do wish he’d cut that out whenever we’re on public display.
He stresses me out so much that, eventually, I’m driven to my own version of anti-social behaviour and sneak out for a cigarette, joining the crowd of teenagers hanging around outside. I end up chatting to them – hug a hoodie, as Dave Blancmange Facefn13 would say – and they tell me that they aren’t too happy about recent calls to ban smokers from standing outside pubs. They want to know why drunks aren’t to be banned as well.
They’ve got a point, now I come to think of it. Smokers don’t go around beating people up on their way home from a night’s smoking, or vomit all over the pavements. So that’s decided it – I’m definitely not giving up my bad habit, just because a hypocritical ex-government has told me to.
Especially when The Boss hasn’t given up either, and he voted for the smoking ban.
TUESDAY, 25 MAY
Why, why, why don’t I work at Westminster? Everyone there is spending today basking in the excitement of the State Opening of Parliament. Meanwhile, it’s Groundhog Day here in the provinces.
All the usual suspects phone first thing, including Miss Chambers. We need noise limiters like they have in call centres, because that woman is slowly but surely wrecking my hearing.
