How to Be a Woman

I am reading How to Be a Woman by Caitlin Moran and am guffawing with laughter. (I know, I know, I am the last person on the planet to read it, but up until now I have been too busy being a woman to find the time to sit down and read about how to do it properly.) 
"What are you laughing at?" asks Small Boy. He has put his long-suffering Lavender Pekin in a wheelbarrow full of grass and is wheeling her around in what he calls her "luxury nest".
"Oh, it's just this author - she and her sister used to do exactly what Auntie C and I did!" I cry, wiping tears of mirth and nostalgia from my face.
"What's that? Pretend to go swimming in the bath by putting flannels on your tummies and saying they were swimming costumes? Pretend that your peas were people and take them walking in mashed potato mountains and diving in lakes of gravy? Pretend--"
"NO!" (This is one of the increasingly frequent moments in my life where I find I am regretting telling my kids anything about my own childhood as it is all, slowly but surely, coming back to haunt me. I feel I need to make it clear here that although, yes, I did do that thing with the flannel, it was in fact my sister that did the thing with the peas and whatnot. My food never got the chance to be involved in imaginary games.) "No, we used to put tights on our heads and pretend that we had long hair!" I squeal. "And Caitlin Moran says she and her sister did it too!"
Small Boy seems, inexplicably, to have lost interest in what I am saying and has picked up an old pashmina of mine. He is swishing it around, as if it is a cape and he is about to take to the stage and deliver a dramatic soliloquy. "Oh wow," he says. "Can I have this?"
"No," I say. "You look mental."
"I do not!" he protests. "And can I have a pair of tights too?"
"WHAT?"
"Oh, and do we have an electric fan?"
"Er, maybe. Why?" I am, as Miranda's mum would say, what-I-call-flabbergasted by this point.
"Well, if I had some tights I could put them on my head like you and Auntie C and that woman in the book did, and then I could wear this scarfy thing and then I could turn on the fan and stand in front of it and my cape and long hair would  - flow - in - the - breeze!" He delivers these last four words in a tone of magic and mystery with a shake of his head and a rustle of his cape.
I hastily stow my copy of Ms Moran's book under a stash of newspapers and vow not to share any more of it with my son.
I don't want him getting any more ideas on how to be a woman.

Expletive Deleted

On a hormonal scale of one to ten, I am off the graph and shooting skywards towards "homicidal". This is not helped by the fact that the dog has eaten the three dead mice which The Cats had left as a thoughtful reminder of what they will do to me if I forget to buy any more Whiskas, and has then proceeded to treat various "offerings" from the local wildlife as a veritable smorgasbord for her breakfast. As if this weren't enough to turn my already delicate stomach, Chris Evans has had the temerity to go on holiday (or drive a fast car somewhere) leaving Richard "mad as a tea cosy" Madeley to take over the reins at Radio 2 in the morning. I cannot and will not listen to that apology-for-a-man's own inimitable brand of drivel, so we have to sit in silence or Make Conversation, which in reality means that the kids whinge and the School Run has become barely tolerable.
I wonder if Chris Evans realises the damage he causes by going away? How many mothers have all but strangled their off-spring on the way to school because there is no "Mon-day, Tues-day, WednesdayThursdayFriday" to sing along to; no "Candy Man" on a Chris-free Friday? I am seriously considering selling the piano to pay for a chauffeur until Chris Evans comes back. I realise I could put something else on, but no one is going to let me listen to the "Today" programme, and frankly listening to anything else is sheer insanity at that time of the morning. Daughter's choice of music is definitely to be avoided at all costs, as her preferences include the kind of music that have driven better women than me to commit Hari Kari at the steering wheel. I thus insist on seating Daughter in the back alongside Small Boy and the Mountain of Bags so that she cannot monopolise the radio controls and subject me to thumpy rappy stuff.
"But why don't you like rap?" asks Daughter. "It's better than the rubbish music you like."
"It's full of swearing," I say, "and it's aggressive and violent-" At that moment a van swings out in front of me, causing me to jam the brakes in an emergency stop. "What the *?@%£$?! does that white van man think he's doing, the *&%$£?>!!!"
"Aha! YOU are ALWAYS swearing," says Small Boy with a considerable amount of triumph in his voice. "And your worst ever swear word was that time you were driving round and round a roundabout in Peterborough and you said, "*&^%$£! Peterborough is the Arse End of the Universe!"
This is Small Boy's favourite anecodote about me which he wheels out with alarming regularity in the most unfortunate company, such as in front of friends who live in or near Peterborough.
"Yes well, ahem, never mind. What lessons have you got today?" I bluster.
"R.E.," says Daughter. "Mu-um, what is the difference between your soul and your spirit?"
At the moment, I am devoid of both, I think, gritting my teeth. "Oh, I think maybe one's to do with your actual essence that makes you you and the other is, um, sort of what makes you human." For crying out loud, WHY do they ask these kind of things when I'm trying to decide whether or not to overtake a bike on a sharp bend?
"That doesn't make sense," Daughter admonishes.
"Oh look! You've got a text from Grandma!" Small Boy shouts, waving my phone in the air. "Shall I read it?" The Aged Ps did make it on holiday to Greece, it transpires, but not before managing one last disaster en route: "Yr fthr st alrm 1 hr 2 L8. Thght w'd miss flght but it ws 3 hrs L8."
"What does that mean?" Small Boy asks in alarm.
I take a deep breath and give thanks that the Aged Ps are now in a faraway country and thus unable to call me from the two house phones and simultaneously regale me with their two differing versions of what actually happened. "It sounds like Grandpa set the alarm wrong so they thought they were going to miss their flight," I explain. "But luckily the flight was delayed so it was all OK in the end."
"Oh no. Poor Grandpa," says Daughter knowingly. "I bet Grandma swore at him all the way to the airport."
"So THAT'S where you get it from!" Small Boy exclaims with glee. I glower at him in the rear view mirror. He is looking thoughtful. "I wonder if Grandma thinks that Peterborough is the *&%$£>?! Arse End of the Universe, too?" he muses.

Let's Be Spontaneous!

Weekends used to be relaxed affairs; a period of two days when we slowed down, chilled out, mooched around and generally enjoyed ourselves. Not so now that the God of Sport rules our every spare moment. The alarm heartlessly streams Radio 4 into our bedroom at the same time at the weekend as it does during the week, the only difference being that Husband and I will have already drawn lots the night before as to who will respond, leap out of bed and start yelling: "Bags! Teeth! Hair! Shoes!" (We have made life difficult for ourselves, I admit. We still labour under the misguided belief that Friday nights signal the beginning of two days of fun, which invariably results in us drinking just that bit too much wine and watching just that bit too much rubbish telly before keeling into bed just that bit too late to be getting up at the crack of dawn the next day. We are just too wild for our own good.)

This Saturday it is my turn. I stumble and lurch blindly to the bathroom, promising myself yet again that next time I will not have that beer before that half bottle of wine on a Friday night, and manage to locate items which could be described as "clothes". However on closer examination, it would be stretching the imagination to beyond breaking point to describe their combined effect as anything resembling "an outfit".
No matter, I think to myself. I have only to drop and run this morning. I could, in fact, drive to school in my pyjamas, open the door, push Daughter out and drive away, tyres leaving satisfying burn marks on the tarmac.
Then I think of the scornful looks I would get from Daughter and reason that pyjamas probably aren't the solution I'm looking for. I resolve to pull on a coat to cover up the worst of my ensemble and decide to risk going make-up-less, having convinced myself that no one will be seeing me up close.

The children have already been up for at least an hour to ensure they get their required weekend dose of unsuitable television. I meditate briefly on the benefits of allowing them this on a weekday as it might mean Daughter would get out of bed of her own accord if she were allowed an hour of "Glee" and dodgy music videos before school, instead of being on the receiving end of my own personal brand of extraordinary rendition for teenagers, i.e. standing by her door shouting "GET UP!" and flicking her light switch on and off until sleep is no longer an option.

On arrival at school, I am horrified to see that two of the Dads are there, leaning against their cars and chatting. Why can't they do the drop and run thing like us Mums? I think, panicking, as I attempt to drive into school without being seen. I absolutely, positively cannot let them see me looking so rough. It would be Social Death, as Daughter would say if anything like that were to happen to her. However, at this moment Daughter, it turns out, is more concerned with Actual Death due to reckless driving.
"Mum! Look where you're going!" she cries, as I try driving with my head bent low behind the steering wheel, my hair flicked Bieber-style over my face. "You're going to crash into Evie and Millie and Molly and Livvy and Lottie if you're not careful. Oh, look! The Dads are waving at you, Mum. Aren't you going to say hello?"
I wince and wave back, knowing I will now have to get out of the car in my ill-chosen Saturday-morning garb so as not to be seen as rude and unfriendly. I think back to an article in the Guardian Weekend magazine about School Run Chic. My look this morning is less Claudia Schiffer, more The Lady in the Van. I regret not staying in my pyjamas. At least then I could have popped my head out of the window, gestured to my pyjamas and made some idiotic joke about going to a pyjama party without having to emerge from the car.
"Run!" I urge Daughter. "If you're lucky no one will realise we're related."
She shoots me a rueful smile. "Sometimes you are OK, Mum," she says gratefully, before breaking into a sprint, while I go over for a chat.

I arrive home to find that Small Boy has got himself a play date. As Daughter has arranged to go into town after her match, this means that Husband and I find ourselves in the unusual position of an entire day to ourselves with no children.
"We could go out!" I enthuse. "We could go to the cinema or something!"
"Oh, no," Husband says, shaking his head. "We haven't booked tickets."
"We don't need to - we can be spontaneous!" I cry. I realise I am probably looking rather wild-eyed and desperate at this point, but what the hell, I am FEELING wild-eyed and desperate. We have not been spontaneous since 1998. A fact which possibly explains Husband's reaction.
He shoots me a look of utter panic. "Spontaneous?" he echoes. "What's that?"
I sigh and retreat to the sofa with a cat and the newspaper. Husband looks visibly relieved that I have given up so easily and returns to his greenhouse.
At least I can catch up on a bit of sleep while I wait for the children to come home, I think, settling down with Jet curled into me, purring contentedly. (She and I do not often get such quality time together, it has to be said.)
I am just dozing off, my mind filled with soft-focused images of turning up to school looking like Claudia Schiffer, when something wet is shoved into my face.
"Urgh!" I jolt awake, sending the cat shooting from my lap, but not before she's given me a vicious farewell scratch. "What the--?"
It is the dog, her head on one side, a half-chewed tennis ball in her mouth. From the look of utter woe on her face she is plainly saying, "You're not going to sleep, are you? But we've got the whole day to ourselves! I thought we could be spontaneous . . ."

The Technoprats

I come from a long line of technoprats. There are people in my family who have only barely mastered the idea of the electric light bulb, let alone how to tweet, DM, Facebook, text or turn on a digital telly. Some of us had just about got the hang of programming the video before DVDs and hard-drives reared their disturbing heads. And as for iPlayer, it's practically a swear-word in my family. (There are elements of Husband's family who are similarly challenged, I should add, for fairness's sake.)

However, technology invades every corner of our lives, and thus we must embrace it, even if it often creates more frustration and confusion than it facilitates and eases things. 

The Aged Ps have gone on holiday, and Mother is distraught that this will mean a moratorium on hourly updates by telephone as to what she and Father are eating, watching, drinking and breathing and what their opinions are on all of the above.

"I like you to know what we're up to," she says during our last conversation. "And I like to know what you're up to, although goodness knows you're always far too busy to bother to tell me - " (Possibly because I'm constantly on the phone listening to what you're up to, I mutter. But under my breath. I know my place.) " - and I like to know what my grandchilddren are up to."
"Yes, Mum," I say, while she is drawing breath in preparation for a full-blown account of the Italian meal in that place-on-the-high-street-which-used-to-be-a-bookshop, do I remember . . .? "The thing is, I'm sometimes a bit pressed for time," I continue, "so a half hour phone call is quite tricky to achieve on a regular basis. How about texting if you have something quick to say?"
WHY OH WHY DID I SUGGEST THIS?

Five minutes into The Aged Ps' car journey (and our School Run) I am receiving multiple texts all saying the same thing: Weee have gt colds. Grks r on strk. Will b Fun on Sun!!

Daughter takes it upon herself to be in charge of my phone whenever I let it out of my sight for so much as a millisecond, so she reads the texts before I do. "Grandma's trying to tell you something," she says, squinting at the screen. "Oh boy! Her texting is sooooo diffcult to understand. And she's sent the same thing three times."

And this from the girl who regularly sends texts that would need the sharpest minds from Bletchley Park to decipher what she means.

I translate for her: "We have got colds. Greeks are on strike: will be fun on Sunday!"

"Why will it be fun if they are on strike?" says Small Boy from his inferior position in the back of the Mini, where he is forced to sit beneath a heap of his sister's bags and musical instruments - and sometimes the dog, if I am taking her running. 

"She's being SARCASTIC, duuur," Daughter explains, helpfully, stretching out her long legs from her privileged position next to me. "Why is Grandma so rubbish at texting? It's not that difficult."
Secretly I agree, but in the interests of sounding balanced and reasonable I say, "Every new generation thinks that older people are rubbish with technology. I expect by the time you're my age there'll be hologram video phones that project a 3-D image of the person who's calling you directly into your house."

"Urgh! I hope not!" shrieks Daughter in disgust. "What if you're on the loo when they call?"

Small Boy pipes up: "Was your grandma rubbish at technology when you were our age, Mum?"

I snort. "There was no such thing as technology in the 70s!" I pause. "Although we did get an answer machine in the 80s and that caused a few problems."
My grandmother couldn't get the hang of the fact that you could simply leave a message: she was convinced that at all times there should be someone speaking back to you if you were on the phone, and so she used to leave huge pregnant pauses between her truncated pronouncements. Our family's all-time favourite was the time she thought we had forgotten to come and collect her for Sunday lunch. She called while we were on our way to get her, and with no preamble whatsoever spoke the following words into the machine:
"Thought I was coming to lunch . . . One o'clock . . . With your mother."

We teased the poor old lady so much about this that she never left another message again.

I wave the children off to school then return to the car to sit and text Mother back. Within seconds I receive another message from her; an email this time, entitled: "Technophobe!" It reads: Sorry about triple text - mobile mucking up.  Dad gets cross with me. 

Although I chortle at the work-woman blaming her tools, it does cross my mind that this is a woman who never worked in an office, avoided the study while the ZXSpectrum was running "in case of radioactivity" and only got a microwave once she had been reassured by Good Housekeeping magazine that it wouldn't cause all her hair to drop out and her eyes to glow in the dark.

For a technoprat, she's not doing that badly.

Fat is a Family Issue

I am eating a banana whilst standing and directing the family to their various positions on a Monday morning. I am wearing my running kit so that I don't have an excuse to debate with myself about the sanity of running in the rain on a Monday morning once I have dropped the kids off.
"Pack your bags, eat your toast, drink your juice, clean your teeth!" I bark.
The dog looks distinctly worried and goes into Submissive Mode, shuffling back to her basket. The Cats yawn, stretch and go back to sharpening their claws on the furniture.
"Why do you always go running in the morning?" asks Small Boy, as a diversionary tactic. "Is it because you are afraid of being fat?"
"Mum is not fat," says Daughter, supportively. "And William's mum says that William's sister says that Mum is one of the only Sporty Mums to be able to carry off wearing her running kit into school."
William's family is regarded as the Fount of all Wisdom by my kids, so I gratefully accept this as a compliment and note with relief that I have been promoted from Weird Mum to Sporty Mum in the space of a week.
Small Boy looks me up and down dubiously. "You know, when I am older I am going to invent the FatNav," he announces decisively.
My moment of self-satisfaction has evaporated in the blink of an eye.
"The WHAT?" chorus Daughter and Husband.
"The FatNav," Small Boy explains patiently. "It would be like a SatNav except it would tell you where all the fat people are in the world."
"What would be the use of that?" asks Husband.
"Well obviously it would mean that you could round them all up - the fat people," Small Boy sighs, "and then you could . . . burst them!" he finishes, waving his arms wildly at the brilliance of his idea.
"That's not very nice!" I exclaim.
"OK then. I'll invent the NaffNav instead," Small Boy says, not to be deterred from this sudden surge of creativity.
"The NaffNav?"
"Yup, the NaffNav. It would find all the naff people in the world."
"Ri-i-i-ght," I say slowly. "And what would it do with them?"
"Un-naff them, of course," says Small Boy.
Daughter nods sagely and sucks her teeth at me, as if I am in danger of being hunted down by said machine myself.
I consider trying to come up with a Nav of my own - possibly one which would enable me to get everyone to organise themselves without me having to behave like a Gauleiter in Lycra. But it is Monday morning and I am barely conscious. Instead I look pointedly at the clock and bark: "Teeth! Hair! Shoes! Bags!" until normal chaos is resumed.

Vanity, vanity! All is vanity!

I have had to take myself in hand since hitting 40. And "hit" it I did. There was none of the graceful, nonchalant "turning", which was how I entered my thirties. No, reaching the eve of my next decade, I took a run up, closed my eyes and hit it with a level of force comparable to that of a teenage wizard hurtling towards the entrance to platform 9 3/4 in the hope of a better, more magical world on the other side. I have been disappointed. There has been a transformation, but it has been very much for the worse. There are bits of me which, admittedly, could never have been termed "areas of outstanding beauty" but which, on this side of 40, are now definitely more in the category of "brown-field site in need of improvement".
So it is that I must make my way to the hairdresser's, at intervals of every increasing frequency, to have my unattractive badger-like stripes attended to. Fortunately for me, our local hairdresser's is a place of warmth, friendliness and laughter, which often verges on the hysterical, so that I find I actually look forward to going there.
Especially after the way this day has started. Small Boy is jabbering at me in one ear about his latest obsession, namely his desire to incubate eggs and hatch chickens. Daughter is jabbering in the other ear about how best to apply concealer and whether it is normal to get spots in places on the anatomy other than the face. The dog is concerned that she is being left out of things and is vying for attention by thrusting her wet nose into my groin. The Cats are taking advantage of the mayhem to sneak off and find an unmade bed to roll around in and leave muddy paw prints. I am attempting to drink a cup of coffee and make sure everyone eats something before hitting the school run. Husband has long since left the building.
"So if I could just get Granny and Grandpa to give me the Remainder Twenty-Five Pounds, I could buy the incubator entirely myself and then we could hatch our own chickens!"
I take a deep breath and try to intervene. Small Boy waves his hands at me to prevent me from speaking and continues with a rush: "And I know what you're going to say, Mum. You're going to tell me you don't want any cockerels. Well, I've organised that. William says he will kill any cockerels that hatch and we can just keep the hens."
Oh well, that's all right then. As long as William is prepared to have blood on his hands . . .
"Mu-um! Listen to me!" Daughter is tapping me on the arm repeatedly. It is beginning to hurt. "Can you see where I've put concealer? Can you?" She thrusts her face into mine while the dog shoves her nose into my armpit.
"Time to go!" I cry, leaping from my seat and sending the dog flying.
"And Dad is such an idiot." Small Boy is still talking. "He says I could keep geckos in the incubator! But I obviously can't, as an incubator turns things round and round, so the gecko would have to keep doing somersaults and that would be Cruelty to Animals."
Unlike murdering cockerels, I think. But I don't say it aloud.
Daughter and I spend the school run discussing the finer points of criminal law and whether it is morally correct to defend someone you know to be guilty. Small Boy chips in with impossible-to-answer questions about Life, the Universe and Everything. I begin to wish I had studied something a bit more useful than Modern and Mediaeval Languages at university, and turn up the volume on Chris Evans as he starts to say something incredibly interesting about dinosaurs having feathers. We get stuck in horrendous traffic and narrowly miss being squashed into scrap metal by a particularly vindictive bus driver. I break my vow to stop swearing while driving and get roundly rebuked by both children.
Finally I get rid of everyone, stick on some decent radio and speed off to the haven that is The Courtyard Hair and Beauty.
"Hello, Anna! Would you like a coffee?" asks Lovely Emma.
"I wish we had cake," says Gorgeous Tanya.
"Or biscuits!" salivates Very Spanish Pili.
"Or a Krispy Kreme," coos Hilarious Harriet. "Did you know there's a new shop opening in town?"
"Oh no. I have to be in the right mood to eat a doughnut," Emma shakes her head in disapproval, handing me a steaming mug of coffee.
I smile, sit back and allow myself to be pampered and cosseted for the next hour and a half. Yes, that is how  long it takes to repair the damage that 41 years on this planet and a houseful of children and animals have wrought.
But would I have it any other way? Well, I could do without the badger stripes and the wrinkles, but otherwise, probably not.

The Village Party

It is the day of the annual village party for all the children of the neighbourhood. Small Boy and Daughter are thus performing their annual ritual of moaning, groaning, tearing at their hair, clutching at their clothes and whimpering. Anyone would think they didn't want to go. Husband has baked a cake because he's on the village committee. Also because he believes it gives him street cred. I am busy looking out my most burqa-esque outfit in an attempt to fend off the attentions of The Dodger and his wandering hands. The Dodger is also on the village committee (which is the sole reason I am not) and considers himself to be a ladies' man. Sadly, no lady seems to concur with this view.
The only member of the family who is at all excited at the prospect of the party is the dog, and she is not invited. She also hasn't been walked all weekend, so is giving us a display of her best persuasion techniques in the following order: doleful look, reproachful look, anxious look, hopeful look, loving look, over-excitable-I-might-break-something-in-a-minute look. The first five of these are barely distinguishable to the untrained eye, as they are all comprised of a minuscule variation in the position of one eyebrow. The last is a desperate cry for attention involving much tail-wagging, tongue-lolling and general in-your-face dog-type behaviour.
At 3pm it begins spitting and I offer up a silent prayer of thanks until I hear that Husband is saying "we will only go for half an hour just to show our faces".
We arrive to find the Naughtiest Boy in the Village is already throwing stones at everyone and The Dodger is already accosting any female with a pulse, offering shiny puckered lips for a kiss or two and seductively murmuring that he has made the smoked salmon platter himself. He makes the question, "Would you like some pumpernickel?" sound like an indecent proposal.
I make a bee-line for the rose wine, and sandwich myself defensively between two Lovely Mums. I only speak to these women once a year, not because I do not like them, but because I never see them in the village at any other time. I am soon immersed in the inevitable conversation about holidays, going back to school and how everyone has grown. Daughter comes and stares at me with an expression which would rival the dog at her most baleful, but politely puts up with being told how much she has grown before disappearing behind a hedge with three girls as long-legged, long-haired and rolly-eyed as herself. They flop on to the grass and start bemoaning the older generation. I watch them enviously, but gamely force my attention back to a discussion about secondary schools while accepting another large glass of rose.
Small Boy is telling Husband that what we need is "a garden like this one: then could we have pigs and goats and guinea fowl and there'd be more room for even more chickens". At least he has stopped harping on about the budgie he fell in love with at the agricultural show we went to the day before. I have never seen a boy desire something so earnestly.
I move away from the Lovely Mums and start up a conversation with Ultra-Fit Dad about his latest exploits. He has recently travelled from Land's End to John O'Groats by bike and is now planning an extreme endurance run along the Gower peninsular. We talk running and sore knees and the merits of marathons versus triathlons as a form of mid-life crisis. Ultra-Fit Dad is very persuasive and is making extreme sport sound very exciting. I am on my third glass of rose, getting fired up at the idea of plunging into the river in a wetsuit and realising I am quite enjoying this party, actually.
"I think it's time to go," Husband says, planting a hand firmly on my shoulder as I wave my glass around expansively. "Before we do something we might regret," he adds warningly.
It might be too late for that. I haven't stopped thinking about wetsuits since.

The Kindle

The Aged Ps have just phoned. Mother is in ecstasies over The Kindle which Father bought her for her birthday. The same Kindle which she took one look at and said, "What the hell do I want that for?" The same Kindle which I told her she would love as it would mean she wouldn't have to buy books which she is constantly telling me are a "waste of space". The same Kindle which she told me she wouldn't be able to work as she is not "technologically minded".
"Well, I have to tell you, I love The Kindle. It is marvellous as now I don't have to buy books, which are such a waste of space. You ought to get one, you know. You have far too many books."
"Yes, Mum."
"Shall I tell you what I'm reading? It's that Alan Hollinghurst's The Stranger's Child."
"Oh?" I say,  tentatively. I take a very deep breath and hold on to the side of the table to prepare myself for the onslaught which is bound to ensue. Mother is not an empathetic reader and prefers non-fiction as a rule. Why she is putting herself through reading anything by Hollinghurst is beyond the bounds of my comprehension.
"Well!" says Mother, with some feeling. "I suppose YOU would like it. But it's all about that Bloomsbury Set -" ('Bloomsbury' being on a level with some of the more explosive swear words in Mother's vocabulary) " - and there really is far too much detail about the - you know - shenanigans."
I remain silent, toying with the idea of saying that no, I don't know about the 'shenanigans', but then remind myself that I don't want to start one of her homophobic diatribes. It always amazes me that a woman who read Classics can be so easily affronted by depictions of sexual relationships in modern fiction. Presumably she closed her eyes during those passages in Virgil, Ovid, Homer, not to mention all those gods in the guise of bulls, getting it together with humans. And then there's the Greek literature . . .
Just as I have this thought, Father chips in on the other phone. "Don't forget the Ancient Greeks were quite into that sort of thing, dear."
"Yes, obviously the Ancient Greeks were," Mother says, talking to Father now, forgetting that she called me and could have this conversation with Father if they sat in the same room. "But that's no excuse for people going on about it these days. I have no desire to read such Filth."
"So why are you?" I ask, interrupting quickly before Father can quote Ancient Greek at me.
"It's the Book Club, isn't it?" Mother spits. "They always choose Filth. What are you reading in your Book Club?"
I grit my teeth. "Women in Love," I say quietly, hoping she won't hear and will start talking to Father again instead.
"Oh my God! D H Lawrence! More Filth!" Mother shrieks.
Father chuckles. "Did I ever tell you about the time my mother gave me Lady Chatterley's Lover?" he says.
"Yes, you did actually," I say.
"I was only 14 and good old Mum thought it would be educational," he continues. "It was only when I asked her why she had made me read a boring book about mining that she realised she had given me the expurgated version by mistake!"
"Pah! Typical of your mother to give you Filth to read," my mother crows. "After all, she was a Nudist!"
(Grandma and Grandpa met in a Naturist camp in the 30s, but I may save that story for another time . . .)
"No, but that's the point, dear - she didn't--"
"So, this Kindle," I cut in hastily. "You like it then?"
"Oh yes!" Mother cries. "The best thing is, it's quicker to read than a real book - which is such a waste of space."
"Quicker?" I ask, puzzled. "How's that then?"
"It doesn't have page numbers!" Mother announces.
"Er, right . . ."
"It just tells you the percentage of the book that you've read. AND you can make the type bigger. AND it's easy to carry around and just so handy. Not like a book, which is--"
"--such a waste of space, yes," I say. "Well, I'm glad you like it. I thought you would."
"There's just one thing," Mother says.
"Yes?"
"I do wish they would invent a way of editing out all the Filth."

Back to Skool

It is the first day of the new school year. The alarm goes off at the unearthly hour of 7 a.m. I have not seen 7 a.m. for almost two months. I have not missed it.
The children have been up since 6 a.m. Small Boy has already fed the dog and cats, rearranged his Museum (a collection of Unspeakable Things) and been out to check on his chickens. When I go in to grunt at him he is stressing about whether to shut them in or not, "Coz you are not exactly going to look after them today, are you?" Daughter has been on Facebook since 6 a.m. engaged in a frantic conversation about whether to wear tights or socks, who is Hot and who is Not and which teacher is the most toxic. When I go in to grunt at her I am greeted with a highpitched stream of hysterical dramatics: "Lottie says socks and Littie says tights, Lattie says whatever and Hazza says WT* are you lot on about. He is soooo annoying . . ." All Daughter's female friends have names that end in "ie" even if their names are not supposed to end in "ie". The boys' names are mangled beyond recognition and are certainly not allowed to end in "ie" or even "y", hence "Harry" becomes "Hazza".
I grunt and go to the bathroom to begin battling with contact lenses that are as unimpressed as I am by the 7 a.m. start and are resolutely refusing to cooperate.
By 7.45 a.m. we have had the lowdown on all the possible permutations of Daughter's classroom and locker arrangements this year and Husband is looking very dazed. Daughter leaves to brush her teeth with a last dramatic monologue on the unfairness of having teachers who are gross, unfair, boring and weird. With a roll of her eyes and a flick of her hair, she is gone. Husband shakes his head wearily, picks up his mobile phone and keys and leaves us to it.
Small Boy is still wittering about the chickens: "I mean, even with Grandpa's electric fence, the fox could still jump over the top and everything. And what about the rain? Their feathers will get bedraggled and mucky if they get caught in the rain."
I grunt and start lining up enough bags to contain the entire British army's equipment for a six-month stint in Afghanistan and prepare to use my best sergeant major's voice to ensure we Beat The Traffic.

Half an hour later it is clear that we have not met my objective of Beating The Traffic. We are stuck in a long queue of people all going to the same place and all listening to Chris Evans.
"Monnn-day, Tuuues-day, Wednnnes-day, ThursdayFriday . . ." Small Boy sings along lustily to the jingle while I begin to plan my first day of freedom.
We pull up outside school - or rather, half a mile away from school, as all the places have been taken. The Working Mummies are talking into their phones while heaping bags on to their off-springs' backs; the Sporting Mummies are jumping lightly out of their 4x4s, clad from head to toe in Lycra; the Arty-Farty Mummies are wafting gently out of their beaten-up Vauxhall Corsas and blowing air kisses to everyone in their path and the Skinny Mini Blondie Boobie Mummies are yet to be seen. Possibly because their hair has yet to be blow-dryed to perfection, their nail polish has yet to dry and their matching outfit has yet to be chosen.
I wonder aloud to which category of mum I belong.
"Weird Mummy," Daughter snorts, before shouting, "Hey Millie-Molly-Mandy!", flicking her hair, rolling her eyes and running off.

I arrive home to find Psycho Cat has eaten the fairy cakes Daughter baked for her friend's birthday and the dog is eating a decapitated mouse. I decide not to check on the chickens just yet.

I am not sure I can face it.

Morning Has Broken

The new school year is looming and we are all attempting to get back into the swing of things by getting up at the crack of dawn with Husband.
"I'd rather you didn't get up with me if you're going to look like that," he says, as I scowl my way down to the kitchen in a moth-eaten dressing gown acquired some years back from a French spa.
I cannot retaliate as I am incapable of much beyond squinting and the occasional grunt until I've had at least a pint of coffee.
Small Boy is the antithesis of me. He bounces in and does his Morning Dance while breezily informing me, "I've been up since six coz you said you'd be up early. You weren't, you know. Can I have something nice for breakfast?"
I peer at him and grunt, "Only if it doesn't involve cooking anything."
"Does a full English involve cooking anything?" he asks, anxiously. "Coz that's what I want."
Husband smirks and leaves me to it, giving the dog an affectionate pat on the way out.
I roll my eyes. "I think you'll find that the name 'full English' kind of gives away how much cooking is involved."
Small Boy's brow is becoming increasingly furrowed. "What?"
I down my coffee in one and remind myself I'll be missing my son in a day or two when all I'll have for company is a reproachful dog and two hissing cats. Oh, and the chickens, who will probably have escaped to wreak havoc among the beetroot and spinach beds.
"OK, well, I haven't really got enough stuff to do a full English--"
"Yes you have!" Small Boy returns from the fridge, triumphant. "Look! Three rashers of bacon and three eggs! I'll do it!"
I must be semi-catatonic as I agree he can take charge. All too soon we have a river of egg white running over the stove and on to the floor.
"Look! A slug!" Small Boy announces gleefully.
"No, it's egg white," I mutter, on my hands and knees, wiping up gloop.
"No, no, it's really a real live slug!" he shouts, clapping his hands.
I peer at the slime and realise, yes, it is a real live slug.
Twenty minutes later, Small Boy is tucking into bacon, eggs, white bread and hot chocolate and chattering away about the things small boys chatter away about. I am staring into the middle distance and chewing on dry muesli as he's used up all the milk.
"Uh." Daughter has materialised. "Cn'I 'ave somefin to eat?"
Small Boy produces the last rasher of bacon and a bit of bread and continues wittering. Daughter and Mother stare into middle distance, chewing in unison, lost in separate but possibly not entirely unrelated thoughts. Never has the expression "like mother, like daughter" been so true.
Poor girl.

Lay a Little Egg for Me

The long-awaited day has arrived. Small Boy cannot contain himself and is illustrating this fact by running around the kitchen in ever decreasing circles, punching the air and chanting, "Chick-ens! Chick-ens!" much to the alarm of the current members of our menagerie. The dog has retired to her basket and is pretending to be invisible, clearly worried that Small Boy's behaviour will otherwise be blamed on her. Psycho Cat has leapt on to the back of the armchair and is hissing a warning that she will act if Small Boy does not shut up immediately. Jet has, sensibly, gone out and left us to it.
"So we're really going to do this, are we?" Husband sighs. He checks the website for the millionth time, in the hope that it might have disappeared since the last time he looked. But no, the breeder really does exist and really does have the types of chicken Small Boy has set his heart on.
"You did say we could go and get them once we were back from holiday," I remind him. I am secretly as keen as Small Boy to replenish our empty chicken run, as the past few chicken-less months have been strangely sad.
I have, of course, conveniently forgotten the downside to owning chickens: how much I swore at Little Brown, Cheeky and Storm whenever they escaped and dug up the veg patch; how I was caught by the postman running around in circles trying to catch Cheeky and shouting high-pitched obscenities. (Absence does funny things to the heart. I even miss Psycho Cat when we're on holiday.) And then there's the dark threat of The Fox and the problem of the Pecking Order (not called that for nothing). Our first foray into chicken-ownership included the upsetting experience of losing our Black Rock, Speck, to The Fox, followed by the exciting episode of welcoming Storm the Silkie into the fold whereupon she was pecked to within an inch of her life by the two haughty hybrids, Little Brown and Cheeky. These, and other, adventures were brusquely concluded by the devastating finale of the entire coup's raid and destruction early one morning, resulting in our losing three chickens in one go.
Since then we have waged war on Not-So-Fantastic Mr Fox and Family and have constructed a Fort-Knox-style enclosure with the help of Grandpa and his electric fence. We are now as ready as we will ever be to try chicken-ownership once more.
"OK." Husband knows when he is beaten. "I'll take you to get some chickens. But we've got to get at least two sensible breeds that will perform their duty. I want some return on this investment," he says, trying to reclaim some authority.
"Oh, Da-ad!" Small Boy whines. "But I've done all this research and I want a Polish Frizzle and a Barbu d'Uccle and--"
"No way. I am not looking after a bird that looks like a 70s Michael Jackson and another that looks like a bearded lady," I say firmly. Even I can see the lunacy in Small Boy's plans to populate the chicken run with prissy Show Birds. "Dad's right. We want some eggs out of this. And we already have one neurotic animal in the house," I add, staring pointedly at Psycho Cat who is having an argument with her own tail.
We finally agree on going for two hyrid birds who will be good layers, and one utterly useless yet gorgeous Lavender Pekin.
A two-hour round trip later and we are the proud owners of a Welsummer called Hazel, an Arucana (blue eggs are promised...) called Chi-Chi and a Lavender Pekin called Titch.

The poor beggars have so far been subjected to harrassment by the dog, stalking by The Cats, chasing by Small Boy's mates and far too much cuddling than can possibly be good for them by everyone else.
I have a feeling they'll be using Grandpa's electric fence as a form of revenge before too long. And it's not The Fox who'll be first in line.

While the Cats' Owners are Away . . .

Whenever we go away, we have an insanely elaborate set-up for The Cats. It used to be easy: they would have access to the utility room and a friend would come and top up their food and water and cuddle them if they deigned to make an appearance. 
That was before the Summer of Woe.

During the Summer of Woe, Jet, my favourite (I know, I know, but if you knew her sister, she’d be your favourite too), allowed herself be seduced by a new neighbour while we were away. The neighbour fed Jet on Waitrose cat food and, for reasons best known only to the neighbour, called her Dora.
Once we had wrested our pet back from the arms of the devil, we vowed never again to let her roam free in our absence; thus whenever we go away, Jet is shut in with a litter tray - Husband being too mean to allow to pay for a stay at the Cat Hotel.
Sadly, Jet’s sister, Inky (otherwise known as Fatty or Psycho Cat) cannot be allowed to stay in the house unsupervised, owing to her propensity for scratching, puking, peeing, and . . . other disgusting behavioural problems. She is a feline nutter, twitchy in the extreme, and must be KEPT OUT while we are away.
Luckily for The Cats, and for me, I have a wonderful friend who understands the lunacy of this situation and is happy to help by feeding both animals, one in and one out. This arrangement has worked well for two years of family holidays.
Not so this summer.
Witness the scene on arrival back from our two weeks in Cornwall . . .

 “Meeeeeow. Meeeeeeeow!”

“That sounds like Psycho Cat in there,” I mutter, as I wrestle with the double-lock on the kitchen door. “What’s she doing in there? She’s supposed to be out.”
Small Boy peers in through the window as I lose my battle with the keys and my control on my language. “Mum, I thought Jet was always locked in to stop her escaping and Inky was locked out to stop her peeing on things.”
“Yes,” I grunt, wiggling the key and kicking the door.
“But that’s not Jet in there – that’s Inky,” Small Boy helpfully points out.
“I . . . KNOW!” I say, falling into the house as the lock and the door suddenly agree to cooperate, sending me sprawling. My right foot kicks an ominously full litter tray across the kitchen and my left steps in cat sick.
“Meeeeeeooooooow!” Psycho Cat complains, rocketing past me to freedom, only to reemerge seconds later with a plaintive request for food.
“So where’s Jet then?” Small Boy persists.
“Er, Mum . . .” Daughter is waving a small piece of white paper at me. “Have you seen this?”
It’s a note from our cleaner informing us that a window in the sitting room is “a bit broken”. On closer inspection, said window (a rotten lattice affair with soft lead surround, all too easy to vandalise) is revealed to be peeled out of its frame and hanging limply.
“Oh no! Burglars!” Small Boy shrieks, rushing upstairs to check his money box is still in tact.
“Possibly,” I say. “Although . . .” I gingerly feel around the edges of the window frame, withdraw my hand and hold up a wad of—
“Black fur?” says Husband.
At that moment, the escaped cat, Jet, appears on the patio outside the broken window. Her yellow eyes blink at me slowly and her long black tail flicks in a decidedly nonchalant manner.
“Jet!” I cry. “Did you do this?!”
She licks her whiskers with her small pink tongue and carelessly washes one paw, plainly enjoying my discomfort.
“Did you swap places with Psycho Cat?” I witter, aware that I am asking questions of a dumb animal, but too bewildered to do otherwise.
Another flick of that tail and Jet flashes me a look that is clearly asking me:
You didn’t seriously think you could keep me in against my will, did you? Who’s the dumb animal now?
No answer to that, really.

The Aged Parents

My daughter is on the phone, eagerly filling her grandparents in on what she has been up to in the holidays.
"So then we went to netball and--"
"Hang on a minute, dear. Grandpa's got to get his teeth sorted."
Daughter pauses as grandparents scuffle around in the background, words are muttered and doors are opened and slammed. She puts her hand over the phone and tells me, "Grandpa's going to the dentist. Do you want to talk to Grandma?"
I reluctantly withdraw my hands from the washing up and hastily dry them before taking the phone, only to find myself assailed in stereo by both Aged Parents gabbling and laughing at once.
"He's taken them on a motorbike!"
"Oh, hahahaha! Was he wearing leather?"
"They'll be back by three!"
I cough to get their attention. I wonder why anyone bothers calling them, as they seem to prefer to use the phone to communicate with each other from different rooms in the house rather than actually talk to the person who has phoned them.
"Ahem. It's me."
"Oh, hello!"
"I've just handed my teeth to a man on a motorbike!"
"Erm, what?"
"Your dad's false teeth have broken again, so he called the dental technician--"
"--and he came and fetched them - on his motorbike!"
Stunned silence.
I resign myself to never quite getting to the bottom of this conversation and swiftly move on to recounting benign anecdotes about the children.
The conversation progresses tolerably well with an Aged in each ear, finishing each other's sentences and correcting one another at intervals. I am about to wind the experience up and get back to slightly less baffling activities when Dad announces:
"And did we tell you about the new SatNav?"
Holding on tightly to the table I grit my teeth and say, no, they didn't.
"Well," says Mum, coming over all Hyacinth Bucket. "It's not, in point of fact, a NEW SatNav. More our old one with a New Feature."
"Right," I say.
"The New Feature being . . ." Dad pauses for dramatic effect. "It delivers directions in ITALIAN!"
Mum giggles like a blushing school girl and jibbers, "All'incrocio successivo, svoltare a destra."
"Lovely," I say.
"And she's so much politer than the English version."
I sigh. At least they haven't set it to Latin. Dad's last Christmas present request was a CD of Elvis hits sung in Latin. I decide not to voice this thought aloud.
Who knows what madness it would lead to.