Does My Bum Look Big In This?

Daughter is outraged.
"The music teacher has told us we must look ELEGANT for the concert tonight. How on earth does he expect a 13-year-old girl to look elegant??!!"
I look her up and down, take in the unbrushed shoulder-length hair, dirty T-shirt, ripped denim shorts and black tights - complete with designer ladder - and raise my eyebrows. She has a point. "What did he suggest that you wear?" I ask.
"He says we need to wear a black skirt and a white top, but the black skirt has to be knee-length AT LEAST. NO ONE NORMAL WEARS KNEE-LENGTH SKIRTS."
"OK, listen, he just wants you to wear concert dress. I have a black skirt you can borrow," I offer.
Daughter sneers. "That's what Jess said. She said, 'I will have to wear one of my mum's skirts.' And do you know what the music teacher said to that?"
I shrug. "I dunno. 'Good thinking?'" I offer.
Daughter huffs and rolls her eyes. "He said - and I quote - 'Yay! That would be really cool!' " She glares at me, her mouth open in disbelief, her hands spread wide in her best I-am-a-character-in-an-American-soap-opera pose. "I mean, does the man even know what the word 'cool' means??" She throws her head back in exasperation.
"Look, it says on the ticket that the audience has to dress up, too." I point to the wording. "Come on, let's get changed and get it over with."
I fumble around in the wardrobe and discover that my one smart-ish dress was bought on an optimistic day. In other words, I will have to find The Big Pants if I am going to squeeze into it. I am wrestling with said underwear when Small Boy walks in.
"Hey! Do you mind!" I exclaim.
"WOW!" says Small Boy, eyes out on stalks. "Isn't it weird how such a small piece of clothing can expand to fit such a large person?"
And Daughter thinks she has clothing issues, I think, as I hurl a cushion at him and slam the door.

Competitive Hypochondria

Mother is feeling hard done by. For a change.
"Y'father's been getting far too much attention because of his cholesterol and his statins and his leg and his operation, and I just want someone to give me a bit of a fuss," she announces.
"Oh?" I say.
"Yes, I'm not feeling too good myself, you know."
"Oh?"
"Stop saying 'oh'! I have decided it's about time I went to see a gynaecologist," she says.
"O-oh."
There is a pause while I digest this information. I don't really know what to say. I have no intention of asking for the details of her latest medical needs if they involve an account of what is going on Down There.
But, inevitably, Mother does not wait to be asked.
I contemplate putting the phone down, covering my ears and singing, "La-la-la! Can't heeeeaaaar yoooouuu!" while she witters on at length, but I know I will only be tested on it all later, so I grit my teeth and let the words waft over me.
"Well, that all sounds, er, very uncomfortable," I offer, once she has finished. "I can see why it would be a good idea to go to the doctor about it."
"Yes," says Mother. "But, of course, it's not as simple as that, is it?"
"It isn't?" I am racking my brains for a good excuse to get off the phone. It would have to be an emergency situation to warrant cutting Mother off in full flow. Why won't the sofa catch fire or the dog be sick or a child fall out of a tree when you want them to? I think.
"Are you still there?" Mother shouts.
"Wha-- oh, yes, sorry I was just looking at - the cat," I say.
"You see, even my own daughter is too busy to listen to me. I don't know why I--"
"I am listening and I am still here," I butt in. I don't want to risk her repeating all those unmentionable symptoms again. "You were saying that it's not easy getting a doctor's appointment," I prompt.
"And that's putting it mildly!" she scoffs. "I just cannot believe that anyone can tell me the NHS is 'sacred'. No one does any bloody work there if you ask me. I only want the receptionist to arrange an appointment with a specialist, and she has the gall to say there's too much paperwork involved! I'm going to have to phone her again today to give her a piece of my mind . . ."
I wonder whether I should offer to phone this receptionist myself and give her a piece of advice instead: "Do the paperwork. If you don't, Mother will be on the phone every single day from here until eternity giving you A Piece of Her Mind. Not to mention a graphic account of what is going on Down There."
But instead I nod, mutter "Oh dear" in all the appropriate places and wait until the conversation has reached its natural conclusion.
"Anyway, I must go. It's University Challenge."
CLICK.
I never thought I would say this, but God Bless Jeremy Paxman.

Licensed to Chill

Small Boy bounds into the kitchen with the exciting news that his class is putting together a film. "And I am going to be one of the stars in it!"
"That's lovely darling! What's the film about?"
"It's for our end of year assembly for next term." Small Boy pauses and raises his eyebrows enigmatically. "And I can't tell you what it's about cos we have been sworn to secrecy."
"Oh?" I smile and wait and watch as he squirms and jumps up and down, which is what he does when he cannot contain himself. (Before I had Small Boy, I had not given much thought to the expression, "he cannot contain himself", but having watched many such performances over the years, I now know it to be a very accurate description of a small child's way of expressing excitement or frustration.)
"Oooooh, all right! I'll tell you!" he blurts out, as though I have been spending the past thirty seconds tickling him into submission, rather than watching and waiting patiently. "It's going to be a James Bond movie!" he squeals, thumping the air in triumph.
"Fantastic!" I say. Although I am struggling to see the relationship between 007 and Class 6I . . .
"And I," says Small Boy, his face split into the most gleeful of grins, "am going to be--"
"No, no!" I butt in. "Let me guess . . . you are going to be an evil villain. Preferably one with a white cat." Small Boy does a good line in Evil Villain voices, and I know he would not pass up the opportunity to carry an animal of some kind around with him.
"No!" says Small Boy, wiggling his eyebrows at me again. "Guess again."
"Erm . . . wait! You're not actually going to be James Bond himelf, are you?" I get quite excited at the idea of my cute small son dressed up in black tie, his hair actually brushed for once in his life.
"No!" he says. "You'll never guess. It's actually way better than either of those." He pauses. "I am going to be . . . a BOND GIRL!" Holy. Flippin'. Moly. This cannot be true. But he is going into detail now, about his outfit and the scene he has filmed today: "I am wearing this totally awesome wig and I have to put my own lipstick on! And it's wicked, cos the lipstick is so hard to get off, I actually got to wear it up until lunchtime today! And My Best Friend William has brought a dress in for me to wear cos he has a totally fantastic dressing-up box, and the funniest thing is that Molly is James Bond and William and I are both Bond Girls and we have to kiss her on the cheek at that part in the song where they say, 'I wish I was James Bond, kissing all the girls . . ."
I bite the inside of my cheeks. Hard. Then I squeak: "That's great!"
"Isn't it?" trills Small Boy, pirouetting round the kitchen.
Isn't it, just.

Birthday Revenge

Dad and I almost share a birthday.
As Mother reminds me every year, "You were two weeks late. And as if that wasn't bad enough, when you did finally decide to arrive, you made y'father burn his sausages."
For the past couple of years, Dad and I have celebrated together. In other words, the Aged Ps have come to stay at Hotel Wilson and I have spent my birthday cooking, washing and cleaning while they sit, huddled on the sofa and Mother bemoans the fact that it's too cold or too hot and how much she hates the drive from east to west and how the daffodils are much better in Kent.
This year I have decided not to invite them.
I do ring Dad on his birthday, though, to wish him well.
"Hi, Dad! Happy Birthday! Hope you've had a good day?"
"No, he hasn't actually," says Mother.
"Oh."
"He hasn't had many cards. As usual my useless brother didn't send him one. And your present hasn't arrived. And we haven't done anything special at all."
"Well, I'm sorry about that, Dad. I ordered it a week ago so--"
"It's OK, love," says Dad. "I'm sure it's on its way."
"Humpf," says Mother. "Y'sister sent him a very nice parcel. Of things. More than one present in actual fact. Including a very useful book about how to cook for a low-cholesterol diet. I don't suppose you even knew that y'father has high cholesterol--?"
"Yes. I did. So, that was a good idea. Anyway, I hope you got my card at least, Dad?"
"Yes," he chortles. "Very funny."
Dad and I compete every year to find each other the silliest card. This year I found a cartoon of a grandfather and grandson contemplating a birthday cake with the child saying "I want a Wii" and the old man responding, "Me too, this coffee's gone right through me." (Well, it appeals to our sense of humour, anyway. . .)
"All I can say is, wait till you get your card!" Dad adds mischievously.
"Ha!" says Mother with an evil cackle. "I don't suppose you'll like it."
"I can't wait," I say.

Small Boy is up at six on my birthday. He is almost as excited about me turning forty-two as he was about turning eleven.
"Time for your presents and cards!" he trills, bouncing into bed with me.
"Uh? Oh - lovely. Go and get your sister," I mutter, one eye open.
Daughter shuffles in groaning. "I hate mornings. And I hate you." I think this last comment is directed at her brother, though I couldn't be sure. "Here," she says, giving me a small packet of fudge.
"Thank you, darling."
"I haven't got you anything," says Small Boy. "But you've got loads anyway. Open this card! It's from Grandma and Grandpa. I can tell cos I can't read the writing."
I steel myself for the contents.
It is a cartoon of a woman in curlers, looking at her reflection and crying: "Oh no! It's Mother!"
Inside Dad has put a row of exclamation marks and Mother has written: "I don't think this is true. Y'father chose it."
"What does it mean?" asks Small Boy.
Daughter curls her lip. "It's not very nice. Why did they choose it?"
"Oh, it's revenge," I say. "For Grandpa burning his sausages forty-two years ago . . ."

Small Boy's New Career

Small Boy's latest school project is to write and illustrate a picture book. As I was a picture book editor in a former life, I announce my intention to steer well clear.
"I do not want to be blamed for anything going wrong," I say.
"Well, that's good. Cos I don't want you to help anyway. You don't know anything about picture books any more and you only actually write animal books and my book is not going to be an animal book, so you wouldn't have anything useful to tell me," Small Boy retorts.
He sets to work and very soon has produced something which, I have to admit, is rather good. I particularly like the back cover, complete with blurb (a word all school children seem to know these days), barcode, price, publisher (Macmillan - not sure if they were consulted on this) and a quote from the Guardian (betraying his parents' preferred weekend reading habits).
"This is great!" I congratulate him.
"I know," says Small Boy. "I'm going to get Macmillan to publish it properly with a proper Real Life Cover and everything," he adds.
"Right," I say.
"And I was thinking," he continues, the bit wedged firmly between his new front teeth, "as I know all about publishing now, I might get started on a new book straight away. It's always good to have a two-book contract, don't you think? Also, Dad and Sister oughta write books too. Then we could be a Totally Writing Family and all work at home and Dad wouldn't have to go travelling for his work any more."
"OK," I say. "What are your suggested titles?"
"Well," says Small Boy, brow furrowed in concentration, "Dad's book oughta be called 'How To Stop Rudely Being Rude At The Table', cos it's a subject he knows all awful lot about."
"Oh yes?" I say.
"Yes. And it could be divided into chapters like this: Chapter One: How Not to Pick Your Nose at the Table; Chapter Two: How Not to Pick your Ear at the Table; Chapter Three: How Not to Pick Your Nails at the Table; Chapter Four: How Not to Use Your Blackberry at the Table; Chapter Five: How Not to Not Listen While Other People Are Talking at the Table--"
"Right, I get the picture," I cut in. "What about your book?"
"That's easy," says Small Boy. "It'll be called 'The Big Book of Knowledge'."
Daughter choses this moment to walk in on the conversation. "What's he going on about now?"
"He's going to write a new book called 'The Big Book of Knowledge'," I explain.
"Yeah, like, right!" scoffs Daughter.
"I've got an idea for a book you could write too," says Small Boy, smiling dangerously.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah! It should be called 'The Big Book of Drama'."
"OH WHAT???! YOU ARE SUCH A------!" Daughter screams, storming out of the room.
Small Boy shoots me a look of unbridled triumph.
"I think," I say carefully, "you might need to work on your inter-personal skills before progressing further with building your publishing career."
"Really?" says Small Boy.
"Yes, really," I say, shuddering.
Moved over Murdoch: Small Boy Wilson is lurking in the wings, just waiting to pounce.

The Drugs Don't Work

I brace myself to pick up the phone and call my parents. It has been a week since I have spoken to the Aged Ps; more specifically to Mother. It was not a conversation I am in a hurry to experience again, so it is with some relief that the call is answered in stereo.
"Hello?"
"Hello?"
"Hello, Mother. Hello, Dad."
(I am vaguely aware of us sounding like a Dr Seuss script . . . What would the next line be, I wonder? "Hello, daughter. I am mad.")
"Oh, look at that! We've all picked up the phone at the same time.What are the chances?" Dad chortles.
"Huh," says Mother.
I force my face into a rictus grin and squeeze out the words: "So, how are you?"
"I'm fine, love--"
"No, you're not," Mother cuts in. "Tell her."
"Well, it's true I had a spot of bother yesterday--"
"A SPOT OF BOTHER! YOU NEARLY DIED! YOUR LEGS SWELLED, YOU FELT DIZZY--"
"Oh dear, Dad. That doesn't sound good."
"No, well. I think it's those statins the doctor put me on for my cholesterol--"
"Huh," says Mother.
"And I think really I would prefer not to take them."
"Huh."
"So I've decided to change my diet instead--"
"CHANGE YOUR DIET? HUH! I'D LIKE TO SEE THAT!"
"Mum!"
"Huh?"
"Mum, maybe Dad's right - if he hasn't got on well with the drugs--?"
"Y'father is stubborn. Too stubborn to listen to any advice, aren't you?"
Silence.
"AREN'T YOU?"
"Actually," rejoins m'father. "I am not stubborn. I am just a little bit fed up with you nagging me."
"I am not nagging. I am telling you that it is too late to cut down on fat now. Your arteries have had years of being clogged up with all kinds of rubbish. If you think you can lower your cholesterol just by--"
"Erm, hel-loooo?" I say.
"Oh, hello!" says Dad. "You're still there, are you?"
"Huh," says Mother.
"So, these statins," I say. "Are these the same statins you didn't want to take yourself, Mother?"
"Huh . . . mutter, mutter." Click.
The line clears and I can hear my father loud and clear with no interruptions.
"That's better," says Dad, with feeling. "I can hear myself think now."
"Yes," I say. "Maybe you should conduct all future conversations with Mother over the phone. Then you could cut her off whenever you felt like it?"
"If only it were that simple," sighs Dad. "If only . . ."

The Pooch Puts Me in the Dog House

I have been ignoring the Pooch of late, I admit it. There have not been enough hours in the day to find time to indulge her in the sort of lengthy walks and runs to which she has become accustomed. So, in a fit of guilt, I grab my trainers and the dog-lead and together we charge out into the bracing February air.
After a mile or two I find that the pent-up frustration I felt whilst cooped up in the house, attempting to work while the Pooch sighs noisily and reprovingly from her basket, is dissipating. This is the life, I think as I jog along. Out in the countryside, watching the river wind its way through the valley, listening to the bird song, smiling at passersby, watching my pooch wag her tail and--
"NO!" A vision of the infamous Benton/Fenton YouTube debacle flashes before my eyes as the Pooch goes careering ahead of me to herd some poor fellow runners off the path and knock their feet from under them.
"Come!" I command.
But the Pooch is on a mission. A mission to disobey. She does not come. She continues to run, picking up speed and heading straight for the other runners' knees. I can see it now, she will bowl them over, they will topple like nine pins.
There's only one thing for it, I think, I shall have to run faster.
I put on a bit of a spurt and grab hold of the Pooch just in time. I receive a couple of thin-lipped smiles and insincere, "She's a lovely dog," from the objects of the Pooch's misplaced affection.
I am now left with a dilemma.
I have to keep the Pooch away from these people, so either I wait for ages until they have run on ahead and are safely out of sight, or I run ahead of them, which means keeping up quite a pace. A pace I have been unaccustomed to of late.
I decide that I'm on a roll having caught up with the Pooch, so I may as well go for it. I run on, the Pooch bounding at my heels, the wind in my air, the sun glinting off the water.
This was the right choice, I think, as I feel my heart rate rise and I lengthen my stride.
Then I look down to see how the Pooch is doing.
She is not there.
I glance back.
She has gone back to the other runners and is happily bowling along at their pace, dancing in front of them, jumping up at them, jabbing her nose at their knees and generally have a ball. Their body language makes it clear they do not share in her joy.
I breathe in sharply, bellow the Pooch's name for all I am worth and keep running. There is no way I am going to run back to get her. That would just be humiliating.
When she eventually catches up with me, I put her on the lead (which I know, I know, I should have done earlier) and then she delivers her coup de grace. She decides I'm not running fast enough this time, and jerks me forward. I catch my ankle, trip and fall.

By the time we get home, I am ready to commit acts for which animal charities the world over would have me hauled over the coals. My language is at its most colourful and I thoroughly enjoy hosing the mud off the Pooch with icy water as I tell her EXACTLY what I think of her. As I finish and go to turn off the hose, a man in a dark blue uniform walks into the garden. He is looking particularly stern and has a clipboard in his hand.
Oh no, I think. This is it. Someone's reported me to the RSPCA. I'm going to have to hand over the Pooch, the cats and the chickens and Small Boy will never ever speak to me ever again.
"Hello," says the man.
"H-h-hello," I stammer. Will I be black-listed? Will it get into the local paper? How will this affect my career? After all, I write about animals for a living.
"Will you sign for this?" says the man, handing me small parcel and waving a pen in my face.
"Oh, yeah. A parcel. Sure," I say, lowering my face which is bright red (and not from running).
The Pooch nudges me in the knee as the man disappears down the path and looks up at me with knowing eyes.
"You don't have to look at me like that!" I mutter. "I know I got away with it this time . . ."