Playgroups and Prosecco

by Jo Middleton

  At one point Jess came out of the ball pit with another child’s plaster stuck to the back of her skirt and eating a fizzy strawberry lace, which was suspicious as she had gone in with a mini box of raisins.

  ‘Can I get a Slush Puppy?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘OK!’ she said, running off again. Sometimes I feel that she asks these things just to test me.

  Ian picked the girls up for the weekend late afternoon. I had beans and cheese on toast for tea and did some Instagram stalking. @Simple_dorset_life seems to be doing much better with half-term than I am. She’d posted a picture of two small children standing at the shoreline and holding hands. They had their backs to the camera and were a long way away, so that they were just silhouettes against a sky that was turning pink around the edges.

  ‘My angels in the sunset,’ said the caption. ‘My life until I met them was like a small boat, bobbing out at sea, carried wherever the wind took it. They are my rudder, my oars, my compass. Every day with them is a blessing. #windinmysails’.

  Swiped right three times on Tinder. No matches yet.

  Going between Tinder and @simple_dorset_life’s Instagram feed is like experiencing the very extremes of life in the space of two minutes.

  Saturday 17 February

  Second-hand leather sofas nearly purchased because of neat handwriting – 3. Rants about International Women’s Day – 1 (out loud), 8 (in head).

  I stopped for a look at the ‘community wall’ in Sainsbury’s this afternoon. There is something very lovely about it. I imagine all the people writing out their little postcards, probably thinking for a good amount of time about exactly what to write and then using their best handwriting.

  ‘Three-seater leather recliner, some minor wear and tear, £899 new. House move forces sale. Will take £200 ono. Buyer collects.’

  There was a poster up for an International Women’s Day event being held in the community hall, which seemed rather modern for them. Normally it’s all Knit and Natter sessions and craft fairs full of bearded old men behind tables of badly carved wooden bowls. I do remember them once holding a meat bingo, but that must have been a bit too exotic because it never happened again.

  The poster was printed on pink paper and had a clip-art flower border, which didn’t feel like a promising start.

  ‘Fun activities for women of all ages!’ it promised. ‘Come along and try your hand at watercolours, foot reading, and the intricate art of quilling!’

  Quilling, so Google informs me, is ‘an art form that involves the use of strips of paper that are rolled, shaped, and glued together to create decorative designs.’

  I mean seriously, what the buggery? Where are the motivational women in business? Where are the discussions about women’s representation in the media? Where is anything even vaguely aspirational or inspirational? Years of striving for equality of the sexes and we’re meant to celebrate by looping a strip of paper into the shape of a flower? And foot reading? I don’t even want to imagine the Knit and Natter group taking off their handmade woollen socks to compare fallen arches.

  ‘Women of the world rejoice! Our day has come! I can see it in the curve of your big toe!’

  Jesus.

  No one was at home, of course, for me to complain to about it, so I had a smallish gin and watched reruns of Sex and the City to restore my sassiness levels. To be honest, I’m not sure that drinking cocktails in fetish bars in New York is really the way I want to go either, but between the two I felt as if I had achieved some balance in the day.

  I WhatsApped a picture of the poster to WIB.

  ‘Would you rather go to this or a New York fetish bar?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll fetch my whip,’ replied Sierra.

  (Question: what even is a meat bingo? Do people pull cuts of meat out of bucket and you win if they match the pork chop you were given on your way in?)

  Sunday 18 February

  Flo seemed a bit angsty when she got home this afternoon. I asked if she wanted to talk about anything but she said she had homework to do and went off upstairs looking a bit sorry for herself. It’s back to school tomorrow and I think school is starting to ramp the pressure up a bit with GCSEs approaching. She’ll be going into Year 10 in September and every parents’ evening I go to is all about how vital it is that she do well at everything, and how important these exams are for her future.

  It’s tricky, because I don’t want to undermine her teachers but, at the same time, I want her to know that, actually, GCSEs aren’t really all that. I want her to feel that she has done her best, but as long as she gets what she needs to get to the next stage, does it really matter whether she gets a C or an A? Or a 7 or 8 or whatever it is they’re changing into. The numbers make it all the more pointless as nobody will even know what they mean.

  Seriously, how many job interviews do you go to as an adult where the interviewer says, ‘Hmm … I’m not sure; we were really looking for someone with a better mark at GCSE geography …’ None, that’s how many.

  I made sausages, mashed potato and baked beans for tea to cheer her up.

  Monday 19 February – back to school

  I went into Smiths at lunchtime and bought Flo some postcards in pastel colours for her revision notes. In my experience the amount of time spent browsing for stationery is directly proportional to exam success.

  Jess had her first swimming lesson today.

  I (foolishly) thought it might be a chance for me to have some peace and quiet for half an hour as the pool has a decent enough café, but as I wrestled Jess into her costume I noticed that all the other parents were heading poolside rather than in the direction of the coffee and flapjacks.

  I wasn’t sure quite what to do as I really didn’t want to watch the class but also I didn’t want to be that mum. Plus, what if you’re legally obliged to be within sight or something? Flo learned to swim at school so I don’t really know the rules. I imagined the headline in the Dorset Echo – ‘local toddler drowns while mum eats all-butter flapjack’ – and followed the other parents.

  I know that I have lived a relatively privileged life, but the half an hour poolside was a new kind of hell. To be fair, I was traumatised to begin with as the last time I actually stood at the side of a pool was ‘bikini-bottom gate’. I was very heavily pregnant with Jess and we’d gone on what was meant to be a relaxing CenterParcs holiday. It had actually been very relaxing up until that point, as Ian had basically done everything for me while I lounged about in the lodge with my feet up.

  That morning, though, I’d decided it might be quite fun to go for a swim with Ian and Flo – the water does help you to feel like less of a heffalump. I’d come out of the changing rooms and on to the bit that slopes gently down to the water, which is meant to give you the impression that you’re on a tropical beach. The noisy echoes of about a million small children shatter the illusion, but it’s a nice thought. Flo was already in the pool and I was blowing up a giant rubber ring when I saw Ian come out and look around for me.

  I waved.

  He stopped and stared, his mouth open. He seemed to be pointing at my stomach. I looked down but literally all I could see was massive belly. I looked back and shrugged. He trotted over, in as much of a run as you’re allowed to do in a CenterParcs swimming pool, still pointing.

  It turns out I’d forgotten to put on the bikini bottoms.

  I was hardly to blame was I? I was eight and a half months pregnant – my body, from what used to be my waist down, was a mystery at this point. Poolside at Jess’s swimming lesson wasn’t that uncomfortable, but it came close.

  Imagine, for starters, being taken into a sauna fully dressed and the sweat immediately starting to collect under your boobs. Then take a group of excited three-year-olds and pass the sound through a machine that makes their voices bounce around as though they’re in a vast underground cavern. Pipe this noise into the sauna.

  Then try to pick out your own child in a pool full of similar-siz
ed children, all splashing about wearing identical pink goggles and the same ‘I’m really a mermaid’ swimming costumes. Shout at your child to watch the teacher, not you. Repeat every three minutes until you long for the sweet release of death.

  Later, over tea – chicken nuggets, curly fries, tinned sweetcorn – I told Flo about the International Women’s Day poster.

  ‘So what are you going to do about it?’ she asked.

  ‘What do you mean, what am I going to do about it? What can I do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘but you’re always complaining about stuff like this and then just going about your life. No offence, Mum, but why not actually do something instead of just slagging it off?’

  I quietly ate a chicken nugget.

  ‘I’m not being funny,’ said Flo. ‘I just think you moan a bit sometimes about things you can actually change if you want to.’

  Bloody kids, identifying your weaknesses and being brutally honest about them.

  ‘Maybe I will, then,’ I said, a tad sulkily.

  ‘Yes! Do it, Mum!’ said Flo.

  ‘Yessss, Queeeeen!’ said Jess through a mouthful of ketchup. Flo shot her a look. This is what happens when you turn a blind eye to your teenage daughter letting her little sister watch RuPaul’s Drag Race.

  Messaged WIB. ‘Help!’ I wrote. ‘Have been bamboozled into putting on an inspirational event for International Women’s Day. Any ideas?’

  ‘Cake?’ suggested Louise.

  ‘Prosecco!’ said Sierra.

  I don’t feel like we are exactly smashing stereotypes. I do like prosecco, though.

  (Question: am I the only person on Tinder who automatically swipes left if someone has a lot of photos of them doing sports? It’s not that I have anything against sports per se, it just feels like a lot of pressure and I can’t help but feel I’d be a disappointment. I don’t want a woodland hike sprung on me on a first date.)

  Tuesday 20 February

  Men on Tinder who look like they would rather be dead – numerous. Cool ideas for IWD – 0. Jaffa Cakes – 7.

  Angela suggested I host something for International Women’s Day at the museum and ask the volunteers to get involved. I tried to picture Cecilia ushering visitors towards the tea table while Anne showed off her latest quilt. It’s not that I don’t think they are all extremely valuable and talented women in their own right, it’s just not quite what I had in mind as an antidote to foot reading.

  At that moment Cecilia knocked at the office door to tell us she wouldn’t be able to come in and help with the guided tours at the weekend as she had an emergency chiropody appointment and Angela conceded the point.

  I’m starting to get a little frustrated by Tinder. What is it with all the giant fish? Is it a code I don’t understand?

  Some of my favourite profile pictures so far:

  An out-of-focus bowl of linguine with mushrooms (?)

  A photo of a person in a hospital bed, covered in tubes. Not even a selfie as they are clearly unconscious, possibly in a coma

  A semi-shaved head, complete with foam

  A man holding a rifle (Because nothing says sexy like a lethal weapon)

  Selfie including a small open wound on one cheek. It doesn’t feel like the wound is meant to be the focus, but there is an actual blood drip forming

  A man holding a meerkat next to his face. If you look closely the man has his tongue slightly out, almost touching the meerkat’s nose

  I screenshotted a few of my favourites to send to WIB. The group’s favourite was definitely the open wound. ‘Are you telling me you’re not turned on by that?’ asked Sierra. ‘You must be dead inside.’

  Louise is forty-five so she has her age bracket set higher than me. This means we have an extra pool of people to mock.

  ‘I just can’t get over how old everyone looks,’ wrote Louise. ‘It’s not like I’m expecting Daniel Craig or anything, but it would be nice for someone just to look like they moisturised occasionally.’

  She sent us a screenshot of a man called Ron, with his age blacked out. ‘How old do you think this guy is?’ she asked.

  I looked at Ron. The picture was a close-up headshot which he had cleverly taken from below to emphasise his chins. He wasn’t smiling, but not in a neutral, mysterious way – he genuinely looked sad. His skin was sallow. It sagged around his jaw but looked stretched taut over his cheekbones. The lines around his eyes were deep. More crow’s thighs than crow’s feet. He reminded me of the shots you see of prisoners on death row.

  ‘Sixty-three?’ I guessed.

  ‘No way,’ said Sierra. ‘That guy has seen things. Sixty-seven, I reckon.’

  Three dots appeared while Lou typed.

  ‘He’s forty-two,’ she wrote.

  Sierra sent back of row of six screamy faces.

  ‘I am going to be alone forever,’ wrote Lou. ‘David is going to be shagging in the kitchen in the daytime while eating chips and I’m going to have to choose between dying alone or nursing Ron into old age.’

  ‘Older age,’ wrote back Sierra.

  Angela leaves work at the end of next week. I’m choosing not to think about it.

  (Question: do crows have thighs?)

  Wednesday 21 February

  Minutes spent on perfect family fantasies – 30. Hula Hoops – 3 bags.

  Back from work to an empty house and spent some time feeling lonely and imagining returning home in years to come to my own version of Ron, sitting on the sofa watching motor racing or something equally tedious, shouting into the kitchen to ask me what’s for tea.

  Ian sent me a video of Flo and Jess doing a hilarious dance routine that involved Flo standing like a scarecrow while Jess crawled backwards and forwards between her legs – I suspect Jess did the choreography. I wanted to talk to Ian about my imagined gloomy future with Ron, but the trouble with marrying the man who has been your best friend for nearly twenty years is that when you break up you can’t turn to him for support. That person who has been your rock for all those years can’t be your rock any more and it’s pretty shit.

  I poured a glass of wine, ate a bag of Hula Hoops and did some swiping on Tinder for non-Rons. Discounted eight men holding large fish, three taking topless selfies in a toilet mirror, and one whose profile picture was a pair of handcuffs on a table. So far I have four matches, but none of them have messaged me. Am I meant to wait or should I make the first move? What’s the etiquette?

  Pottered about in the girls’ bedrooms for a bit, making the beds and arranging teddies. I didn’t stay for too long in Flo’s as, lately, I’ve started to feel like a bit of an intruder if I go in there without her. Not that I would poke around, just that it feels more like her own space, separate from me. I looked at the photos stuck on the wall above her desk – smiley selfies of her and Sasha on last year’s school summer camp. Cast my eyes about a bit for empty vodka bottles but I don’t think teenagers really do that nowadays. They’re too busy Snapchatting.

  Thursday 22 February

  A new mum tried to make friends with me at Busy Beavers today but she was a bit on the glossy side for my liking. Ava, her two-year-old, had double fishtail plaits, which automatically put me on my guard. I once tried to do a fishtail plait for Jess after she’d watched a YouTube tutorial with Flo and decided she couldn’t go on with life without one.

  The video was called ‘Easy, everyday fishtail braid’ and was presented by a perky American woman – the kind of mum you just know would bake her own nut-free, gluten-free brownies for the summer fayre and judge you with her perfect white smile when you brought in a box of Asda mini flapjacks.

  Suffice to say it was definitely not easy and if I had to do it every day I would have a serious drink problem.

  As well as apparently being a pro-hairdresser, Riya, (even her name is glossy), is six months pregnant. ‘It’s so exhausting, isn’t it?’ she said, crouching seemingly effortlessly to offer Ava a cucumber stick, ‘I can barely get to the gym any more!’
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  I don’t feel like we are going to be best friends.

  Genius idea from Flo for International Women’s Day. Apparently there’s a girl in her tutor group, Ellie, whose dad owns the bookshop on High Street. Ellie told Flo that they have a big room over the shop that her dad wants to use for events and meetings. Ellie is going to mention it to her dad and says I should go in and see him at the weekend.

  A notification of a message on Tinder! It was from ‘Ben, 39.’ I opened it, eager to discover what witty opening lines Ben might have gone for.

  ‘Hey,’ it said.

  FFS.

  Saturday 24 February

  IWD venue secured – 1. Awkward moments involving a copy of The Philosopher’s Stone – 1.

  Went in to see Ellie’s dad in Chapter One today. I’ve not been in since we first moved to Barnmouth and it was a little more eccentric than I remembered it, to put it nicely. There were piles of crime novels propped up on the floor against the counter and the self-help section looked like it needed an intervention of its own.

  Behind the counter a scruffy-looking man in his forties was peering over his glasses at a computer screen. His hair looked as if he had run his hands through it when he woke up and then forgotten about it.

  ‘Are you Ellie’s dad?’ I asked. He jumped.

  ‘Gosh! Sorry, yes, hello,’ he said, knocking over a stack of Harry Potters on the counter as he reached over to shake my hand. ‘I’m Dylan. You must be Flo’s mum?’

  ‘Frankie,’ I said, picking a copy of The Philosopher’s Stone up off the floor. ‘Are you reorganising?’ I asked, looking around at the chaos. ‘It’s a bit of a mess, isn’t it?’