Playgroups and Prosecco

by Jo Middleton

  She must get it from Ian as I’ve been known to drop a piece of toast, butter-side down, and just pick off any obvious bits of fluff or old sweetcorn before adding the jam. Fortunately I had about ninety-six bags of pasta in the cupboard, all with about half an inch in the bottom, so I mixed them all up together.

  (Question: does someone plant these bags? I honestly can’t imagine myself making pasta and thinking, ‘Hmmm, I don’t want to overdo it on the carbs, I probably shouldn’t chuck in those last ten shells.’ Why would I deliberately leave an amount of pasta that wasn’t even enough on its own for one small person? Weird.)

  Flo set the table while I dished up and Jess sang a song about a poo in a loo. We all sat down, the pasta bolognese in front of us on the table.

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Jess, prodding it with her fork.

  ‘Bolognese,’ I said. ‘You like bolognese,’ I added, more confidently than I felt. You just never really know from one minute to the next with a four-year-old.

  ‘Where is the pissgetty?’ she asked.

  ‘There isn’t any spaghetti,’ I said, ‘so we are having it a fun way today with lots of different-shaped pasta. It all tastes the same, though, it’s just more exciting like this. Like a treasure hunt.’

  OK, not really much like a treasure hunt, but sometimes children just need to believe the words.

  She looks sceptical.

  ‘Where’s the treasure?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, if I told you that then it wouldn’t be a treasure hunt, would it?’ I said.

  She filled her fork and got it almost to her mouth.

  ‘It’s too hot,’ she said, and put it down again.

  ‘Blow on it,’ I suggested. ‘It will soon cool down.’

  She lifted the fork back to her mouth and blew hard. Little pieces of tomatoey mince showered down on the table around her plate. I took a deep but quiet breath.

  ‘It’s still too hot,’ she said.

  ‘Why not try it?’ I said. ‘It should have cooled down after that lovely big blow.’

  ‘No, it’s too hot.’ She put her fork back down and a piece of fusilli fell off her plate and on to the floor. I ate a few mouthfuls, trying to will my shoulders into a normal, relaxed position. She tried again, but a shell fell into her lap. She made a show of picking it up and it burning her fingers.

  I refilled my wine glass and took a large gulp. Flo gave me a supportive, sideways glance.

  ‘This is lovely,’ she said, ‘and just the right temperature. You should eat yours quick, Jess, or I’ll have it.’

  We played a game of I Spy while Jess waited for her bolognese to cool down, which no one got because Jess was trying to make us guess P for ‘pissgetty’.

  ‘Eat your tea now,’ I said.

  She took a spoonful.

  ‘It’s too cold,’ she said.

  Sunday 25 November

  Jess asked me today why I was called Mummy.

  ‘Isn’t it confusing,’ she asked, not unreasonably, ‘that all the mummies have the same name?’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I have another name too – Frankie – but you and Flo get to call me Mummy because I am your mummy.’ I didn’t feel like I’d done a great job of explaining it, to be honest. Neither did Jess.

  ‘But why are you my mummy?’ she asked.

  ‘Because I made you in my tummy,’ I said.

  ‘And tummy rhymes with mummy?’

  ‘Well, sort of.’

  ‘Tamsin at nursery doesn’t have a mummy,’ said Jess.

  ‘That’s sad for her,’ I said, not sure I was ready for a conversation about death.

  ‘Oh, she has a mummy,’ she said, ‘she just doesn’t call her mummy so I’m not sure if it’s the same thing.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I said. ‘What does she call her?’

  ‘Non-Daddy,’ said Jess.

  ‘That’s unusual,’ I said.

  ‘I like you best as Mummy,’ said Jess.

  ‘Thanks, Non-Flo,’ I said, giving her a hug.

  Monday 26 November

  Barney is not an imaginary friend. Barney is a mouse. Discovered Jess with him this afternoon in a box in her room trying to encourage him on to a Sylvanian double bed with a cheese triangle.

  Much distress over the release of Barney into the wild.

  Tuesday 27 November

  Awkward moments where I wonder if my chat with the smear test nurse counts as flirting – 2. Jaffa Cakes (for smear test recovery) – 6.

  I had a smear test during my lunch break today, an event that is surely the highlight of any woman’s calendar?

  I always feel a bit weird about going for a smear test. It’s almost a fourth date kind of scenario, isn’t it? Before I left for the surgery I went into the toilets at work to brush my hair, put a bit of make-up on and have a freshen up with an ‘intimate wipe’ that I’d bought especially for the occasion.

  ‘You look nice!’ said the nurse as I walked into the room and she ominously locked the door behind me.

  ‘Thanks,’ I replied, ‘I like to make an effort for this kind of thing.’

  Minutes later I was lying semi-naked on a bed, legs apart, without even having been bought a drink. Before I had children, I used to get horribly embarrassed by having a smear test, but when you’ve been through labour a couple of times, one nurse having a quick rummage around doesn’t seem like such a big deal.

  ‘Have you got any children?’ the nurse asked, as she pulled on her latex gloves.

  ‘Yes, I’ve got two,’ I said. ‘Can’t you tell?’ It was half a joke but also partly a genuine question – I had always thought the view downstairs post-birth would be quite a different one.

  Politely ignoring my question, she demonstrated her equipment and got to work. I realise that the speculum tour is meant to be reassuring, so that you know what to expect, but I always feel like I could do without the reminder.

  ‘Hmm …’ she said, peering carefully into the darkness, ‘you’re very tall, aren’t you? I can’t seem to find your cervix.’

  ‘I do have one,’ I assured her helpfully.

  ‘Stay there,’ she said, ‘I just need to get a longer speculum.’

  I lay for a while behind the curtain, trying to will my cervix into view. She reappeared. ‘I’m just going to have a go with this,’ she said, flashing me her new, longer tool. I could almost feel my cervix scurry further up inside me at the sight of it.

  She still wasn’t having any luck. The expression ‘needle in a haystack’ sprang to mind, and I pictured her having to put on a head torch and go all the way in.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ she said, starting to look a bit panicky, ‘but I still can’t find it. I’m going to have a feel with my fingers. I’m ever so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ I said, ‘you’re the one at the dodgy end.’

  The hands-on approach paid off, and the elusive cervix was eventually located. She managed to reach it with the speculum and reassured me she now had a ‘very good view and everything looked lovely’, a great Tinder opening line if ever I heard one.

  ‘Call me!’ I wanted to say as I left, but I managed to restrain myself. Probably best.

  Wednesday 28 November

  Super fun day at work, she writes, sarcastically. I am sad for Ethel Bainbridge and her relatives, of course I am, but why do there have to be so bloody many of them? Her obituary took me an age to write up.

  I wonder how many people would come to my funeral? Would it be more if I died tragically young? I feel that people like to make more of an effort when you’re young. Also, most of your friends and family are still alive, so that probably boosts the numbers.

  What would people say about me? They couldn’t exactly talk about my sparkling career, could they? Maybe they’d show a montage of all of my inspirational Instagram images. I am up to four pictures now – I’ve added one beach sunset and one of a random cat I saw in the street.

  Thursday 29 November

  I arrived at Chapter
One just after lunch, ready to set up for the parent group at two. I got there a bit early as I wanted to talk to Dylan about a thought I’d had for our next book group. I launched into telling him all about my idea, which involved books with food themes, and cooking a dish from the story, when he interrupted me.

  ‘I actually had an idea, too,’ he said.

  ‘Oh cool,’ I said. ‘Well, I’m happy to take book suggestions – you’re the expert, after all.’

  ‘It’s not about the book group,’ he said. He looked serious. My heart leapt. Was this about heart emoji-gate? He wasn’t going to ask me out, was he? I do really like him, I’m just not sure I’m ready to replace the dead wife. I decided to go with desperate babbling to change the subject.

  ‘It’s not about upstairs, is it?’ I said. ‘Are you sick of us storing our toys in your spare room? Because I’d understand, you can tell me.’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘the toys are fine.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I said, ‘is it me? Am I coming in and bothering you too much? Honestly, Dylan, just tell me to butt out-’

  ‘Frankie, be quiet!’ he said. Bit bossy. ‘It’s not about book group, it’s not about toys.’ I stood still, mouth closed. ‘It is about you, though.’

  Oh cripes, I thought.

  ‘I want to offer you a job,’ he said.

  ‘A job?’ I said. ‘What sort of job?’

  ‘In the shop,’ he said, ‘a sort of shop manager? I haven’t thought it completely through yet, I wanted to see what you thought first. I’ve been thinking for ages about taking someone on, but I wanted it to be the right person – someone who genuinely loves books and loves the shop. At the risk of sounding like Willy Wonka, I think that person is you, Frankie.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ I said, ‘are you serious?’

  ‘I don’t want someone who just comes in and works the till and goes again,’ he said. ‘I want someone who can help me improve and come up with new ideas. I’ve been getting by, but I don’t want to end up spending all of Caitlin’s insurance money just keeping things afloat – I want to invest in turning the shop into something modern and exciting and profitable. Plus, I quite want someone who I can trust to work some Saturdays to give me some time off. I thought that might suit you?’ He was looking a bit awkward now. ‘Is it a terrible idea?’

  ‘Oh my God, no! It’s a brilliant idea! Oh Dylan, thank you!’

  ‘I’m guessing you’ll have to give notice where you are,’ he said, ‘so I was thinking we could start in January? It would give us time to think about responsibilities and salary and hours and things like that.’

  I didn’t know what to say, so I just gave him a huge hug. It felt a long way from the awkward half embrace over the Harry Potter book we’d had when we first met.

  I am just so pleased I won’t ever have to write another obituary! Well, I will for a few more weeks, but there will be a light at the end of the tunnel! A bit like the light at the end of Ethel Bambridge tunnel yesterday. RIP, Ethel.

  Saturday 1 December

  Today I took Jess to see the worst Father Christmas – ever.

  All three of us had gone into Dorchester to do some Christmas shopping. Flo wants clothes and obviously I can’t just pick things for her as there is about a 0.4 per cent chance I’d get it right, so I thought we’d have an outing and she could try some things on. Also, I had seen on Twitter that there was a Christmas market selling mulled wine, but that was just a lucky coincidence and definitely not related to my decision to go on the bus.

  Once the horror of Topshop was over and I’d spent an obscene amount of money that equated to around £7 per square inch of fabric, I steered everyone towards the Christmas market for a well-earned mulled wine. Just opposite (cleverly positioned), was a log cabin, festooned with plastic holly, advertising visits with Santa Claus. A large plastic Santa face was lit up, just to ram the message home for preschoolers.

  ‘Mummy!’ said Jess, tugging at my arm and nearly making me spill my wine. ‘Can I see Father Christmas? I’ve been good!’

  Well, that was sneaky. How do you say no to that without implying that you disagree?

  ‘I’m not sure if we have time,’ I said, trying to look sad, ‘we do have a particular bus to catch and I’m sure Father Christmas is really busy at this time of the year.’ We all looked at the empty space where the queue should have been and just saw a lone elf, checking his phone.

  ‘It doesn’t look busy,’ said Jess.

  ‘Maybe Santa is on a break?’ I said hopefully, ‘and that’s why there are no children waiting?’

  The elf looked up from his phone and sensing weakness called out ‘Come and meet Father Christmas! Only four pounds! Gift every time!’

  Jeez.

  ‘Please, please, please, Mummy!’ begged Jess. ‘I really, really want to see Father Christmas!’

  Flo looked dubious. ‘It looks a bit lame, Mum,’ she said, ‘not gonna lie.’

  ‘Ergh, it does, doesn’t it?’ I said. ‘But then, Jess is only four; perhaps it’s magical when you’re four?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Flo doubtfully, ‘it doesn’t look that magical to me, though. Definitely more grotty than grotto. I’m going to HMV instead.’

  So Flo buggered off and I took Jess over to where the elf was shoving his phone into his back pocket and picking up a decidedly unfestive metal cash box. ‘Only four pounds, gift every time,’ he said flatly as we approached.

  ‘I know,’ I said, ‘you already said that.’ I gave him four pound coins and he locked them away in his box and hid it behind a plastic log before showing us into Santa’s lair.

  The inside of the cabin had been covered with green tarpaulin and sprayed liberally with snow in a can. Tinny Christmas music was playing from a cheap-looking CD player, not very well hidden behind a bin liner full of what I hoped were gifts rather than actual rubbish.

  Santa himself was sitting in the middle of the cabin on a tatty armchair that looked like it could well have come out of a skip. There was a rather atmospheric mist in the cabin, but also a bit of a vanilla smell, so I think it might just have been Santa vaping.

  ‘Ho ho ho,’ said Santa in a London accent, ‘Merry Christmas, innit?’

  I let Jess sit on his lap, briefly, while he asked what she wanted for Christmas and she reeled off a list of her preferred pets. After a minute or two he interrupted her to give her a gift from the bin liner and we were ushered back into the street.

  Outside Jess was keen to unwrap her first present of the year.

  ‘What is it, Mummy?’ she asked, turning it over in her hands. I looked. It was a phone case for a Samsung Galaxy J3.

  Monday 3 December

  Meeting with Leon this morning to hand in my notice. He looked genuinely disappointed, and not just in a ‘now I’ll have to find someone else and it’s been less than three months’ way.’

  ‘I totally understand,’ he said. ‘You’re way too good for this job and, to be honest, if we hadn’t really needed you, I would have probably told you that from the start. I wish you all the best for the book shop, that sounds right up your street.’

  All much more civilised than when I left the museum.

  He did add that, in light of how long I’d been there, he hoped I wouldn’t be offended if they didn’t do a collection for a gift, which seemed fair enough.

  I uploaded a story to the website this afternoon about a Santa’s Grotto in Dorchester that has been closed down for laundering stolen goods. Apparently, the authorities were called when management at the shopping centre in Dorchester received multiple complaints about a Father Christmas in a cabin outside the centre handing out suspicious gifts from a bin liner.

  Tuesday 4 December

  Drunken stories shared with teenage daughter from my past – 1. Drunken stories I wish I’d kept to myself – also 1.

  Flo asked me this evening what it felt like to be drunk. I was holding a glass of wine at the time, which felt a bit awkward, although I was also quite pleased as by her
age I definitely knew already.

  I watched a Mumsnet Live about teenage drinking a while ago and, apparently, teenagers nowadays aren’t drinking cider in parks and throwing up in each other’s bathrooms like they used to. It’s a good thing, I guess, but also I feel a bit sad for them that they’ll never know the thrill of successfully sneaking three bottles of Diamond White out of the house without them clinking in your bag and giving you away.

  I tried to be honest, as advised by Mumsnet experts, and say that it can be fun and make you feel more relaxed and confident if you only drink a little bit, but can make you do and say stupid things if you’re not careful. I told her about the time I had to leave an important work dinner to be sick in the street because of a hangover from the night before (classy), and how drinking too much can cripple you with self-loathing and shame the next day. (Don’t remember that bit on Mumsnet, but I was kind of running with it by that stage.)

  She looked at me with a mixture of what looked like pity and disgust. I put my glass down.

  Thursday 6 December

  Discussions at Chapter One parent group today about having a Christmas party. I’d been thinking about it for a few weeks already, and had come up with the following:

  For: I really do love Christmas, excuse to eat Elizabeth Shaw mints for breakfast, etc.

  Against: Playgroup Christmas parties notoriously hellish to arrange: there is always one child afraid of Father Christmas who has to be taken outside for some ‘fresh air’; squabbles between children over gifts.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Sierra, after I’d laid out my pros and cons, ‘who said it has to be about the kids? I mean, let’s be serious, we don’t come to Chapter One to provide them with intellectual stimulation, do we? We come so that we can shove them in a corner and drink tea with other adults.’