by Jo Middleton
‘That’s true,’ said Lou. ‘I didn’t come to Busy Beavers that first time to entertain the boys, I came because I wanted a grown-up to talk to me. And you did! And here we are. We should be celebrating.’
So we decided that we will have a Christmas party, but that we won’t have a Father Christmas or gifts for the children or party bags or anything complicated like that. Each parent will bring a plate/bowl/bag of food – supermarket cakes positively encouraged – and Sierra, Lou and I are going to chip in and buy a few bottles of prosecco.
We’re also going to do grown-up presents. Everyone is going to bring something small, we’ll stick them in a sack, and then it will be a lucky dip. The children will have just as much fun as they would at any party because of the popping of corks, general excitement etc., but no one will have to dress up as Santa or break up any fights over who got the best pack of Pokémon cards.
Hooray for Christmas!
Tried to do some @simple_dorset_life stalking when I went to bed as I was sure she would be prepping some delicious Christmas treats using courgettes and coconut flour but the account has gone!! I am in shock. Who am I meant to compare myself to now?
Read some of Tuesdays With Morrie instead. I’d forgotten how much I love reading.
Friday 7 December
We have to do Jess’s primary school application by mid-January, so today Ian and I went to look at a couple of options. I say that like there are loads – there are only really two. One is only about a ten-minute walk away from us, so would be our first choice. The second we’d need to drive to, but I wanted to go and visit two just so that we had a comparison and felt like we’d done our research.
School number two – the further away one – was fine, although we were shown around by the one of the women from the school office rather than the headteacher and, according to my Mumsnet research, this is a Bad Sign. She was perfectly lovely and answered all of our questions, but she seemed a bit hesitant to let us go into all of the classrooms, which made us wonder about the teaching methods.
School number one – thank God – was amazing. The headteacher showed us around herself and was one of those women who manages to be friendly yet professional at the same time, so you immediately want to entrust her with important tasks like researching life insurance for you. She was very forthcoming about the school’s bullying policy, before we had even asked the question, and I liked that they still do hot dinners as the whole building smelt of gravy and reminded me of being eight years old and getting lunch dished up in plastic trays with separate compartments for your faggots, potatoes and peas.
Jess said she liked the smell, too, and she liked that the pegs had pictures next to them.
‘Would I be able to choose my own picture?’ she asked the headteacher.
‘You might be able to,’ she said. ‘You would have to check with your teacher.’
‘If we can then I want mine to be RuPaul,’ she said. Really must stop her watching RuPaul’s Drag Race.
I messaged a match on Tinder today, called Marcus.
‘Hey, Marcus,’ I wrote, ‘thanks for swiping! What’s a fun fact about you that not many people know? My starter for ten is that I once passed out mid-air … Frankie.’
(True fact.)
I had a swift reply.
‘Passed out mid-air?’ wrote Marcus. ‘Well, that is gonna need a bit more back story. Here is something iv not told any1 yet. Iv been writing a play in my head at work for the last couple of weeks. Just to lazy to put it on paper’.
Word for word.
I replied, suggesting that if he wanted to write a play he might need to improve his spelling.
Another speedy response:
‘Yeah I can’t spell never been able to,’ he wrote, ‘so I don’t even try any more. The play is a bit melo dramaish/silly slapstick so it wouldn’t really mater about gramer n shit’.
Oh yes, of course, you’re totally right, Marcus. If you’re writing comedy then the rules of English don’t apply. It’s not sexy, is it? If he can’t even be bothered to write ‘anyone’, I don’t imagine Marcus is the sort of man to bring you a cup of tea in bed without asking.
I really think Tinder should introduce an option to unmatch on the basis of poor spelling and grammar. It might encourage people to up their game a little bit.
Marcus was the final proof I needed though that Tinder is not going to be the way for me to meet the man of my dreams. It’s been ‘interesting’ giving it a go, but I think I’m more of a face-to-face kind of person. Talking to someone in real life is so much easier than messaging them, plus you don’t get distracted by spelling mistakes. So, I’ve booked a speed-dating night! It’s not until mid-January, but I thought that would give me a bit of time to work myself up to it. This year has been about dipping my toe, next year … who knows?
Monday 10 December
‘Have you had an invite to Cassie’s New Year’s Eve party?’ Sierra asked WIB this evening.
‘No!’ I said, outraged. ‘Have you?’
‘Ha ha! No. Someone from the Busy Beavers WhatsApp group just messaged me to ask. I think word might have got out that it was me who put up that poster of her in Aldi.’
‘Also, didn’t you guys go last year,’ asked Lou, ‘and drink all of her husband’s best Scotch playing that boasty parent bingo game?’
‘Oh yeah,’ I said, ‘there was that too.’
I started to feel a bit sorry for myself, but then remembered last New Year and how rubbish I’d felt about it, and how Flo had told me I looked like a supply teacher. Perhaps it might not be so bad not to have to do that again.
‘Let’s have our own party,’ wrote Sierra. ‘We can have it at my house. You know, the party house of dreams. We could invite Chapter One group people, and your book group, Frankie? So long as both of you promise not to throw up in my copper pans.’
‘But I’ve got the girls that weekend,’ I said, ‘and David is taking Sandra off to a cabaret event at a B & B in Blackpool or something awful, isn’t he?’
‘God,’ said Lou, ‘don’t remind me. To think that could have been me!’
‘We’ll make it kids too,’ said Sierra. ‘We’ve got loads of space. People can stay over if they want to, but to make it easier we could celebrate New Year early – pretend we’re somewhere else in the world that’s ahead of us, so we get the champagne without having to stay up until midnight?’
There was a pause while we were all clearly googling time zones.
‘How about Omsk?’ I wrote.
‘Where the frig is Omsk?’ wrote Sierra.
‘Isn’t it Russia?’ wrote Lou.
‘I think so,’ I said. ‘It’s six hours ahead so we can sing Auld Lang Syne at 6 p.m. and be happily home in bed by ten.’
Tuesday 11 December
Jess is already ridiculously excited about Christmas and there are still two weeks to go. Every ten minutes or so she asks me how many sleeps it is, and should she get the carrot out ready for Rudolph. I keep telling her that Rudolph is definitely not going to want a eat a carrot that’s been hanging around in her room for a fortnight.
Chopped the end off a potato and suggested she go and give it to her ponies as practice. I could hear her upstairs role-playing Christmas morning.
‘Oh, Rainbow Dash, look what Father Christmas bought me! It’s a My Little Pony costume so I can dress up and look just like you! And two puppies! Aren’t they sweet?’
I feel like real Christmas morning is probably going to be a disappointment for her.
Wednesday 12 December
Book group tonight to talk about Tuesdays with Morrie, which was actually my choice. I wouldn’t say it’s my favourite ever book of all time, but I find it so difficult to have favourites as different books speak to me in different ways and at different times.
I first read Tuesdays With Morrie about fifteen years ago. I remember loving it then and have wanted to reread it for a long time. I felt quite nervous as the meeting started, because I
wanted everyone to love it as much as I did and I felt that if they didn’t then I’d be responsible.
Fortunately it went down well, particularly with Sean, who I actually thought might cry at one point.
‘It was so simple,’ he said, ‘but so powerful. Which I guess echoes the whole theme of the book and the idea of happiness coming from very simple things.’
‘I loved it too,’ said Hannah, helping herself to another Fondant Fancy. ‘That whole idea of acknowledging emotions and then letting them go, that really spoke to me. I’ve started practising that and it’s amazing.’
‘I’d hate to have someone have to wipe my bum,’ said Marjorie, one of the upstairs playgroup mums, kind of missing the point.
I think Hannah might be my favourite so far. She was a way of saying ‘sandwiches’ very precisely, with a lot of emphasis on the D, that I really love.
Message from Sierra when I got home.
‘I think we might have a bit of a Mean Girls-style issue,’ she wrote. ‘Word has got out about our New Year’s Eve party and a few people have been messaging me, hinting at being asked. One of them even said she wanted to come to us rather than to Cassie’s party because last year she accidentally broke a glass at Cassie’s and Cassie made her replace it.’
‘Blimey,’ I replied, ‘that’s a bit much, isn’t it?’
‘It was a wedding present or something,’ wrote Sierra. ‘Anyway, the point is – do we invite all these extras and steal Cassie’s guests?’
‘You know what we should do, don’t you?’ said Lou. ‘We should invite Cassie.’
There was a silence.
‘Could we?’ I asked.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Sierra, ‘I’m going to do it. Ha!’
Thursday 13 December
Different scams I would definitely fall for as a pensioner – at least 12. Chunks of Toblerone eaten without really noticing every time I went into the kitchen – 9. But basically Christmas, so totally acceptable.
A man in very unflattering orange overalls came to the door this morning. He said he was replacing the gas pipes in our street and could he have a look at my gas meter. I moved all the wellington boots and half rolls of wallpaper and carpet offcuts and empty lightbulb boxes out of the way and he connected some cables and looked at some readings.
It was only after he’d gone that it occurred to me that I hadn’t asked for any proof that he was who he said he was, I just let him into my home, a complete stranger.
I’m going to be one of those single pensioners who gets their drive tarmacked without realising it, aren’t I? Flo will come and visit me and my living room will be full of badly drawn countryside scenes that I’ve exchanged on the doorstep for my life savings.
(Note to future self: always ask for ID before you let a man root around in your understairs cupboard.)
Friday 14 December
Fish finger sandwiches and beans for tea. Flo raised her eyebrows at me when I put the plates on the table.
‘If you went to that new café on the seafront you’d pay £8.95 for a fish finger sandwich,’ I pointed out.
She looked around the kitchen. ‘I’m not really getting the “hipster café” vibe’ she said, ‘especially not with that pile of your pants on the table.’
Fair point about the pants, so I moved those to the stairs for later. I put the cactus from the windowsill in the middle of the table, rinsed out the empty bean tin, and filled it with cutlery.
‘Alexa,’ I said, ‘play some alternative folk music.’
‘It’s beautiful, Mummy!’ said Jess, leaning over to get a fork and putting her elbow in her beans.
‘Do we have any organic, small-batch ketchup?’ asked Flo.
Saturday 16 December
Crumbs in the bed – at least one million (feels like). Genius ideas for ways to make extra money from soft play – 1. Actual glasses of wine drunk in secret from a Fruit Shoot bottle – 0 (disappointing).
Jess woke me up at 5 a.m. saying she was hungry and was it Christmas yet.
No, it was 5 a.m. As in basically still the goddamn night. I fobbed her off with my phone and a couple of Hobnobs from the stash I keep in my bedside table. She looked suspicious.
‘Why have you got biscuits in your bedroom, Mummy?’ she asked. ‘I’m not allowed biscuits in bed.’
‘I don’t know, Jess,’ I lied, ‘they must have fallen in there when I unpacked the shopping.’ Fortunately, she was playing Cooking Mama already and didn’t question me further.
‘Mummy, do you want to do some chopping?’ she said, poking the phone into my face and showering me with crumbs. I looked at the clock. 5.07 a.m.
‘It’s a little bit too early for me to be chopping,’ I said, ‘why don’t you lie down for a bit?’ She tried to, but her hands were full, and she ended up leaning on the Hobnob hand and crunching the biscuit into bits on the sheet. About sixteen million pieces of toasted oats immediately lodged themselves underneath me, making it impossible to get comfortable.
I closed my eyes anyway.
‘Mummy, do you want to see the dinner I made?’ The phone was in my face again, right up next to my eyes, the blur of Cooking Mama burning my retinas.
I sighed. The Hobnob crumbs shifted menacingly. 5.14 a.m.
‘Shall we get up?’ I said, giving in.
‘I’m quite tired,’ says Jess. ‘Maybe you could bring me breakfast in bed?’
Or maybe you could go back to your own bed and leave me to sleep until there is light in the sky, like a normal human being? I thought.
‘How about some Weetos?’ I said out loud.
By 9, Jess had watched two hours of television already and I’d had four pieces of toast, neither of which would be Supernanny recommendations, I’m sure.
The rain was coming down like a crack addict after a weekend binge, Flo was unlikely to wake up for another, ooh, three days or so, and even Sainsbury’s wasn’t due to open for another hour. It was in pure desperation then that I found myself at Micro Soft at 9.27 on a Sunday morning, sitting in the car waiting for it to open.
There was one other woman waiting to go in. She had two boys with her who charged ahead as soon as the magnetic gate opened for them. The buzz of that gate always makes me want to empty my pockets, like I’ve just arrived at prison visiting time. (I’ve never visited anyone in prison, but I imagine you might have to empty your pockets, in case you’re smuggling in a key in a Mars Bar or something.)
The mum was definitely well prepped. She’d brought her own pair of socks, which she put on before heading up the foam steps to go down the slide. When she came out, she used hand sanitiser.
I admired her optimism but given Lou’s ‘fact’ about ball pit bacteria, hand sanitiser in a soft play area feels a bit like getting a J-cloth out to clean up after a tsunami.
I watched her go in again and down the slide. She seemed to be laughing, like she was genuinely enjoying herself. Strange. I set up camp in the café.
I have a love/hate relationship when it comes to the café at Micro Soft. I use café in the loosest sense as I don’t exactly feel as if I’m on a Parisian pavement, sipping cappuccino or anything; it’s really just an area of chairs nearer the tills than some other chairs. The coffee is rank and comes in those mugs with handles that are too small to get even one finger in, rendering them pointless in the extreme.
They do, however, sell Jaffa Cakes. This, in my mind, is marketing genius. There is nowhere I can think that I need a Jaffa Cake more than at soft play. This is the love part.
The hate part is that they are the four Jaffa Cake snack packs and they charge an entire pound for them. A whole pound! Full-size packs are quite often on offer in Tesco for 50p, so this is just outrageous. I’m weak, though: I NEED them, and if you are at the point in the day/week/your life that soft play is your only option, are you in any fit state to be planning ahead and bringing your own? It’s so damn clever.
I’ve spent quite a bit of time thinking about other things that I think
soft play centres could make a killing on. Here are my top three:
Alcohol in Fruit Shoot bottles.
This would be a special grown-up section of the café fridge – probably top shelf – where Fruit Shoot bottles have been repurposed to contain wine in various colours and, possibly just in the school holidays or Inset days, gin. (I considered prosecco but I think there would be a potential mess/stickiness issue with the fizziness and the pop-up Fruit Shoot lid.)
Obviously, you’d have to be very careful not to get the bottles muddled with the regular Fruit Shoots. The ball pit really would get messy then.
VIP soundproof viewing area.
I picture this room adjacent to the soft play, with a connecting wall replaced with floor-to-ceiling soundproof glass. You’d be able to keep an eye on your children, if you’re into that sort of thing, and they could see you smile and wave from time to time, but it would be silent save for the contented sighs of other parents scrolling through Instagram and sipping their Fruit Shoots.
Soft-play therapy sessions.
It feels crazy to me that parents go to soft play to escape the tedium and loneliness of home, just to sit at our own solitary table in the middle of a large warehouse, feeling equally despondent. Soft-play group therapy would bring together mums, dads, grandparents and carers in small groups so that we could share our woes. You might have to pay a little bit extra on top of the regular entry price, but all participants would get a snack pack of Jaffa Cakes.
You’re welcome, Micro Soft.
(Question: whatever happened to Supernanny? Perhaps she had children and realised that not everything in life can be solved with a firm yet fair set of house rules and a sheet of smiley-face stickers.)
Monday 17 December