Diary of a Mummy Misfit #1

by Amanda Egan

  Thursday 18th September

  Chatted to Olga at school gates. Don’t think it’s the done thing because I noticed several disapproving stares from the other mothers - ‘Ugh, she’s mixing with the hired help! How crass.”

  Olga was telling me about her new boyfriend Vein (Wayne), a builder - “Viz a bod like a shit house!”

  She was explaining that he wanted to ‘do de sexy thing’ and she didn’t know how.

  Seemed a rather delicate conversation to be having at the school gates but I felt a bit sorry for her. She obviously needed someone to talk to. Told her she should wait and not let him force her into anything she didn’t want to do.

  “But I do vant to do it. I just never have de bloody time because I am always heving to take care of Henners. I heven’t had a day of for tree veeks. I’m … how you say … gagging for a shagging.”

  Fenella joined us and, hearing the tale end of the conversation said, “Who? Who’s shagging who? Come on spill the beans girls.” She was also rewarded with disparaging looks from the clique.

  Didn’t feel at liberty to divulge Olga’s personal details to Fenella so kept quiet.

  Olga was obviously only too happy to discuss her sex life with any passing listener though, because she continued, “No, no Fenella. No one shagging - just vish I could! Vot’s a poor girl to do ven she vant a bit but can’t find de time?”

  Fenella laughed, “My darling you’ve picked the wrong two to ask - we’re mothers for goodness sake! Have to say it’s a bit off though when you’re a single girl and you can’t get your leg over. I’d be complaining to your boss if I were you.”

  “Ya, I did dis but she just say, ‘Vot you sink I pay you for?’ She vould never understand, frigid cow. Her husband has to do it viz Mrs Clarkson from Year three. Everyone know what zey is getting up to! Last year dey voz caught in de bogs at de Chrissie party. He said he was holding her head while she trew up but everyone knows why he was really holding her head down dere.”

  Between Jenny and Olga, Fenella and I could be finding ourselves privy to a mine of juicy gossip. Who said school life was boring?

  Friday 19th September

  Confirmed beyond doubt this morning that Manor House parents seem to have their own set of road rules and spacial awareness. We really should have been given guidelines along with the school prospectus.

  Aside from the general braille parking, we have the ‘Sorry, I’m far too busy on my mobile to get out of your way - even though I’m sitting in the middle of the road.’ And the ‘I’m just going to reverse right here and now without bothering to look behind me’, or ‘The yellow grids outside the school don’t apply to me. I always park on them so I don’t have so far to walk.’ And then the residents of the flats either side of the school’s favourite, ‘Oops, did I leave my car parked across your driveway for half an hour making you a prisoner in your own forecourt?’

  But this morning, we had a new one. Apart from on-street parking the school also has a drive through/drop off system for the older kids, which works very well if everyone keeps moving.

  Today we had ‘The Faffer’ - she pulled in to the school drive, children jumped out, then back in for forgotten sports kit/lunch boxes. She then watched them in her rear view as they struggled to open the boot to get bags out. When she eventually decided to help them, she had a ‘mwah-mwah’ air kiss with a friend and proceeded to have an in depth conversation with her, totally oblivious to the toots and hoots.

  She finally moved on when Colin-the-caretaker had a discrete word with her, looking at me and shaking his head in despair. “A different breed, I tell you!”

  Olga caught up with me just as I was approaching the car - she told me she’d decided not to do the ‘sexy thing’ with her builder and had, in fact, dumped him last night as she’d now developed a bit of a thing for … the barmaid (!) at the family’s local who was always slipping her free drinks. She actually admitted still feeling a little drunk from last night - as she unlocked the door to the family Volvo!

  Hope I didn’t come across as too reticent when she asked if Max would go for a play-date (sorry, Lou!) with Henry one day. Can’t understand how these mothers can go off to work and leave their children to be cared for by such young and irresponsible girls - as much as I like Olga, I don’t know that I’d be prepared to trust her with my son.

  Maybe Colin’s right about Manor House Mummies being another breed!

  Saturday 20th September

  Seedling Class Dinner

  How many times can one mother need to call a restaurant to change their booking? Well, if you’re dealing with Manor House mothers, seven. I’m sure the Orangery must be sick of me by now. Either that or they think I’m some kind of nutter.

  I just can’t get over the way some of these mothers operate with their trademark disregard for anyone but themselves.

  Gestapo called me at 8.30 this morning to say that she wouldn’t be able to make it to the dinner tonight. She then called Fenella at midday to say that her plans had changed and she would be able to make it after all - talk about complicating things.

  The Gnome then called to say that as Gestapo was now going she would also be there - clearly she can’t function without her evil (if less vertically challenged) friend.

  This, combined with assorted additions and cancellations, resulted in me having several very embarrassing conversations with the restaurant.

  Just hope it’s not my food they spit in.

  Sunday 21st September

  Well that’s a lesson learnt!

  Never, ever, ever, ever, will I organise a class dinner again. Fenella agrees and we have a pact to eat our own heads if either of us so much as suggests it.

  Last night the table was booked for eighteen of us at 8. There were still only eight of us at 9! By this point I think the restaurant had decided to bar any ‘Manor Housers’ booking at the restaurant again - and who could blame them?

  Gestapo insisted on ordering several bottles of Champagne and when we did eventually get to eat (gone ten) she wore our poor waiter out by demanding to know every ingredient in every dish. “Simply can’t have carbs or salt or my system will be shot,” she delighted in informing practically the whole restaurant.

  I was lumbered with Letchy Dad who spent another happy evening talking to my breasts. I suppose he’s harmless enough and it beat sitting next to any of the banker bores. Poor Ned was stuck with the Gnome and looked thoroughly comatose. At one point I thought he’d fallen asleep so texted him by fiddling surreptitiously under the table, while trying not to give Letchy Dad the impression I was getting excited by his advances.

  Olga’s employers, Lydia and Roger, had decided to join us for the evening - even though it should actually have been Olga’s night off. Lydia was complaining that she was sick of Olga’s inability to think for herself. “She knows that she has to collect Henners from tennis and Wills from algebra at 5 every Thursday and she’s always bloody late for one of them.”

  Considering one’s in Putney and one the other in Hammersmith - 45 minutes in the rush hour, at best - this wasn’t a difficult one to work out. She could probably do with a little extra maths tuition herself. What’s wrong with the woman? Clearly thinks if you pay someone they should be able to do the physically impossible.

  Actor-Wankor then cut in with, “Well at least she doesn’t fancy Roger. Anneka is making our life hell because she’s got the bloody hots for me. It’s driving Mel mad, isn’t it Darling?”

  Mel nodded and gave the kind of smile that said, ‘Dear God. Why did I marry such a wanker?’ Think it could be that hubbie believes poor Anneka is after him. Just a case of badly inflated ego, I think.

  The evening went from bad to worse with much finger-clicking at waiters, tutting at the service and loud complaints about the quality of the food.

  Fenella and I escaped outside on far too many occasions for sneaky fag breaks (yes, we’ve officially slipped) and to escape our embarrassment.

  “Lordy, L
ordy Lib. Can you believe we’re spending a Saturday night with such obnoxious toss-pots?” Fenella slurred at one of our many ciggie sojourns. “I actually heard Gestapo say to our waiter that she didn’t intend to pay for her main course because there was a pubic hair in it.”

  Oh, so they don’t deal in spit as revenge here then - original!

  “Well it certainly wouldn’t have been one of hers,” I chuckled, “Because I’d heard her telling the Gnome about the incredibly painful Brazilian she’d had done at a new salon. They’d wanted £75 for the ‘pleasure’ but, surprise surprise, she refused to pay on the grounds that it had traumatised her and she may well have to suffer from ‘hairy muff syndrome’ until her dying day.

  Hmm. Think I could be getting the knack as to how these people hold on to their money.

  This was made even more apparent when it came to a few couples leaving. Gestapo and hubbie, the Gnome and Letchy Dad had decided they’d had enough and along with Actor-Wankor and Long-Suffering Mel, Lydia and Roger they made a big show of setting off to a Champagne Bar.

  At this point we hadn’t calculated the bill but Fenella and I were astonished to discover that they’d left only twenty quid a couple at their end of the table. Gestapo had consumed about three times more than that in Champagne alone - just as well we weren’t paying City prices. OK so the pube had got her off part of the bill but there was no way they could have expected to have a three course meal with Champagne and wine for the kind of money they’d left.

  Fenella was beside herself with fury - I was more contained because I really didn’t want to disclose my true feelings in front of the remaining parents. Let’s face it we’ve all been there before - meals with people where you just know you’re subsidising them but it’s just never happened on such a grand scale.

  Anyway, we had yet another fag meeting outside and left Ned and Josh to work out how much the bill should actually have been per head.

  Fenella was wildly poking her cigarette in the air saying, “I’ll send them a bloody email in the morning. There’s no way they’re getting away with this. Off to an effing Champagne Bar? Yeah, on our money!”

  One of our waiters looked at us through the window and smiled, obviously reinforcing his mental note never to let any of us darken their doors again.

  When we got back inside Josh had gallantly settled the remainder of the bill, with the rest of us paying what should have been the correct amount per couple. “It’s only money, girls.” He was saying. “I wouldn’t show myself up by asking them for it.”

  “Show myself up, my arse!” Fenella spat. “We’re not bloody paying for them to sit there quaffing bubbly all night and being hateful to the staff. I’ll have that money from them first thing Monday morning. Just see if I don’t.” And with that she hiccupped and refilled our glasses.

  She then got unsteadily to her feet and said, “A toast to our first and last class dinner.”

  Think I heard the manager mutter, “Thank the heavens!”

  Monday 22nd September AM

  Fenella sent an email to the offending couples yesterday after she’d sobered up, but no responses yet.

  Fuelled by this, we set up an ambush at school drop-off but it seemed they’d all used nannies, au pairs or car shares so we had no joy.

  We were just having a bit of a moan when we spotted Gestapo. Fenella made straight for her and I followed in her wake like the little wimp I am.

  Gestapo continued towards her car, “Oh hi, gels. Just come from a meeting with ‘Hinge and Bracket’. Mia’s so terribly bright, I’ve asked that she be given homework.”

  Fenella wasn’t prepared to enter into educational discussions but merely said, “We just wanted to let you know that the final tally for the meal, per couple, on Saturday was ninety pounds.”

  Gestapo looked slightly quizzical. “Gosh, that seems rather steep for the kind of slop they fed us. Anyway must dash, late for my personal trainer.”

  One of the few occasions Fenella was left speechless as she watched Gestapo speed off in her Merc.

  PM

  Call from Fenella - still no response from the other couples. Amazed by their rudeness.

  Fenella is now at fever pitch and baying for blood. Josh had paid an additional two hundred and eighty pounds and was unlikely to see it back. It didn’t seem to bother him but she’s not prepared to let it lie and I agree with her.

  “God Lib. It’s the principle of the matter. That money could buy me another hat to stick in the cupboard.”

  The logic of the woman!

  Said goodbye and both agreed to come up with ways to secure her hat money back. Coffee and fags at 09.00 hours.

  Tuesday 23rd September AM

  What a hoot!

  We’d just settled for our coffee and moan-in, when Olga knocked at the front door. Somehow she’d been roped in to deliver invites to Mia’s party.

  “Oh no. It doesn’t matter zat I don’t actually verk for de bitch. I just get pimped around like bit of Bratwurst. Lydia-Boss-Lady, she just say, ‘Oh you go do job for Araminta today’ and I expected to get off butt and go like slave girl to vichever vitch needs me!”

  We offered her coffee and biscuits and then Fenella let rip about our restaurant fiasco. “Your bloody boss was one of them. Tight fisted old hag!”

  Olga nodded, “Yes, zis is most true of Mrs Lydia. Vunce she forgot to pay me for almost four veeks. How much de old buggers owe you?”

  When we told her she calmly opened her ruck-sack and produced two hundred and eighty pounds.

  “De cow leaves me viz about five hundred emergency house-keeping. I use it for de petrol or stuff for de kids. Now she vill have de job of getting it back from de udder mudders. Ha, ha! Leave it to Olga, I vill tell her tonight and enjoy to do dis ting very much!”

  Vot a brave girl Olga!

  Fenella expressed her gratitude and made Olga assure her that she wouldn’t get into any trouble with Lydia.

  Olga tutted and shook her head, “No vay. I am far too valuable to dem. Zey fall apart vizout me and anyvays, if she fire me I get new job somevere better. I not stupid!”

  Think Olga was quite looking forward to dropping the bombshell tonight - can’t say I’d be feeling quite so brave.

  Mrs S emailed to say that she has signed up for a computer course at the local college.

  ‘I am very much thinking that this is the way of the future and I am not wanting to be left behind. I will probably be oldest lady there with lots of hoodies and naughty boys but maybe I can teach them how to be good boys like my Pritesh.

  PS: I got leisure panties for one pound seventy. Pritesh forgot to tell me about postage so they will be costing me six pounds seventy but at least I won.’

  PM

  Ned not very happy tonight. Talk of redundancies in the office and he says you can never assume it won’t be you.

  “We’d be totally up the proverbial if anything happened to my job, Lib. It just doesn’t bare thinking about.”

  O.K, so I won’t think about it. Went to bed and stuck my head under the duvet like an ostrich in the sand. ‘Don’t think about it and it won’t happen’ is about to become my new motto.

  Wednesday 24th September AM

  Shitty morning. Dropped Max off at school and got dragged into an impromptu Christmas fair meeting with Shaaaron and a few other committee members. Fenella had asked Josh to do the school drop off so I had to deal with them alone.

  Left the school reeling with a list of ludicrous changes they now decide they want to make, only to find that I had a flat tyre. Was just doing a John Cleese and giving the sodding thing a bloody good kicking when Colin-the-caretaker appeared at my side, “Now that’s not going to help much is it? Want me to change it for you? I’ve got a few minutes.”

  Was so grateful to him because I was desperate to get home and call Fenella with the updates - must buy him a bottle of something and drop off at school this afternoon.

  PM

  Got home after collecting Max, t
o a message from Colin saying he was absolutely stunned by my generosity (a bottle of whisky not even single malt). In the six years he and Jenny have worked there no one has ever given them a token of their thanks - apart from a half empty bottle of wine shoved in a gift bag by an out-of- it-Prozac-mum at the end of term and a box of cheap candles.

  Called Jenny straight back and we’ve arranged for them to come for dinner next week, as promised.

  Settled down before bed to go through our ever-growing list - smoked another 6 cigarettes.