Diary of a Mummy Misfit #1

by Amanda Egan

  Gestapo was ranting loudly at a group of mothers, all of whom claim to be her friends. ‘Dress Up Mummy’, sporting a polka dot bikini top and ra-ra skirt, would have been quite capable of quietening her down but she, also, did nothing.

  Gestapo’s volume increased and she gesticulated wildly. “You know the bastards won’t even give me back my deposit. They know I’m on the bone of my ass and they can’t even do that for me. After everything I’ve done for this school, that’s the way they treat me.”

  There was quite a bit of muttering at this point as people struggled to remember exactly what she’d done for the school. Made a few smoked salmon bagels for the Christmas fair maybe but that was only under duress.

  Drove home feeling like I’d been rubber-necking at a road side accident or attended some bizarre circus freak show. Felt quite sick.

  Got home to garbled voicemail from Pritesh saying that his mum had been rushed to A&E and was asking for me. Calmly threw up and then made my way to the hospital.

  Saturday 20th June AM

  Ned says he thinks the last week and all its dramas have taken it out of me a bit as I crashed in front of the TV last night at about nine o’clock, when I finally got home from the hospital, and still managed to sleep until ten this morning.

  Mrs S was in a bad way when I got there last night. She’d had a fall in her garden yesterday resulting in a broken hip. The trauma and the operation that followed had left her very frail and confused. She’s now convinced I’m her daughter-in-law and Skunk’s her other son. Pritesh was completely freaked by the whole thing and asked that we just play along with it for now.

  Praying that she pulls through this - just can’t imagine life without her around. Skunk shed a few tears and then, embarrassed, turned to more practical issues. Said he’d take on full responsibility for Ba’s Kitchen and that he’d also care for Desmond until she came home. Pritesh gave us both a warm hug as we prepared to leave.

  Not long until the end of term now and, although there’ll be no international jet-setting for us, I’ve been looking forward to a break and the lazy days - think there could be quite a bit of hospital visiting thrown in there now though.

  Ned should hear back about his job next week so, just maybe, we can decline the offer of help from CCL and Gestapo might benefit indirectly. Fenella thinks she should be kicked out on her bony little bum, and I’m sure there are others who would agree, but she didn’t ask for her husband to be a crook and I feel so sorry for the kids.

  Definitely getting soft in my old age.

  PM

  Ned wanted to invite F&J round for a drink in the garden but I said I was too knackered.

  He says I should take a tonic or something as I’m always shattered lately.

  I said I’d have it with gin and a slice.

  Had an early night as I really was very tired and the gin made me feel a bit nauseous.

  Sunday 21st June

  Had agreed to babysit Grace today as Elle was accompanying Rob to a corporate lunch.

  Max was totally hyper over breakfast and couldn’t wait for his ‘playmate parcel’ to be delivered. Never seen him dressed and ready for action so early on a weekend.

  Ned eventually worked out how to strap Grace’s car seat in the back of our car and fold the buggy so that it would actually fit in the boot. How quickly we forget about the paraphernalia and accoutrements that come with these tiny bundles.

  Set off for the park as Max was desperate to show Grace the pigeons, the squirrels and his favourite swing. Obviously this all went totally over Grace’s head and she shrieked and wailed through most of Max’s dialogue. A trip to the café to warm a bottle of ‘Elle’s Finest’, decanted that very morning, was the only thing that would quieten her down.

  We were all practically on our knees by the time she was collected from home.

  “Wow, Mummy. Babies are persausting (exhausting) aren’t they?” Poor Max was flopped on the sofa, having fetched, carried, peek-a-booed and generally entertained.

  Ned was busy snoring - the day had taken its toll on all of us.

  There’s definitely something to be said for having kids at a younger age. Us oldies just can’t hack the pace.

  Monday 22nd June

  All very tired this morning.

  Max said he’d like to babysit for Grace again when she’s learnt not to cry so much. “I’m sure I never did that much crying and I bet I wasn’t that loud,” he said sleepily over a bowl of cereal. “Tell Auntie Elle we’ll have her again when she’s five.”

  Uneventful school drop off and then back home to a perplexing phone call from Mum.

  “Libby, I’ve just had a rather strange call from a Signore Something-Or- Other at an Italian solicitors. He wanted to know if I could supply him with your current address. Now you know what I’m like with foreign accents and how I always panic at the whiff of authority, (that’s where I get it from) so I just gave it to him. I hope you’ve not got yourself into any trouble and I’ve led you like a lamb to the slaughter. But then it’s your own silly fault if you have.”

  Assured Mum that, as far as I was aware, I hadn’t been involved in any ‘Italian Jobs’ - whilst rapidly thinking back to the only time Ned and I were ever in Italy, pre-marriage, and wondering if the parking ticket we’d torn up had come back to haunt us. Just our luck!

  Spent a good while speculating as to what ‘Signore Something-Or-Other’ might want and when I mentioned the parking ticket to Ned, he laughed.

  “No Lib, I doubt it very much. I think the Italian authorities have got better things to do with their time. Knowing your mother, she’s probably got it totally wrong. You know what she’s like at the moment, all loved up. I blame Bert. She used to be a reasonably sane woman, now she’s just a doe-eyed love-muffin.”

  Ned’s description made me feel slightly queasy. Excused myself to go and have a nice cup of weak tea.

  Love-muffin!

  Tuesday 23rd June

  Sports day.

  Thank heavens for a gloriously sunny day - not too hot for the kids but pleasant enough for us parents to sit about and partake of our very civilised picnics.

  Managed a quick trip to Mrs S on the way and she seemed a bit perkier. Still insisting I’m her daughter-in-law but got the feeling she’s doing that on purpose now. Left her propped up against her pillows, reading ‘Doctor of Desire’ and telling all the nurses what a dutiful wife I am.

  Arrived at the sports field to meet F&J and was amused to see an ocean of picnic blankets already laid out - champagne was on ice, blinis with caviar were being delicately nibbled and platters of exotica graced makeshift tables.

  Another occasion to keep up with the Jones’s - or Barrington-Smythe’s, as the case may be.

  Fenella and I had agreed to bring a selection of sandwiches and some fruit and cheese - more than adequate for a Sports day picnic in our view.

  Oh and of course some Pimms - always goes down easily on a hot day and I’m a bit sick of wine at the moment.

  Meemies’ sports day uniform appeared to be pretty little floral dresses in muted shades, teamed with ballerina pumps. What a pity no one had told me or Fenella - I was in linen trousers and a cami and Fenella was in combats and a T-shirt.

  “I’ve learnt my lesson, Lib. I wore a dress to Todd’s nursery sports day last year and I fell over in the Mummy’s race - not a good day to have gone commando, I can tell you!”

  Can just picture the scene now - how typically Fenella.

  Gestapo and the Gnome were setting up quite close to us and I noticed that ‘Dress Up Mummy’ hadn’t adhered to the dress code either - she was in an off the shoulder ball gown. Although Dress Up Daddy was sporting the requisite floral. He was modelling a chintz, over sized blousy affair with cut off jeans and lime green sandals. Letchy Dad’s contribution to helping was holding the picnic blanket down whilst taking the opportunity to look up or down ladies’ dresses.

  Saw Actor-Wankor and Long Suffering Mel having what looked li
ke a bit of a barney. They were setting up with a dazzlingly attractive young girl who I could only imagine was Anneka, the au pair with the supposed hots for her boss. Somehow doubt it.

  Olga was being bossed about by Lydia-Boss-Lady and Roger. She looked over at me and made a ‘cut throat’ sign - how she’s stood it for so long I’ll never know.

  ‘Scammy Mummy’ scurried past our pitch with a quick nod of recognition in our direction - her secret’s safe with us.

  ‘Bikey Mummy’ was busy chatting up the gorgeous Mr Rooney. Although she looked like she might have had a bit of competition from ‘Naughty Mummy’ - they were engaged in a breast duel with much hair flicking and lip-moistening. Would love to hear the stories he tells his mates down the pub.

  Shaaaron was busily faffing about with Poo in her wake - organising a raffle to take place later on in the proceedings. Heard her saying, “No Poo, I haven’t organised any change. I’d delegated that duty elsewhere but now I can’t remember to whom. Check on my Blackberry. And grab me a glass of shampoo while you’re at it, would you? My nerves are shattered.”

  Hinge & Bracket were set up in a mini gazebo, sheltered from the sun and with loud-hailers at the ready to announce the winners of races.

  The CCL mum who’d been so nice to me about Imogen came up and offered me a glass of champagne. “Just to say thanks again, Libby. We can’t even begin to tell you what a difference you’ve made.”

  All around us, a picture of upper middle class London and the assortment of people who’ve become a part of our lives over the last year. Suddenly felt the over-whelming emotion that I could fit in somehow and perhaps I only had myself to blame if I didn’t.

  Just a shame that I made a bit of a laughing stock of myself in the Mummy’s race. Stupidly didn’t realise that they get very competitive about the whole thing. Some even changed into ‘lucky trainers’ and did some serious limbering up beforehand.

  Also, nobody told me that it was half running and half sack-race. Was doing fine with the running part for someone who hasn’t had any exercise since boogying at the school disco. Embarrassingly, I fell out of my sack and got my legs in a tangle so, by the time I’d ‘de-Houdinied’ myself, the race was over and won by a leggy gazelle who, apparently, triumphs every year.

  Made Fenella promise to hold me down next year and not even consider entry. She agreed that it was fine by her because she was totally buggered and needed a good slug of Pimms to get her stamina back.

  Our men didn’t fare much better in the Dad’s race but they kept their dignity and neither of them came last or wriggled around on the field like an upturned beetle.

  At least Max and Todd were happy with joint third in the egg and spoon race - they could easily have come first but they were too busy talking to one another. So like their mothers!

  Wednesday 24th June

  Lots of action on the gate this morning. A group of Meemies were off to Wimbledon tennis later - much overly loud discussion as to who was sharing whose cab and who was taking their car and risking the parking dilemma.

  This all paled into insignificance when Shaaaron arrived proudly brandishing a new handbag. Well to me it looked like just a new handbag but the hushed murmurs and then shrieks of, “Oh my God!” and “Let me touch it, let me smell it!” alerted me to the fact that this was no ordinary bag.

  A small group gathered around a very flushed Shaaaron, who drank in their enthusiasm and praise - like a proud new mum showing off her firstborn.

  Fenella sidled up to me and asked what all the commotion was about - the gathering had grown quite big so it was difficult for her to get a good view. Told her about the bag that everyone was eager to sniff or stroke.

  She managed to get to the edge of the group, tiptoed her head above the others and then returned to me shaking her head, “It’s a bloody Hermes Birkin. The waiting list is phenomenal, and as for the price … well, let’s not even go there!”

  Told her that, from what I’d managed to see of it, it looked pretty naff and rather over-stated but then what could I possibly know about ‘what’s hot and what’s not’?

  “Well of course you think it’s naff, Sweedie because it is! - unless of course you’re a WAG or a ‘Sex in the City’ star. To Shaaaron, it’s a status symbol - it proves she can afford it and she’s influential enough to get her hands on one. Pathetic really! Give me ‘Chloe’ any day.”

  Felt thoroughly confused by the whole thing. Did it all come down to the price tag on an item or whether or not you actually liked it?

  And how do people who can afford anything ever decide on what to buy? It’s hard enough when you’re on a budget but, if the whole gamut is open to you, how do you ever come to a decision?

  Took my fake Prada to visit Mrs S, content in the knowledge that I’d never have that problem to deal with.

  Not a good day for the patient today but the doctors told us that’s quite normal after a hip op on an elderly person. Pritesh clearly not in complete control of his senses as my comforting words and platonic hugs in the family room were rewarded with a rather clumsy attempt at a proper kiss!

  Blushing as I write - months of fantasy evaporated as reality failed to live up to my imagination. No spark whatsoever. Neddy-man’s the one for me.

  Told Pritesh in no uncertain terms that I would forgive him on this occasion but if he ever pulled a stunt like that again I’d most certainly be telling Ned. Felt a bit mean because he did look decidedly sheepish but I had to put an end to the farce once and for all.

  Thursday 25th June

  As I write, I feel particularly sick and shaky but hope that getting it down on paper might just help me to process the information. Am wondering if I’ll wake to discover it’s another dream - just as I did this morning when I was relieved to find that I wasn’t at the school gates proudly showing off my Primark carrier bag and telling the mothers how difficult it was to come by one.

  This is one dream I hope I don’t wake up from though.

  To get down to the nitty-gritty, a letter arrived today from ‘Signore Something-Or-Other’ - who is actually Signore Grimaldi from ‘Grimaldi, Benito and Alvarez Procuratores’ (solicitors).

  Far from threatening legal action over parking offences, a formal and polite letter informed me that I, Libby Marchant, of 33 Connaught Street London was sole benefactor of Miss Maisie Mower’s last will and testament. Deceased. No other dependants. Cause of death: stroke.

  My fairy godmother has left everything to me!

  Included in the envelope was another sealed letter with my Auntie Maisie’s elegant scrawl on the front - ‘To Libby - my Goddaughter’.

  It read:

  ‘My Dear Libby

  By the time you read this I will be long gone and floating as a beautiful angel in the sky - allow me my dreams, please!

  I’m so sorry that I was denied the opportunity to be the Godmother I had always wanted to be. You will probably know for yourself by now that your mother is not the easiest woman in the world and, much as I loved her, I found she was making my life a misery with her constant put-downs and insults. What is it you young people are so fond of saying? Aggro, I think. All I ever got from your mother was aggro and I decided I didn’t have to put up with it any more.

  My move to Italy was the best thing I ever did and, although I never married, I have led a very happy life and been courted by many debonair gentlemen.

  Financially I have been extremely fortunate. I found that I had a knack for buying and selling properties which kept me quite comfortable. Also several ‘admirers’ graciously remembered me in their wills - so I’ve never been short of a few bob, as they say.

  My one regret in life is that I was unable to be there to fulfil my Christian obligation to look after your welfare and offer guidance, but I’m hoping that I can make up for that now I am gone.

  Being a spinster (such a foul word!) I have no family to whom I can bequeath my assets. I could have ended up a batty old dear and left it all to a donkey sanctuar
y but, remembering your love of animals, I can be almost certain that you will have a mangy old mutt or two living with you by now. Am I right?

  So, dear Libby, everything I have I leave to you and your waifs and strays. As I write, I have no idea how much will be coming your way but I hope that it will make a difference to your life and you will remember me with fondness.

  All best to your harridan of a mother - buy her a stiff G&T from me.

  With much love

  Auntie Maisie’

  I don’t know how many times I’ve read and re-read that letter. I’ve laughed, I’ve cried and I’ve looked up to the skies and thanked that floating angel.