by Gill Sims
I wish I liked sherry, I am sure such an evening calls for a nice glass of dry sherry.
Tuesday, 22 December
Louisa arrived today, complete with Bardo and the six children (Simon was right). There is not enough wine in the world.
As I have taken time off work while the children are off school over the Christmas holidays, I was here to greet them when they appeared, conveniently, just before lunch. Despite Louisa’s breezy announcement that they could all sleep in the camper van, not even I can make six children sleep in a camper van in December, so they are all crammed into our not-very-large house. Louisa and Bardo and the new baby and the toddler are in the spare room, and Peter and Jane are sharing their bedrooms with the rest of the children. Louisa and Bardo were at least considerate enough to have two boys and two girls for their oldest four, so there are no complaints from my children about how it is not fair that one has to share with more than the other.
There have been plenty of complaints about how unfair it is that they have to share at all, though, which they voiced loudly in front of Louisa (‘Please, Ellen, try to remember to call me Amaris! I left Louisa behind when I dedicated my life to the Goddess’), who took it as a golden opportunity to deliver a lecture on how her children were being brought up to understand that we truly own nothing except our souls, blah blah blah. The way her children’s eyes lit up when they spied our iPads suggested they may not agree with Louisa’s views on ownership. I’m going to have to frisk those little buggers before they leave.
Lunch was somewhat awkward, due to Louisa having declared the family gluten-free as well as vegan since the last time we saw them, so the pasta bake I had thought would be safe was rejected. But it was okay, she announced, I was not to worry, because Bardo would make us all one of his special soups instead. Cue Bardo rifling through my cupboards, demanding lentils and chickpeas (I am somewhat anxious about our plumbing, with eight of them staying here for a week and stuffing themselves full of so much fibre) and Louisa poking through my fridge, bewailing my lack of organic vegetables, ‘These are just full of toxins, you’re basically poisoning your family, Ellen! I know organic produce is more expensive, but why don’t you just grow your own, like we do? It’s so easy, and so satisfying and being in touch with the soil like that is just the most wonderful feeling, it really makes you appreciate every mouthful!’
She then rummaged through the eleventy billion hessian bags they had brought instead of suitcases (perhaps suitcases are a symbol of male oppression and the rape of the planet? Who knows? Who cares?) and thrust a bulging sack at me. ‘We know there’s a lot of us to feed, and we didn’t want you to feel we were taking advantage, so we brought a contribution!’ She beamed at me proudly, as I peered suspiciously at various wizened, mud-encrusted lumps lurking in the depths. ‘It’s some of our vegetables, all grown sustainably and organically. Once you taste these, you’ll never go back to that horrible, plastic-wrapped supermarket veg! We’ll have you up to your elbows in the Goddess’ bounty before you know it!’
She emptied the sack on the table, scattering mud everywhere as she did so – ‘It’s just good clean dirt, don’t worry about it!’ – and brandished various mystery objects at me. ‘Look! Potatoes and onions and beetroot and kale. Delicious. Bardo will put them all in the soup, you’ll love it.’
I attempted to hide my outrage at the fact that, a) Louisa clearly doesn’t understand the importance of beetroot in my family Christmas and she needn’t think that misshapen testicle she waved at me is in any way replacing the sacred jar of pickled beetroot on my Christmas tea table, which is at least something Jessica will back me up on, despite sharing Louisa’s views on all non-organic vegetables causing instant tumours if you allow them to pass your lips, and b) I am supposed to feed her and all her filthy children for a week but she expected me to be grateful because she had brought enough vegetables to make one pot of soup.
By the time Bardo’s soup was ready Peter and Jane were rolling on the floor, clutching their stomachs and insisting they were about to die of hunger, while Louisa snapped at the older children (Cedric, Nisien, Idelisa and Coventina – not sure which is which) to step away from the iPads, away, they were not poisoning their minds and bodies with those toxic tablets and their killer rays, Boreas, the baby, had emitted a constant stream of noxious smells while squawking indignantly and resisting Louisa’s determined attempts to thrust a boob in his face, and Oilell, the toddler, had pooed on the floor twice; ‘We’re still working on our elimination communication, but she doesn’t like the feeling of nappies, and she will tell us when she feels ready to use a toilet. Or she might not, she might prefer to just go outside, as nature intended, like Nisien does.’ Bloody hell, one craps on the floor and the other is going to crap in the garden? Who is going to pick that up? It’s bad enough having to pooper scooper after my dog, but I am not picking up after Nisien’s desire to express himself through the medium of rejecting the bourgeois horrors of lavatories in favour of SHITTING IN MY FUCKING GARDEN!
Bardo dumped my best Le Creuset pot on the table, brimming over with some sort of unidentifiable sludge.
‘It looks like poo!’ announced Peter.
‘It smells like poo!’ Jane added.
‘Please don’t be rude, children,’ I said, although they had a valid point. ‘You know, Louisa, I mean Amaris, I’m sure there’s not enough for us, it looks delicious but I would hate us to eat it all, so we’ll just have the pasta. No, no, it’s fine, we’re used to the toxins.’
If the revolting mess burnt onto my saucepan was not offputting enough, the black crescents of dirt (good and clean or not) under Bardo’s fingernails were enough to turn the strongest stomach.
After lunch, Louisa said, ‘Gosh, Ellen, I’m exhausted! It took us three days to drive down and we got up terribly early this morning, so we could get here in time to join you for lunch. Do you think I could possibly have a bath?’
Despite not being entirely convinced that a hot bath quite squared with Louisa’s eco credentials, I had little choice but to say through gritted teeth, ‘Yes, of course. I’ll get you some towels.’
‘Oh, you are kind,’ said Louisa. ‘Bardo, do you want to join me? You’ll watch the children, won’t you, Ellen? Boreas will probably sleep anyway, and Oilell might want to as well, so there’s not much for you to do.’
No. Not much for me to do at all other than clean the mud off every surface in my kitchen and wash up every single pot, chopping board and knife I own, all of which were apparently required by Bardo to produce his culinary masterpiece of Sludge à La Mode, while watching EIGHT children, including a baby and a floor-shitting toddler. Not much at all.
As Louisa skipped off out the door, she paused to watch me putting the lunch plates in the dishwasher. ‘I do hope you don’t use that too much, Ellen,’ she cooed. ‘It uses so much water and electricity; it’s really bad for the environment.’
Two hours later, Louisa and Bardo emerged from their bath, not actually looking any cleaner, but reeking of my best Penhaligon’s bath oil which I never use, because I am keeping it for something special. The children were all catatonic in front of the TV, as I had encouraged Peter and Jane to put on the most mindless, annoying, screechy programme they could find so they didn’t come and irritate me, but despite the gargantuan quantities of lentils Louisa’s children had eaten at lunch, at least none of them had felt the need to practise their elimination communication again.
Louisa immediately switched off the TV to snarls of fury from Peter and Jane, and plonked herself down on the sofa and took her top off.
‘Milk time, children!’ she cried. ‘Who wants to go first?’
Peter, Jane and I looked on aghast as the biggest one, who I think is Cedric, and must be at least eight, launched himself at Louisa’s tit and latched on, closely followed by the rest of the pack.
‘Don’t be shy, kids!’ Louisa shouted cheerily at Peter and Jane, ‘you can have a go too, if you want. It’s perfectly natura
l!’
We backed out of the room, ashen-faced and trembling. Even Jane was lost for words for once, though I fear the words may come to her later.
When I went into the bathroom it was in a worse state than the children leave it in, with water all over the floor, wet towels everywhere and my precious Penhaligon’s bottle drained of every last drop of bath oil. There was also a black ring around the bath that took me twenty minutes to scrub off. I bet they had sex in my bath. I don’t think I can ever get in it again, and Penhaligon’s will now forever smell to me of betrayal and loss and Bardo’s hairy bollocks.
Louisa was still on the sofa with various children hanging off both boobs when Simon came home from work.
‘Hi Si,’ she called. ‘Great to see you!’
Simon took one look and walked straight out of the room.
‘God, you are so repressed, Si,’ shouted Louisa after him. ‘It’s probably because Mum didn’t breastfeed you, you know.’
I followed Simon out of the room and said, ‘She’s your sister. I have to go out now.’
I went straight round to Sam’s, pausing only at the corner shop to buy two bottles of wine and a packet of cigarettes, then I poured out the whole story while he laughed his head off.
‘You won’t be laughing when her tits are dangling in your Brussels sprouts over Christmas dinner,’ I pointed out.
Simon grabbed me when I got home. ‘You’ve been smoking!’ he said accusingly.
‘Yeah, and, so what?’ I mumbled, doing my best sulky schoolgirl impression.
‘Well, bloody well give me one,’ he hissed. ‘I’ve been made to watch the video of Boreas’ birth in the woods and she freeze-framed on his head crowning. I have just seen a human head come out of my own sister’s twat. Oh, and Bardo was also naked throughout the birth, and a friend filmed it for them, so his dick also featured heavily. I need a fucking cigarette!’
We sneaked into the back garden.
‘Watch where you stand,’ I warned him. ‘Nisien prefers to poo outside, surrounded by nature.’
‘Oh God!’ said Simon. ‘How are we going to get through this? I know she’s my sister, but …’
‘She’s a sanctimonious, pretentious, hypocritical, freeloading pain in the arse with dubious personal hygiene and no respect for my fucking bath oil?’ I suggested.
‘I was going to go for “hard work”,’ said Simon, ‘but your version covers it, too.’
We both drew deeply on our cigarettes.
‘What would she say about smoking?’ I asked him.
‘Same as she says about everything, probably – our fags are evil and wrong, but Bardo’s spliffs are natural and health-giving and therefore she is once again morally superior to us. I don’t think I can do this. Let’s run away. We could leave the kids with Lou, she’d never notice another two, we could pretend we are just nipping into the garden to pick some organic quinoa and then bugger off and book into a hotel for Christmas. They won’t even know we’re gone.’
‘She would notice,’ I said, ‘as soon as she realised that she had no one to make patronising remarks to and chide about their carbon footprints. And if we left our children, I would give it about three hours before they cracked due to the lack of electrical waves frying their susceptible childish brains and ran amok with the kitchen knives, brutally slaughtering anyone that came between them and a screen.’
‘You’re right,’ said Simon sadly. ‘We’re fucked, aren’t we?’
‘Still,’ I said. ‘Look on the bright side – at least they haven’t blocked the bog yet with a lentil-charged turbo shit!’
Right on cue, Louisa shouted, ‘Ellen? Ellen, there’s something wrong with the toilet; we’re just going to use your ensuite, okay?’
FML. Why has no one bought my app yet?
Wednesday, 23 December
The list of things I am going to have to throw away when Louisa leaves grows by the hour. This morning I came downstairs to find her making herself a smoothie in my blender, with what appeared to be the entire contents of my fridge and fruit bowl, including the eye-wateringly expensive melon and raspberries I had bought to attempt an ironically retro starter for Christmas Day. Apparently Louisa can overcome her organic principles if the raspberries cost £3.99 a punnet.
As I stood, aghast once more at the carnage and destruction that Louisa leaves in her wake, seemingly without trying, she picked up a little pot containing some white gel-like substance and popped it into the blender. Remarkably, it appeared to be the only thing that hadn’t been plundered from my kitchen, and although I knew I would regret asking what it was, as it would probably turn out to be the organic sap of a Peruvian plant that could only be harvested by the light of a full moon, and really, I should try it, I couldn’t help myself.
‘It’s semen!’ said Louisa brightly.
‘Ha ha ha,’ I said. ‘Sorry, Louisa, I thought you said it was semen, what did you actually say?’
‘I said it was semen,’ said Louisa. ‘Bardo gives me some every morning. It’s so nutritious – full of B vitamins and protein. It also makes a marvellous face mask. Haven’t you noticed how young I look and how my skin glows? Here, do you want to try some smoothie?’
I couldn’t actually answer for dry retching in my mouth. Louisa had just put Bardo’s hippy jizz in my KitchenAid blender and was offering me a taste! What is wrong with her? Why can’t she just give him a blow job? Does she ‘harvest’ it herself, or does he vanish into the bathroom with a dirty mag? WHY WOULD ANYONE DO THAT? Why am I even thinking about this? Also, while we are on the subject, since ‘finding Amaris’ Louisa has looked about ten years older than she actually is, and no one can tell if she is glowing or not because she is usually too grubby, even after availing herself of all my bath oil, which, yes, I am still bitter about, and will be for some time.
By the time I had collected myself to say anything other than ‘What the actual fuck?’, Peter and Jane had appeared in the kitchen demanding Coco Pops – ‘We asked Auntie Louisa for breakfast but she said we could have a disgusting smoothie or some horrible porridge she was making,’ they complained.
For once I was grateful for Peter and Jane’s staunch aversion to anything they suspect may contain vitamins or nutrients, as at least I can be sure there is no way they will taste anything Louisa or Bardo creates, and therefore I can be sure there will be zero chance of them ingesting any stray bodily fluids.
‘Oh, that reminds me, Ellen,’ said Louisa. ‘I couldn’t actually make my chia seed porridge because I couldn’t find any chia seeds. Where do you keep them?’
‘I don’t have any,’ I muttered, bracing myself for the inevitable. I am not actually even sure what chia seeds are, except that sometimes I hear Perfect Lucy Atkinson’s Perfect Mummy wittering about them to the rest of the Coven.
‘Oh, that’s no problem,’ Louisa chirped. ‘I expect you’ll be going to the shops today, you can just get some then. Actually, I’ve got a list of a few things we will need, maybe you could pick them up for me? Or, even better, I’ll come with you. Girly shopping trip, won’t that be fun?’
Yes, it would be totes fun. In a really awful ‘kill me now’ sort of a way.
It could’ve been worse. No, really, it could’ve. Louisa might have got her way and made us all, eight children included, go in Gunnar the Camper Van, but I at least vetoed that by pointing out the immense illegality of cramming twelve people into a camper van with seatbelts for four people. Louisa huffed and insisted that in Scotland no one bothered about silly things like that, which I am 100 per cent certain is untrue – it’s only in Louisa’s deluded head that no one bothers about seat belts. I put my foot down, though, while painting dire pictures of Louisa languishing in prison while her moppets wasted away without her life-giving breast milk and she herself became a shrivelled crone without the remarkable rejuvenating properties of Bardo’s semen, and probably by the time she got out she would be so wizened he would have taken up with some youthful sprite and the children
would have forgotten who she even is. She eventually capitulated, so we went in my car and left most of the children with Bardo and Simon, so at least we didn’t all die in a hideous fireball, which is actually about the only way that the shopping trip with Louisa could’ve been worse, on reflection.
Aldi was vetoed first of all, as they didn’t have any chia seeds, or organic coffee, though they did have a very useful-looking little generator for an excellent price, which I suggested to Louisa she should buy to save on electricity costs due to the ineffective solar panels, but she recoiled in horror.
‘FOSSIL FUELS, ELLEN!’ she shrieked. ‘No, no, no! I couldn’t live with myself, bringing a horrible petrol-burning monster like that into the Goddess’ haven at our retreat!’
However, driving the length and breadth of the country in an antiquated camper van that drinks diesel and belches black smoke from the exhaust is just fine, unlike my beloved 4x4, which also earned me a lecture on ‘Gas Guzzlers’ and a plea to consider an electric car. Sometimes I wonder if Louisa can even hear the words coming out of her mouth.
Waitrose, although providing Essential chia seeds and all the organic produce you could want, was poo pooed as ‘so corporate, so tediously middle class’.
I am tediously middle class, as, for that matter, is Louisa, who was privately educated and went to Durham, and I love Waitrose, but after twenty minutes of walking round with Louisa sighing loudly and tutting and shrieking about ‘Oh GODDESS, the food miles on this are too much’ (although food miles don’t seem to matter when it comes to coffee), I cracked and gave in to her demands for ‘just a little farmers’ market, or an artisan wholefoods shop, Ellen. I saw one back there, I really think that would be much better’. As she was also threatening to stop and breastfeed Cedric, the eldest, in the middle of the bakery aisle, it seemed best that we left, as people were starting to stare and Louisa was spoiling my happy place.