Mid-Life Crisis

by T. Jessop

  Positives:?

  Negatives: Daughters.

  Thursday 29th December 2013

  It’s only 5am and I’ve got serious cotton mouth, thanks to Julie, Chris, Abigail and Tina dropping by last night to bring Leigh and Tony’s gifts round. We ended up consuming four bottles of wine which wasn’t hard for me, feeling the way I did because of my lovely daughter. All faith lies on Tony this morning. I know my baby boy will make up for yesterday.

  Kids are just bloody hateful. Not liking Leigh’s desertion yesterday I was determined to share this day with Tony all was going well until five minutes ago when I noticed a note on the fridge: ‘Open pressies when I get home, gone paintballing, don’t worry about dinner, grab something out, Love you xxxxxx’. Er, hello! When did I get sacked? Am I not the person they most want to spend the day with, did I not give them life? Not liking this one sodding bit. Joe’s getting on my wick with the, ‘They’re growing up, they don’t wanna hang about with us, we’re old.’ Er, you may be, but not me, mate.

  Hoping to walk off the banging headache, I popped into Chris’s on the way back from town this afternoon. She opened the door wearing what looked like a forensic overall with a dust cover over her mouth and a wad of bog roll wedged up each nostril. If it had been anyone else but my sister I’d have been stunned. Molly and Baby had been throwing up all-night, hence the protective gear. The only protection needed is from Chris’s cooking: the kids told me she was forcing them to try her new Indian dishes.

  Chris said that Abigail took a sickie so at least I’m not the only one that’s suffering after last night.

  Positives: Not the only idiot with a hangover.

  Negatives: Sons.

  Feeling really sorry for myself. xx

  Friday 30th December 2013

  Been up since the crack of dawn. Again.

  Feeling downright miserable. Again.

  Accumulation of Chloe leaving, another year ending and the realisation that the kids no longer need me.

  Abigail blew Chris out for lunch in favour of the hairdressers so Chris asked me if I wanted to go round Nan’s with her. I passed on the offer: with Nan being ancient I’d expect her to waffle on about all her aches, pains and ailments, but there are not enough hours or indeed years left in my life to listen to Chris relay hers.

  Chloe called to tell me she’d been chopping logs all day. Paul let her do this for three hours before telling her that they can buy them already split. She is not a happy bunny.

  At least were off to a party at Vera’s tomorrow night and I shall drown my sorrows in copious amounts of booze, made easier by the fact I only have to walk or crawl two houses up to get home.

  Positives: Chris went to Nan’s.

  Negatives: Tired.

  Saturday 31st December 2013

  Been shopping, had my nails done and I’m in the mood to party!

  Sunday 1st January 2014

  Happy New Year… Made it back from Vera’s alive, kind of. We had a great night with a nice bunch of people. I told everyone we’ll throw the next party; Joe had that face, love him. I drank too much, sang too loud and scarily danced like me mum.

  Got to bed around four, was back up by five needing tea, was loving the silence of a sleeping house that was soon shattered by the appearance of neighbour Mary. They’d been at the Dog & Duck last night and ever-predictable John had disappeared around eleven. He’s told Mary he fancied a drive, turns up at half four this morning with some shit about the car breaking down and that’s where he spent the night; my guess is he was tucked up in some tarts bed more like. John the creep, who sometime last year was knocking off some bird, her mother and the aunt. Scumbag. Mary always believes his excuses and so here she was sat on my sofa crying because she feels bad that John saw in the New Year alone in the car in the cold. I like Mary, but she is as thick as shit.

  We were supposed to be going round theirs tomorrow night but I’ve made some old excuse about family popping by. I can’t stand that bloke, and with a few bevies under my belt I will tell him so. To look at him gives the rest of us hope: he’s 5ft 2, skinny, greasy and has only four teeth. How? What are these women seeing that I don’t? He makes my skin crawl. Based on his looks he’s got to be either loaded or hung like a mule.

  No sooner had Mary left, the brood got up and so the New Year began. Word of advice: never‒ and I mean never‒ forget to lock industrial-strength washing up liquid in a childproof cupboard even if youngest children are in their teens. Tony mistook the bottle for bubble bath (the usual not reading of a label); unbeknown to us he has poured three-quarters of the bottle into the bath. Joe thought it would be hilarious to whip into the bathroom and steal the freshly run bath. Entering the bathroom at great speed he has skidded on the copious amounts of foam filling the room, slid and toe-punted the toilet with such force he’s cracked the pan. So I then spend the next thirty minutes trying to contain the escaping foam monster, that by now is making its way downstairs, lift an 18 stone man with badly stubbed toes whilst trying to stay upright on a slippery floor, cross-legged through fear of wetting myself laughing, made all the worse by Joe flailing and shouting ‘What the fuck’s so funny?’

  I am now knackered; my back is killing me. On the bright side the hallway and the stair carpet are freshly shampooed. Downside, Joe’s laying on the settee with a fish finger between each toe (didn’t have any bags of frozen peas) whining like a little girl and giving me evils. I have called a plumber but unless I pay triple cost for a call-out on New Year’s day I’ll have to wait till Thursday.

  So there we have it: day one of 365… shite!

  Day 3 not looking any better. I’m booked in for a smear test at ten on Monday and the kids like myself have vowed never to eat fish fingers again. Joe, not seeing the funny side of anything, has hobbled off to the study to sulk.

  Chloe rang around five this evening, shit the life out of me as she screeched ‘Hock I den nooooo!’ down the phone. Apparently they had a blinding night. They went to the local village hall gathering; they hummed and arred as to whether or not they should go as they weren’t sure they’d be welcome, being the new faces in town, apparently they were. Chloe reckons the Scots do know how to throw a party; or was it Hogmanay? And the next time the village find an excuse to throw another shindig (which can be any excuse from the birth of a new pig to the removal of a plaster), we all have to go. Chloe said it took her back to our days at the Avenue, only without the fit guys. She then apologised for whinging about leaving London fearing that she’d hate it in Scotland and is now convinced she’s living in Brigadoon and the only thing missing is Gene Kelly dancing on her driveway.

  Only a couple of downsides. One: she’s nursing the hangover from hell, hasn’t got a clue what she was drinking as it seems the spirit bottles don’t have labels, feels so rough she’s not sure when she’ll be able to eat solids again. Yet unbelievably Paul was still up at four to tend to the sheep; unbelievably as he had drank more than Chloe did. Two: although she now believes the change of life was the right move, she’s not so sure she finds Paul as attractive as a shepherd, afraid the burly builder she fell in lust with may be fading. How superficial? Very lol. xx.

  Eye-opener, I do dance like me mum, evidence on Facebook, ‘When middle-aged mums go wild’. Thanx Tony. Thanx Chloe for liking and sharing. xx

  Paul is in full sympathy with Joe and his foot, whereas Chloe as expected laughed her arse off. She feels that the creation of the foam monster was innocent on Tony’s part: poor sod just takes after his father, and blame should lie with Joe childishly stealing baths, adding that with the klutz’s track record I’m lucky to have only lost the loo ‒ referring to the time Joe changed a light bulb and shorted out an entire tower block. As for fish fingers, Chloe will also be ridding them from her freezer. I’m looking forward to seeing their farm, more so I can’t wait to see the little man in the village who is third-generation postman, bit of
an oddball, got a limp and wears a wig but so anal Chloe can rest assured her post will reach her without fail.

  No sooner was I off the phone, Elizabeth called. Having told her of my day she dramatically expressed her distress for neighbour Mary, stating firmly in her headmistress voice, ‘John’s a horrid little man’, then recommended she get a good lawyer, followed by, ‘Mary should have left him with that disgusting family of women.’ In her opinion there is not enough money in the world to coax normal un deprived women to sleep with a weasel like John. With reference to his genitalia, she’s yet to meet a man whose size would distract her from the condition of his teeth, albeit four.

  Unlike me and Chloe she was ‘terribly upset’ to hear about Joe’s foot, feels he should sue. More shocking for her was that we actually eat fish fingers; followed by, ‘Are you in financial difficulties?’Snob. As for the damaged ‘lavatory’ ,she reckons she’d have died if Arthur had broken theirs, as they had their suite imported from Malaysia: ‘It’s polished volcanic rock.’ Seriously!

  Told her about going to Scotland on Chloe’s invite for the next barn dance; she responds with, ‘Myself and Arthur would be honoured to attend the next village gala’, adding that they’d be staying in the town rather than the farmhouse, asking if the hotel was five stars. Was about to laugh then she said, ‘Not to worry we’ve stayed in four star before.’I won’t lie,I was a bit stunned. Then she says, ‘I know Chloe’s superficial’ ‒Ooh, lol! Pot, kettle, black ‒ ‘but I can’t believe that Chloe married Paul for his looks alone.’ Proceeded to then lecture me on the advantages of going private for a smear test, putting me right off the cream donut I was munching through.

  Having grown bored with slating us she then relayed that New Year for them had been in the company, as expected, of the other directors and their partners, black tie and orchestra as usual. Head honcho Mr Bateman’s new wife Tina ‒ or as she’s now known, ‘the Embryo’ on account of her being only a third of his age ‒ made a complete spectacle of herself ‒‘Obviously a girl of her upbringing is not accustomed to drinking champagne. ’She embarrassingly staggered about, flirting the entire evening, until eventually Arthur took it upon himself to escort her to the penthouse, relieving poor Mr Bateman from anymore misery. While she was waiting for Arthur to return the ‘wives’ explained that they take Pilates lessons to fill the time, as their husbands are always working. They’ve recommended a chap named Rico who tutors at home. Tells me she was a bit worried as to the looks the ladies exchanged amongst themselves at the mention of his name, so Liz is thinking he may be a ‘homosexual’. Arthur has been called away to yet another unexpected meeting, which happens a lot recently, so she has arranged for Rico to come tonight for a consult. Mmm.

  Julie arrived here around seven. I filled her in on the girls’ conversations, sending her off on one that ‘Some things never change!’, referring to Elizabeth’s snotty attitude about the smear, and that the only difference having it done at a private clinic is the chintzy bleeding curtains and a pot plant: they’re still gonna shove the double-headed shoe horn up your crotch, scrape about and leave you feeling like shit. She said that next time she speaks to Liz she’s gonna tell her to do us all a favour and ask her private physician to remove the really large plum from her gob and remember she was born and bred in Hackney, for fuck’s sake.

  We both agreed that Chloe did marry Paul for his looks, or more precisely his forearms. Julie admitted she even found that weird, then said, ‘No offence but Joe has the best arse ever’, and admitted yes she would go there, if not for the chink in her plan: Joe’s not interested. Cheers, mate. Suspicious as ever, Julie asked if Elizabeth had actually looked in Arthur’s ‘schedule’, and why did no one else offer to take the Embryo home? She can’t believe that John has the audacity to cheat on neighbour Mary, as God only knows how, as he is repulsive. Don’t know what about that statement shocked me more: her dismay at cheating or the fact there is a man she wouldn’t sleep with. Julie, like me, loves the sound of Chloe’s postman and is betting money that he’s got his mother walled up in the basement. As for the next tartan shindig, she’ll be there, as it’s about time someone puts to rest what a Scotsman wears under his kilt. But unlike ‘Eliza Doolittle’ she’ll be happy to stay on the farm. It’s not that she has lower standards than Elizabeth, it’s that she’s done the maths and has worked out: Hot days + Hard work = Paul and Joe stripped to the waist glistening with sweat. Oh yes, Julie will be there.

  Was shocked when she said her New Year plan was to have a quiet dinner with Matt, but being a surgeon he got called away so she picked up a pizza and joined him at the hospital. I was feeling a bit guilty for presuming the worst when she said, ‘See, I can do romantic’, then drops the ‘and by midnight we were shagging in an empty theatre’. There you go, Julie’s night did go with a bang. Tonight ended with Julie texting Liz: ‘Good luck with Rico, don’t think the exchange of looks from the “women that do” were because he’s gay. Pilates is that what they call it nowadays, lol’. Then asked me would Joe like her to kiss his toes better? Freak. xx

  Positives: Declined the offer to go to the Sunday market with Chris.

  Negatives: So gonna miss fish fingers.

  Monday 2nd January 2014

  Today has not gone well… Don’t have sex at least 48 hours before a smear test. Nurse shone her light up the never never and with a concerned look asked if I used condoms. Having been sterilized for the past four years I laughed out loud and said, ‘Why? Have you found one?’As the words left my lips I’d realised what she’d seen. Shame on me! As I laid there holding the awkward balloon she pulled the smoking card and said, ‘It’s not good for the cervix to smoke.’ I responded, ‘It’s alright, it aint had a fag in years. ’Why do I say these things? Some sort of nervous disorder I think? Now begins the six-week wait, worrying myself sick for the results. Julie was disappointed when I texted her, she thought I was gonna say they’d found Shergar. Still feel proper shamed, lol.

  Only the afternoon and I’m tired. Then again, I was up at five, then the smear. Dunno… just don’t feel myself today; actually I’ve felt a lot like that lately. It’s like everything is aggravating me: I have the tolerance of a bear with toothache. I’m not due on, no more stressed than usual and yet grumpy as hell, and I’m tearful.

  I rang Chloe, then wished I hadn’t: she reckons I’m having a mid-life crisis. I immediately jumped on the defence that MLC was something only little men in big suits have. We ended the call with her snickering her arse off down the receiver. So if‒ and it’s only a small ‘if’ ‒ there’s a chance she’s right, what’s the cure? I went round Julie’s for a coffee. She was no better, except she added I was a control freak. She agreed with Chloe then informed me this is why she’s never settled down, ‘Same shit, different day’ and that marriage is like groundhog day, which is why I’m either having a MLC or a breakdown due to boredom of habit. But then she added I could just be mental, as my husband has the best arse ever ‒ even good enough to coax her into nuptials ‒ so says I need to man up. And then asked, ‘Can I have him?’She is so not joking. I love Julie dearly but unlike her sister Penny, Julie really is a slut.

  In desperation I have emailed Elizabeth, assured that she’ll be more diplomatic.

  Positives: Kids back at school and Chris opted to have lunch with Abigail rather than bugging me.

  Negatives: Friends.

  Tuesday 3rd January 2014

  Connor’s 5th birthday.

  Presuming there was any foundation to what the others are calling this, this morning I took it upon myself to seek advice on the ‒ let’s say ‒ ‘minor crisis’. I frantically explained to the librarian the book wasn’t for me, before heading home and proving to all that I am not having a mid-life crisis.

  Note to self: Stop reading books, woman.

  All faith has gone. Elizabeth sought advice on my behalf and emailed me a checklist, full of optimism that I could
not answer ‘Yes ‘to any of the questions. I was shot down in seconds. However it did contain the secret to a full recovery: (1)Have loads of spare cash. (2)Have no dependents. (3)Have no financial responsibilities. (4)Have a very patient and understanding spouse who will let you do whatever you like with whoever you like until this funny phase ends. (1): Nope. (2): Rules me out. (3): In way over my head. (4): Yeah, right. That’s me fucked then!

  Didn’t help when Penny arrived late this morning having returned from sunny Malta looking great with the tan, unlike me who’s more the tone of an insipid potato. Gutted. Then I get another email from Elizabeth who, if I’m honest, has proper killed me off. Apparently a good description of the MLC is that when you look at your daughter you see the girl you used to be, but when you look in the mirror you see your mother’s face staring back. Maybe now’s the time to consider getting new friends.

  What didn’t help was not seeing my grandson today: Andy and Jess decided not to come back from her mum’s in Devon until tomorrow. Oh well, that makes a hat trick of two shit sons and their sister. So me and Joe will have to pop round and give Connor his presents then. xx

  At least Connor’s other Nan gets to see him on his birthday. Hmm, is that bitchy? Give a shit!