by T. Jessop
Like scissors, you can never find the nail clippers. Someone must know where they are cos how else is some disgusting creature able to leave clippings on the chair?
Julie home from Italy today, she should be here by six: gossip, dinner and wine. Good luck Debbie, it’s Sunday.
Monday 19th March 2014
Joe football.
We so learn a new thing every day, lol. Leigh had spent best part of last night at accident and emergency with Keera, having got a frantic call from Keera’s boyfriend Craig that he’d broke his banjo masturbating! Had me intrigued. Had me in stitches when explained, aided by a poorly drawn picture, what a banjo was on a boy’s anatomy. Gotta hurt.
Joe rolled in (literally) around two this morning, looked none to pretty when he left for work this morning. I gave him that look, held it long enough for him to leave, then I shoved the paracetomol down my throat, hoping to kill off the bass drummer in my head. Tenner says he has a miraculous recovery when it’s time to go football tonight. Got to go shopping; Chris has just texted me and said she’ll meet me outside doctors. Mate, just consume entire contents of the medicine cabinet, Debbie, and be done with it.
I have somehow survived the day. Joe as predicted has gone to football. Chris lives to fight another day, as the assumed tumour in her ear turned out to be no more than a blind spot. Called Chloe and she informed me that the new lambs are starting to be born; got strangely emotional.WTF?
Tuesday 20th March 2014
Mutley vets 9am.
Dragged Mutley to vets for his monthly de-fleaing and worming as the caring owner that I am. He repays me by throwing up in the car. Took me an hour an half to clear it up, seventy minutes of it was me trying to actually build up the stomach to scrape it off the seat. Ten minutes later Jessica calls to say she’s stuck in traffic and could I pick Daisy up from nursery. Lucky for her she sits on a booster seat or she’d have got a chapped arse. I could see her screwing her face up in my mirror so was guessing the smell was lingering. This face-pulling and the now fiddling with her lughole continued long after we got in the house, so one mused, ‘Have you got a flea in ya ear?’She mumbles, ‘Nah, it’s a stone, Nanny.’ Two hours later we were back from A&E with in fact two stones and two small leaves. Every village has one, but I fear we may have two.
Thursday 22nd March 2014
Doing a spot of gardening out the front earlier when in my peripheral vision I saw something blue fly past, followed by a loud bang. On the grass verge opposite a car was wrapped around a tree. Being the good citizen I am, I and several others raced over to find a very old little lady sitting in the driver’s seat, whining she forgot which one was the brake. Other than shocked, she wasn’t injured in the slightest. If she’d done that half an hour later she’d have killed someone, as that’s the place the little kids play after school. I walked away, quickly. Why are these old people still driving? Reflexes are shit. Eyesight is shit. Memory is shit. And yet the law says all they have to do is renew their licence when they’re seventy; surely they should at least retake their tests to see if indeed we’re not allowing a loaded gun to roam our roads.
I’m off to pack for Scotland tomorrow, although only a short stay. I have estimated at least 519 miles between me and Chris, as she’ll be at the caravan with Abigail. Anything after that is a bonus.
Saturday 24th March 2014
Chloe’s 41st birthday.
Me and Julie made it to the station on Friday by 5am; think she’d rolled out of Jeremy’s bed around ten too. Four hours later we arrived to be met by Elizabeth decked out in Burberry. The farmhouse is amazing, had the tour and I was sold on the idea of moving. Chris texted me to see if I’d arrived safely, aww. Quickly followed up with do I have the number for the doctors in Sheppey, just in case. Unbelievable. We spent the evening in front of the huge open fire talking and drinking homebrew, courtesy of Mrs Shona Stroker, laughed ourselves silly when Chloe told us her husband is Willie. How we made it to town this morning for Chloe’s birthday breakfast I do not know, it took everything I had to remember what my name was. That shit comes in jars, no labels, oh mate, excellent. We saw Elizabeth off at the airport and me and Julie arrived home here around five. Immediately I told Joe we should move to Scotland. He said he was more concerned about my reasons: was it the fresh air, the open country, or simply the moonshine? Er, hello, didn’t like what he was insinuating.
Monday 26th March 2014
Spent yesterday putting the house back in order after my short absence. Chris is still away; it kind of messed up my Monday morning it’s become habitual to lose an hour or so listening to her latest illness. I missed her. xx
That moment of madness quickly passed and I went shopping, bumped into Penny who was on her way to get a coffee after swimming ten lengths at the pool. Ten lengths! Why? Who would?
Most amusing when the local nutter arrived at the bakers: I’m guessing he was not very happy with the quality of his rolls, and to back up his claim that the soft rolls were hard, proceeded to bounce all five of them one by one off the manager’s head.
Tuesday 27th March 2014
Chloe called to make sure we’d made a full recovery from ‘no name in jam jar’; sadly I have. You’d never know with Julie, her brain’s addled with or without alcohol. It seems Paul has decided not to shave anymore; Chloe’s not feeling it, lol. When I told Julie later she was threatening to have Chloe admitted on the grounds of insanity, as Paul will now be rugged, rough and ready, very Clooney. Except Chloe reckons he’s more Cat Weasel than George. Besides, I quickly reminded Julie that she likes her prey hairless. Shamelessly admitted she’d make an exception for Paul, and with Joe she’d take him anyhow.
Wednesday 28th March 2014
Hairdresser 5pm
Reality has hit me like a sledgehammer after spending ten minutes frantically searching for my glasses and realising I was already wearing them. I was now faced with 2 questions: (1) Am I going senile? (2)When the hell did I start wearing bloody glasses? Neither of which I have the answer to.
Thursday 29th March 2014
Window cleaner.
Joe came in from work asked me how my day was. Not unusual, except he did it in the guise of the Elephant Man including dribbling from the corner of his lips. He didn’t laugh along with me, so that left me sure that Joe had had a stroke: his mouth wasn’t moving right when he spoke and his speech was slurred. Was about to have a panic fit when he told me he has an ulcer. One bollocking and a glass of salt water later, he’s a little better and I’ve returned the insurance policy to its strong box.
Saturday 31st March 2014
Chris got back from the caravan on Thursday. I’d successfully avoided her until I remembered we were all round Julie’s on Friday. And yes, Chris had been to the docs whilst away: she got stung by a jellyfish, so I’ll give her that one. Abigail had told her the best thing for it was to pee on it so she’d downed drawers and pee’d on the jellyfish. Penny was relating the story of the winter vomiting virus that strikes every December, affecting mainly office staff. Chris was on the edge of her chair fishing for symptoms, not realising that it’s the bullshit illness that comes from office Christmas party binges. Tina’s all packed and ready to set off for Belgium tomorrow with Terry; Elizabeth and Arthur headed off for Venice this morning, won’t hear from her until the 4th when we all meet up at Chloe’s. It’s Arthur’s treat for Mothers Day.
Kids are out, Joe’s at poker, so I’m gonna have a soak, watch a film and have an early night.
Sunday 1st April 2014
Mothers Day.
Elizabeth gets Venice, Julie’s sent Violet for a weekend of pampering, and me I get both sets of parents too cook for. Oh, and let’s not forget Chris when she gets back from the Sunday market. Well, that’s shit. xx
Chris arrived around 1pm after her usual jaunt to the Sunday market. Has bought herself the nastiest dress I’ve ever seen, don’t know what she was th
inking. Not happy with my response she turns to Joe for support, to which he responds ‘It’s as ugly as a box of arseholes’. Six bunches of flowers, a pair of diamond studs, pamper day voucher, chocolates and three handmade cards. Going to bed a little happier.
Tuesday 3rd April 2014
Spent yesterday cleaning and shopping as we’re going to be leaving on Wednesday for Chloe and Paul’s; nothing worse than going away and coming home to stuff, or is it that I am indeed, as Joe said, anal? Lol, rich coming from the man who still goes to football.
Tina and Terry got back from Belgium in just enough time for her to wash everything to repack it for Scotland, then of course there was Chris and it was a Monday: ohh. She had a mole that fell off. Only she would know if the body was missing one.
Spoke to Chloe; Liz and Arthur are already there, having flown straight from Venice. Should be a good time. The party is to celebrate eighteen years of happy marriage, lol. Is it? Or just the best excuse for more ‘in a jar with no name’. xx
Friday 6th April 2014
Mum’s 61st birthday.
Train journey to Scotland on Wednesday was a blast: me, Joe, Chris and the kids, Tina, Terry, Julie and Charles. Chris twisted her ankle as she jumped on the train trying to avoid ‘the gap’. We arrived at Chloe’s pleased to find that Paul did not look like grizzly Adams. If he had, we wouldn’t have noticed as all eyes fell on Liz, who was sporting some backcombed monstrosity on her head. ‘Very chic to tease. ‘Tease? Tortured, more like.
We had lunch and took the kids to the town to buy some last-minute party stuff. Paul took the guys to the local; they were all invited to go shooting on Angus Farley’s farm. Joe reckons he’s a master shooter. Hmm, probably got something to do with genes as he had two uncles that did bird for armed robbery.
Thursday we partied together to the early hours and left around six this morning. Elizabeth and Arthur took Baby and Molly with them to the airport as the girls were going from Scotland to their dads. The train journey back wasn’t as much fun as going: tired, hung-over and trapped in a carriage with Chris still whining about her ankle ‒ the same ankle that didn’t stop her chasing the lambs around the barn with the kids.
Texted Mum when we got in to wish her Happy Birthday. Her and Dad are away so we’re having them for dinner on Sunday as a belated gift.
It’s now 3.15am Saturday morning. I’ve been woken up by a text message from Elizabeth. ‘What on earth is a chav?’ Apparently my reply of ‘a pleb’ did not suffice, and as she was not gonna drop it I’ve had to email her a more literate version: a chav is ‘a sub-cultural stereotype’ fixated on fashions usually consisting of Reebok classics, McKenzie polo shirts and a baseball cap ‒ Burberry is their god. Bling in the earlobe, favoured music: rap rave and R&B. Who wrote this? And what have you done with me? This has come about because the New York Times has run a story on ‘the delinquent youth’ in England. That’s rich considering their youth’s gun-toting activities. Americans are a bit outdated as this fad has passed here; maybe that’s where they all went, lol.
Joanna’s boy went through this phase; she admits it was amusing at the beginning, even reminded her of us at school ‒ that became her downfall. Beginning stages of transformation, an amateur Chav spends a lot of time on its appearance: cleanliness and toiletries vital, excessive use of expensive aftershave even though they’ve only got bum fluff on the chin. This stage is welcomed with open arms as only a few months ago the same kid was known as the soap dodger. Then comes the cap, you’d be wrong to think this just pops onto the head: oh no, it requires precision, it has to sit balanced upwards on the back of the head. Joanna said at this stage it was normal to come home from work and find a dozen of them in her house; she would know they were there as she could smell the aftershave before she even got her key in the door. On several occasions I was round hers the chavs were always well-mannered, polite and respectful, but mostly funny: I’d never heard so much bullshit fall freely out of anyone’s mouth.
This is where Joanna’s youth bit her in the arse, having relayed to them the tales of our youth, they had quickly realised that she was clearly a chavette in her teens: this gave her ‘legend’ status in their eyes. This is where the alarm bells should have rung, but ego is a bastard, she took it as a innocent fad and before she knew it her boy had switched from smart and clean to scruffy and sneaky, the cap was replaced by the hoody, the familiar faces he used to call mates had all vanished and been replaced with others. You’d be met by silence if you dare ask ‘Who’s he?’These are new faces ‒ if, in fact, you can even see into their hoody that is ‒ no more ‘Hi Jo’, the only response she got on greeting was a nod or a suspicious glare.
So where she had once welcomed the vibrancy of youth into her home she began telling Terry that no one was allowed into her house. She began doing weekly stock checks on personal possessions. This wasn’t a case of a parent moaning about fashion, including hating seeing the boxer shorts with the jeans below the arse, it’s about watching someone you love turning into a stranger, worrying the hell out of you that every time they get a text or have a mumbled conversation on the mobile they whip out the front door, your heart races every time you hear a siren, crime and drugs are at the forefront of your mind. We may give birth to these kids but that don’t make them perfect, as we’d like to believe. These things do go on in our society and unlike we’d like to believe, it’s not always someone else’s kids that are the problem ones. She had several confrontations with Terry, he was in denial about his new persona and told Joanna she was paranoid. Paranoia is a personality disorder characterised by a mistrust of others and a constant suspicion that people around you have a sinister motives, excessive trust in their own knowledge and abilities, and avoiding close relationships. They search for hidden meaning in everything and read hostile intentions into the actions of others, they are quick to challenge the loyalty of friends and loved ones, often appearing cold and distant. They usually shift blame to others, also tend to carry long grudges. Who’s really paranoid?
The magic of motherhood, we give birth and it’s instantaneous love. Protective to the point you’d die or even kill for them, the realism is motherhood is flawed, it has no cut-off point. When our skills are no longer welcomed we are seen as interfering and an hindrance, and in truth you’d rather not have an emotional attachment anymore because the worry and stress is slowly killing you.
Terry was the first thing on her mind when she woke up and the last when she went to bed, ifs and buts: does he look thin and drawn because he’s playing football with his mates at all hours, or is it drug abuse? Is the abundance of jewellery she bought him down to a few items because it is in his room, or has he had to sell it? She can’t look herself, access to his room was stopped; she daren’t ask who was on the phone, was never be privy to what’s being exchanged on Facebook as the page was immediately closed as she entered the room. His appearance made him look like a vagrant, and uncomfortable. He doesn’t walk like a human, now he bowls along like a Neanderthal. Every word that leaves his mouth ‒ albeit few ‒ are derogatory, negative, acting like the world and everyone in it owes him something.
Jo watched her son turn into a stranger, and I watched her go from an hardworking, confident, independent woman to a near nervous recluse. She blames herself; this was never her doing, but as the parent the finger of blame has fallen on her. What is she guilty of? Loving the boy, nursing him through illness? We should all heed these warning signs. Unless we lock them away till they’re thirty then any of ours are as vulnerable as the rest.
If it’s a female Chav, other than the appearance they fit the same criteria as their male counterpart, only they come with the added bonus of coming home pregnant because ‒ scarily ‒ most are sexually active at fourteen. As for Terry, he is in prison for car theft and dealing to minors. Why on earth am I having this conversation?
I’m going back to bed, it’s hurt my head.
Satu
rday 7th April 2014
Leg wax 2pm.
After this morning’s rant I have pondered further the argument that parents are not to blame, and have to say in fairness some parents are shit, like the young mum I saw in a documentary: what chance did her three have? She was on drugs all through her pregnancy, she supplies her kids with drugs; apparently this is better than them going to a backstreet dealer, in her head she believes she is doing the right thing.
Although I’m 100% anti-drugs myself, when Aunt Dina was diagnosed terminal she began smoking cannabis between her doses of pain relief and even I had to turn the other cheek. I may be a law-abiding citizen but I’m no bleeding martyr.
Sunday 8th April 2014
Mum and Dad dinner 3pm.
I am so tired, struggled to cook dinner earlier. I could have happily curled up and gone to sleep. I think I’ll go to doctor’s tomorrow.
Monday 9th April 2014
Hypochondriacs is why none of us can get into see a doctor on a Monday morning, we have to wait two weeks for an appointment. And God forbid you need treatment on a Friday, you’ve got bob hope and no hope as they’ll be there panicking about the weekend because the docs are closed Saturday and Sunday. Seriously, Chris!
Joe bailed on football and stayed in with me as I was once again laying on the sofa knackered. Aww, I love that guy.