Confessions of a Demented Housewife

by Niamh Greene

  2 March

  Stayed at home to care for Katie. Danni said she could manage perfectly well, but I gave her a few days off. Was sure Katie wanted me, her real mother, even if she kept asking where Danni was and if we could play Italian I Spy.

  Mrs H called to say that I should bathe Katie’s wound in Epsom salts every hour or it would become gangrenous. ‘If that cut gets infected, you never know what could happen,’ she said, in a doom-laden voice. ‘The infection might enter the bloodstream and she could end up on a life-support machine in Intensive Care. I heard about a case of that once.’

  Joe dismissed his mother’s advice when I called him, crying hysterically. ‘That’s another of the urban myths she’s always repeating,’ he soothed, trying to calm me. ‘It never happened, believe me. She makes all sorts up.’

  PS Poor Katie is insisting on having all her food liquidized and presented to her in a Bratz sippy-cup. The smoothie-maker is finally coming into its own.

  3 March

  Mrs H arrived at the crack of dawn with a press clipping showing a young child hooked up to all sorts of tubes and devices, lying prone in a hospital bed. ‘Small Cut Leads to Tragic End,’ the headline read.

  ‘Here it is!’ She waved it triumphantly. ‘I knew I had it somewhere. I like to keep these titbits – you never know when they might come in useful.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Katie asked, slurping the third smoothie of the morning through the corner of her mouth. (She may have been playing up just a little bit – caught her munching a packet of salt and vinegar when she thought no one was looking.)

  ‘This, darling, is what you could end up like if Mummy and Daddy don’t follow my instructions to the T,’ Mrs H said.

  Katie paled and put the smoothie back on the table. Mrs H whipped it away. ‘I’ll finish this for you, dear – too much fruit is bad for your digestion.’

  PS Jack is now refusing to eat solid food and is insisting on having smoothies like his sister. Luckily, the smoothie-maker is standing up admirably to round-the-clock pressure.

  4 March

  Angelica called as I was trying persuade Katie that chocolate buttons did not count as a nutritious meal. ‘Oh, my gosh, Susie!’ she said. ‘I heard all about the accident. Is Katie OK?’

  ‘Thanks, Angelica,’ I said, touched that she had thought to call and taken time to do so out of her hectic schedule of floating about, looking good and organizing charity events. ‘She’s on the mend, thankfully.’

  ‘Are you guys going to sue?’

  ‘Sue?’ I didn’t know what she meant.

  ‘Yeah, the school. They’re at fault for not watching her properly, don’t you think? Do you want me to hook you up with a lawyer? Our guy’s an animal.’

  Spent the rest of the afternoon surfing the Internet to check previous legal cases involving school accidents. Was astounded to discover there are lots. Apparently schools across the country are negligent on a regular basis.

  Called Joe to tell him we may pursue litigation.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Susie,’ he said. ‘You can’t sue the school because Katie fell off the monkey bars.’

  ‘Why not?’ I replied. ‘Angelica says she should have been supervised properly.’

  ‘She should have been more careful,’ Joe said. ‘Hanging off monkey bars by the tip of one finger isn’t exactly playing it safe.’

  Am very annoyed with Joe for scuppering my grand plan. Was quite looking forward to lording it in court and putting my case to the prosecution, etc. In fact, I should possibly have read law instead of doing a useless arts degree back in the eighties. At least then I could wear a tight-fitting black suit, cover my bird’s-nest hair with a grey wig, and look imposing and fierce, like the sexy one in Law and Order.

  5 March

  Katie is almost fully recovered. Was worried she’d be reluctant to go back to school, where she was so badly traumatized, but she bounded in today, just like the brave little soldier she is.

  ‘Now, there’s no need to be nervous, Katie,’ I said, anxious she wouldn’t want to return to the scene of the crime.

  ‘Whatever, Mummy,’ she said, wriggling to get out of my grip. ‘I can’t wait to show the others my massive scab. They’ll be so jealous!’ She shoved past me and ran over to a gang of round-eyed infants.

  I bumped into Angelica at the gate. ‘You poor thing!’ she said, hugging me. ‘You look absolutely exhausted.’

  Was a bit taken aback – had spent ages applying tons of tinted moisturizer and bronzer to look less washed-out, but I supposed I was still a bit hollow-eyed – all the waiting hand and foot on Katie had taken it out of me.

  ‘You probably need a break away,’ Angelica observed.

  Was hoping she’d suggest whisking me off somewhere exotic as a little treat, but before I could even drop a hint she piped up again: ‘Speaking of breaks, honey, would you mind if I used your country cottage again? We really need to get away – you know how it is. And I’m sure you guys won’t be getting down there much, not now you’re working.’

  ‘Um, yes, I suppose you’re right,’ I said, suddenly yearning for a holiday – any kind of holiday.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ she said, rubbing my arm, ‘so why don’t I whiz down, water the plants, that kind of thing? I’m practically doing you a favour.’ She giggled girlishly.

  ‘OK, then,’ I mumbled, a little put out, but not sure why.

  ‘Great!’ She beamed. ‘Now you just have to fill me in on how your new job’s going – the next time we meet for sure!’

  She bounded off, leaving me trailing morosely in her wake.

  When I eventually got to work Elaine had no sympathy for me.

  ‘You’re back, then, are you?’ she said loudly, when I slid into my seat. ‘That’s the trouble with working mothers – they’re always taking time off. I mean, really, if I had as much leave as you I’d have been sacked years ago.’ Then she waddled off to gossip with the guys in the post room.

  Am very worried. What if Elaine bad-mouths me round the building and gets me fired just as I’m making inroads and developing a worthwhile career? I must get her on my side at all costs.

  6 March

  Have come up with an elaborate plan to get Elaine on my side and ensure a meteoric rise to the top.

  Pay her.

  Offer to do all her photocopying.

  Shower her with expensive gift baskets.

  Shower her with Joe’s cooking. There is now so much home-baked produce floating about that even the dog doesn’t bat an eyelid any more.

  7 March

  Plan to seduce Elaine is not proving altogether successful. I brought in a large basket of Joe’s muffins today and encouraged her to have one with her morning coffee. Next minute she was on the floor, clutching her throat and turning blue. Then everyone was screaming and crying, two (quite hunky) ambulance men arrived, gave her an injection and she was taken away. Turns out she’s allergic to macadamias, and by some awful coincidence Joe had used some to spice up his muffin mix. Everyone in the office spent the rest of the day whispering in my direction. How was I supposed to know? It’s not like I did it on purpose.

  Joe took grave exception when I accused him of lacing his muffins with nuts to get me into trouble and is now not speaking to me. Am worried he has developed a sensitive side. Maybe Mrs H is right, after all – maybe he is ‘turning’.

  8 March

  Danni is acting strangely. I caught her crying into the minestrone this evening, although she tried to say the onions were making her eyes water.

  ‘What’s wrong, Danni?’ I asked, trying to be sympathetic, even though it was obvious that she still hadn’t done any vacuuming as I’d hinted she might; balls of dust were rolling cheekily across the hall in plain view.

  ‘Nothing.’ She snuffled. ‘Sometimes I get leetle homesick, that’s all.’ She snuffled even louder.

  ‘Why don’t you go and see your mummy, then?’ Katie piped up innocently.

  I held
my breath, horrified. Danni paying an unscheduled trip to Italy was not in my grand plan and would not suit at all.

  ‘You are sweet, my leetle Katie,’ she smiled through her tears, ‘but I would miss you too much, yes?’

  ‘But if you did miss me, you could bring me back a big present,’ Katie suggested, turning on her prettiest smile. ‘That would probably make you feel much better.’

  9 March

  Elaine has lodged a formal complaint with Human Resources about the macadamia incident. Apparently her official email said, ‘I cannot work with someone who has blatant disregard for my delicate health requirements.’

  Word on the street is that I deliberately tried to kill her. Am attempting to keep a low profile.

  PS Mrs H left incoherent message on my mobile phone – something about Joe, pastels and flower-arranging.

  10 March

  I am a hero at work! Was accosted by a colleague this morning. I cowered in fear, terrified he was about to berate me for what had happened to Elaine, but instead he threw his arms round me and lifted me off the ground in a massive bear-hug. ‘It was so simple, but so brilliant,’ he said. ‘I should have thought of it years ago. How did you get the recipe just right so it floored her but didn’t actually kill her?’

  Spent rest of the day fielding queries from people wanting to know how I’d done it and if I could do the same thing for their annoying relatives, mothers-in-law, husbands, etc.

  Have given up trying to deny that it was anything other than an accident. The masses are looking for a hero figure – who am I to deny them?

  11 March

  Elaine will be on sick leave for the foreseeable future. I now have to combine her job with mine. Why did I have to be a leader? Why? People have stopped bringing cappuccinos to my desk without me asking them to. How quickly they forget. Am feeling quite sick and really sorry for myself. Combed Heat’s special on celebs with mental-health issues and it turns out I have all the symptoms:

  pallid and/or spotty complexion

  listless expression

  severe weight loss/weight gain (latter in my case)

  hunched shoulders

  excessive party-girl lifestyle (N/A)

  All I’m missing is the impossible-to-get handbag and I’ll tick all the boxes.

  Decided to leave the magazine lying about and hope Joe reads it. He might want to whisk me away for a romantic weekend before I start binge-drinking or going out without any underwear, like celebs on the edge do.

  12 March

  Arrived home early. Danni and the children were nowhere to be found. Tried calling Danni on her mobile phone a zillion times but couldn’t reach her. Was starting to panic when they breezed through the door laden with bunches of spring flowers.

  ‘Where on earth were you, Danni?’ I hugged Katie and Jack to me. ‘You really scared me! You should have answered your phone.’

  ‘Sorree, Susie,’ Danni said, stricken. ‘We were picking flowers in the park.’ Then she burst into tears and rushed away before I had a chance to explain. But it was irresponsible of her to lose track of time. Have resolved to check her references properly, once and for all. Maybe a previous employer can tell me why she has become so emotional all of a sudden.

  13 March

  Called two of Danni’s former employers in Italy today but couldn’t understand a word they were saying so decided to Google her name instead. Couldn’t find anything about her. The only D. Genovese on-line was a Sicilian mobster on the run from allegations of drug-trafficking and general warlording. Spent ages reading about his exploits until Mike the producer snuck up behind me and I had to pretend I was doing important customer-care research.

  PS Joe is being very quiet about changing his career path and chucking in a perfectly good job to follow his outlandish dream of becoming an award-winning chef. This is a good sign. Hopefully he has given up on the entire idea.

  14 March

  Still feeling very off-colour. Called Louise to tell her I might be suffering from some kind of yuppie flu. I have all the symptoms – lethargy, aching joints, desire to sleep all day. I haven’t experienced any significant weight loss, though (in fact, my jeans may even be tighter than usual), so it can’t be anything life-threatening – unless abnormal weight gain is a symptom of a progressive, fatal disease.

  ‘Maybe you’re a bit depressed because of your birthday,’ Louise said. ‘Turning thirty-five can’t be easy. Or it might be your thyroid, I suppose. You should get it checked.’

  Called Joe to tell him I might have a dysfunctional thyroid or something even worse and could be dead in six weeks.

  ‘You look pretty healthy to me,’ he said. He sounded as though it wouldn’t bother him if I dropped dead there and then.

  ‘But what about the inexplicable weight gain and lethargy?’ I said. ‘All the signs point to something serious.’

  ‘Em, maybe you’ve been over-indulging,’ he suggested. ‘Everyone puts on a few pounds now and again.’

  Am outraged that Joe thinks I’m simply a greedy fatty and am not suffering from a serious, debilitating disease that could snuff me out in no time. He practically insinuated that if I stopped gorging on biscuits I’d be much better off. He’ll be sorry when he’s a single parent and I’m pushing up daisies.

  15 March: My birthday

  I am thirty-five. Which means that my life is probably half over already. No wonder I’m suffering from the onset of some serious illness. I’m already midway to certain death.

  Mum and Dad called to sing ‘Happy Birthday’, as they do every year, but this time I interrupted them before they could finish their off-key warbling. ‘Is there any history of thyroid disease in the family, Mum?’ I asked.

  ‘No, darling, I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Why do you ask?’

  I explained my symptoms to her but she dismissed them and so did Dad.

  ‘It sounds like you’re having a mid-life crisis, Susie.’ He laughed. ‘I had one at your age and then I took up cross-training. Lots more exercise would get the endorphins pumping. You should start rock-climbing.’

  Went home. Katie and Jack gave me a sweet homemade birthday card and Joe had baked an elaborate triple chocolate cake, but I still felt down in the dumps. Sometimes I find myself hankering for something a bit more glamorous – like a night in a junior suite at the Four Seasons or an all-expenses-paid trip to New York. Am sure either would be better than hanging off a cliff face and staring death in the eye.

  16 March

  Called the doctor from my desk to explain my mystery symptoms. Unfortunately I couldn’t get through as the power-crazed receptionist insisted he was busy and couldn’t be disturbed.

  ‘I need to speak to him,’ I said, trying to sound authoritative.

  ‘Mrs Hunt, half of Dublin needs to speak to him,’ she retorted. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to make an appointment like everyone else.’

  Hung up in annoyance. Apparently, unless you’re in danger of dying within the next twenty-four hours you’re not considered an emergency. Have drafted letter to Minister for Health to demand that the health service be overhauled immediately.

  Dear Minister [NB Find out who is Minister for Health. Maybe Google?]

  I am writing to you to express my dismay at the state of the health service in Ireland today. I am suffering from a litany of serious mystery ailments that obviously need to be assessed as quickly as possible. Imagine my disquiet when I called my doctor today only to be informed that the next available appointment is not until late next week (at which point my symptoms may have deteriorated even further – if I’m still around to tell the tale). I know you are a very busy person [NB Google minister-type activities and insert here] but I feel I must remind you that, as a voter, I am, in a roundabout way, your employer. Not that I am telling you this in a threatening way, of course, but I do pay your wages and I may be forced to vote for a different political party at the next general election if things do not improve. That is, when I get round to registerin
g to vote, which I will soon, when I have the time.

  I would appreciate it if you could get back to me with your thoughts as soon as possible.

  Yours truly,

  Susie Hunt

  PS I realize you are not personally responsible for the acerbic wit of doctors’ receptionists – but have you ever thought about getting the profession regulated? I fear lots of unsuitable types are slipping through the net.

  PPS You might consider introducing free massages on the street for stressed-out working mothers. I’m sure they would work a treat and probably stop lots of nasty road-rage incidences as well, so it would be a good investment and kill two birds with the one stone so to speak.

  17 March: St Patrick’s Day

  Was too downhearted to risk the parade. Instead, I decided to watch it on TV in the comfort of the living room as Katie and Jack waved the Irish tricolour about.

  ‘Why did St Patrick drive all the snakes from Ireland, Mummy?’ Katie said, tugging at the green ribbons she had demanded I put in her hair.

  Felt that the time was not right to explain that snakes were a euphemism for mortal sin, etc., etc., so I encouraged her to watch the samba dancers shaking their booty instead. Will get Mum to explain it to her some day soon.

  PS Have just remembered that Mum is now practically an atheist and probably thinks St Patrick didn’t even exist. Her lack of sensitivity is really very inconvenient.

  18 March

  Told Joe I had written to the Minister for Health to demand a complete overhaul of the health service. He looked at me as if I’d gone crazy. ‘Susie, don’t you ever read the papers?’ He groaned. ‘There are dozens of people on hospital trolleys all over the country because they can’t get a bed. People with real illnesses.’