Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband

by Sam Holden

  With Emily out the way, things were a bit more relaxed, and soon the three of us got accustomed to having the crew following us around. At one point Daisy asked if they wanted to watch her having a pee on her potty, but Dom and Emma thought that might be unnecessary. She looked most disappointed and ended up peeing on the floor, the result of which was captured on tape, along with my somewhat ineffectual attempts to clean it up. In the end, Emma had to show me how to do it.

  'Dab it,' she said. 'Don't wipe it.'

  I dimly recall Sally saying something like this to me once, but I tend to forget most domestic advice.

  After I had done my best to clean it up, Dom asked if I could do it again.

  'Do what again?'

  'Clean up the pee,' he said.

  'What?'

  'The thing is, it didn't really look as though you knew what you were doing. You looked like any normal bloke trying to do it, and we want you to look like a complete expert. After all, nobody's going to take your advice seriously if you can't even clear up child's piss.'

  This was a good point, but I didn't want to take it lying down. (I was in fact on my knees, which is no less submissive a position, perhaps even more so.)

  'You really sure about this? I mean, it's not as though I can get Daisy to pee at will. And I don't think it would be kind to make her drink lots just to make her pee.'

  Dom held up his hand, laughing a little.

  'Don't worry,' he said, 'we'll just use water.'

  And so, a few seconds later, I was clearing water off our landing carpet. And then I did it again, and again, and during all this, Dom thought it a bright idea that I should clean the lavatory. So I had to scrub that repeatedly, and between each take we had to 'dirty' it with a little orange barley water and some chocolate, which looked surprisingly effective.

  The rest of the morning largely featured me doing such chores, and talking to the camera, saying how all of this was part of a highly structured routine that had been born out of my years as a management consultant. Dom and Emma seemed delighted by what they rudely called my 'bullshit bingo', and said that it worked really well as I did the cooking etc. They even followed me taking the children to the supermarket after school, where I had to talk to the camera, explaining how the Holden Childcare Programme was useful in 'maxi-mising the effectiveness of my grocery choice solutions', which again, Dom and Emma seemed to love.

  By the end of the day, as I was filmed tucking the children into bed and giving them kisses good night (at least eight takes), I realised I was exhausted. The crew took a last few shots of me preparing dinner, and then they finally departed, leaving the house feeling exceptionally empty. When Sally came back I wanted to tell her all about it, but she said that she would speak to me tomorrow – too tired – and she fell asleep in the bath at 9.15. I almost had to carry her to bed.

  I'm worried that our lives couldn't be more different. Is that good or bad? Now is perhaps not the time to answer questions like that. Bed for me as well.

  Wednesday 5 March

  Dom rang to say that the footage was great from yesterday, and said that I was very lucky to be married to someone like Emily, who not only kissed brilliantly, but also looked brilliant as well. I muttered appreciative noises about what a lucky bloke I am etc., and felt guilty. I am always feeling guilty these days. It can't be good for me.

  Dom said that we would be starting the filming on Monday, although it might be held up, because Little Ted had to be at court that morning. Something to do with breaking his ASBO apparently. I'm terrified of these people, and told Dom as much.

  'You'll be fine,' he said, sounding like me.

  'I hope so,' I replied. 'At least I'll have Big Eric on my side.'

  A silence.

  'Yes,' said Dom eventually. 'About Big Eric.'

  'Don't tell me he can't make it.'

  'Not sure yet, I'm afraid.'

  'Why, where is he?'

  'He's got to go to court that morning as well.'

  Great. What am I letting myself in for? By this time next week I might be being stitched up in some grim Midlands hospital, the Holden Childcare Programme having seen its demise at the hands of a psychotic fourteen-year-old wielding a broken beer bottle.

  Or you never know, the Programme might just work.

  In fact, I think I do know.

  Thursday 6 March

  Another call from the TV company, this time from an Emma, who wanted me to make some props for next week. Props? What sort of props?

  'You know, management-consultant props – pie charts and easels and all that sort of stuff.'

  'But we don't do props as management consultants,' I replied. 'We do PowerPoint presentations.'

  'Well, can you put some of the PowerPoint stuff on old sort of stuff?'

  'Old sort of stuff?'

  'Yes – easels, flip charts.'

  'But I'm telling you, that's not how it's done.'

  There was a tone of mutual exasperation.

  'Sam,' said Emma. 'You must understand that we need something large and visual.'

  'Why?'

  'Because that's how TV works, that's why. TV is not about subtlety, it's about black and white, making difficult things easy, and making easy things even easier.'

  'Lowest common denominator, eh?'

  'Whatever that means,' said Emma, thereby proving my point.

  'OK,' I sighed. 'You'll have your flip charts and pie charts and stuff charts.'

  What I find surprising is just how ad hoc everything is. Back at Musker Walsh and Sloss, projects would take weeks and months to come to fruition, whereas these people in TV are just kind of winging it and making it up as they go along.

  They have a lot to learn.

  Friday 7 March

  Spent all day trying to make pie charts and flip charts and diagrams and whatnot. When the children were at school/playgroup I drove into a stationers in town and bought all the type of stuff that I suspected the Emma wanted, and then proceeded to draw out all my PowerPoint slides. In the end, I have to admit that they looked pretty good, although some of my pies looked like they had been baked by an amateur.

  The children wanted to help when they got back, but I managed to stop them. It would have done no good having their squiggles all over my Domestic Evaluation Signifiers graph, or indeed my Activity Ratio Index pie chart.

  Peter looked a bit winded when it became clear my refusal was absolute (rather a rare occurrence) and he folded his arms and asked, 'But what are they for, Daddy?'

  'They're for the TV programme I am making.'

  'Yes, but why?'

  'It will show the family what to do.'

  'What family?'

  'The family I am trying to help,' I replied, keeping my patience.

  'Why do they need help?'

  'Because they are a bad family, and Daddy is going to make them into a good family.'

  Peter gestured towards my charts.

  'With these?' he asked, his little voice largely incredulous.

  I looked at my handiwork.

  'Of course,' I said, trying to sound more convincing than I felt.

  'But you don't use these charts with us,' he observed.

  'That's right.'

  'Why?'

  My first reaction was to say, 'Because they don't work', but instead I said, 'Because we are a good family, and you don't need this sort of help.'

  'But Daddy . . .'

  Peter paused. I could almost see the cogs in his head.

  'Yes?'

  'But Daddy, if you are going to help the bad family, who is going to help me and Daisy and Mummy?'

  'I'm not going away for very long – just for a few days – and Halet will look after you.'

  Peter looked a little sad.

  'I don't want you to go away,' he said.

  'It won't be for very long, and Halet is very nice.'

  'No she's not!'

  I bent down and gave Peter a hug. He was close to tears, which almost made me cry as
well. Now I am really feeling guilty about everything.

  Sunday 9 March

  Right. I think I'm all set. I've got all my bags packed, Halet arrives at 7.30 tomorrow morning, and I'll be leaving at 9ish. We'll all go down to Peter's school together, and then I'll be off to the Midlands, where I shall either meet my doom, or enter into TV nirvana, or both. Perhaps I shall be killed on camera, and my entire life will be relegated to one of those comedy TV moments, forever to be repeated on some snuff website.

  Sally picked up on my nerves over supper.

  'It's not too late to pull out, you know,' she said.

  'It is,' I replied, sucking up some spaghetti. 'I've signed a contract.'

  'Oh, I didn't realise that.'

  (Neither did I.)

  'Yes, and besides, I don't want to let everybody down. Most of all myself. I really want to give this the best shot I can.'

  Sally held my hand and looked into my eyes.

  'Listen,' she said. 'I know I've been down on this whole thing from the start, but I don't want you to think that I don't support you.'

  I didn't know what to make of this.

  'So you do support it or not?' I asked, slightly too aggressively.

  'I support you, but not the idea,' she said.

  I smiled.

  'Spoken like a true civil servant,' I replied.

  'Spoken like a true wife. I want you to prove me wrong, I really do.'

  'Don't you worry – I will. This thing is going to be an enormous success.'

  Monday 10 March

  11.30 p.m. Somewhere in the Midlands in a terrible hotel

  Everything started so well. Halet turned up on time, we got the children to school OK, and my drive up here was fine. I met Dom and one of the Emmas and the rest of the crew at the hotel, and Dom explained that today would be all about watching how the family get on and how they behave, etc. – just observation. I'd need to stand around looking incredibly wise and jotting down notes on a shoddy WonderHubby clipboard that had been specially made. We'd stay with the family through to bed time (if there was such a thing), and then head off for a well-earned drink back at the hotel.

  That was the plan, anyway. Things didn't go quite so smoothly as that.

  The house, which was on a reasonably smart council estate, looked in pretty good nick. The grass was a little long, and one of the window panes was cracked, but that was about it. Perhaps they weren't such animals after all.

  The only person who looked disappointed was Dom.

  'What's the matter?' I asked.

  'It's not what I wanted,' he said.

  'Oh?'

  'Not scruffy enough.'

  He turned to Emma.

  'Ems, could you sort out some rusty old bicycles and an old bath or something to put out the front here?'

  Emma scribbled everything down on her pad, which I noticed didn't have 'WonderHubby' emblazoned on it.

  'But . . .' I started.

  'I know what you're thinking,' interrupted Dom. 'But remember, the greater the difference before and after, the more chance we have of getting the series commissioned. You'll just have to trust me on this.'

  'OK,' I sighed, wondering how well the natives would take it, and hoping that such liberties would only be taken with the pilot.

  While Emma scampered off with one of the gofers (there seemed to be a hell of a lot of people attached to the crew), Dom rang the doorbell, and after a few seconds this enormously fat woman appeared at the door. It was impossible to place her age – it could have been anything between thirty-five and sixty-five.

  'Yeah?'

  'Hi there Debbie,' said Dom. 'How are you?'

  'Are you trying to sell me something?'

  'No! We're the TV people – the ones making the programme about you.'

  'Which programme?'

  Dom looked at the house number.

  'This is number 23, right?'

  'Yeah.'

  'And you are Debbie Lampert?'

  'Yeah.'

  'Well, you must remember that we're filming you this week.'

  'I know all that,' said Debbie, 'but which programme are you from?'

  'WonderHubby,' Dom replied. 'The one in which we're going to try to help you look after the kids.'

  'OK,' she said. 'That's good to know, cos we've also got a couple of other programmes coming sometime this week.'

  Dom's eyes did the Tube logo thing.

  'Which ones?'

  Debbie wracked whatever brains she had.

  'Well, there's Pimp Your Lounge for one, and the other one is Bridgette Cassidy's Move That Arse.'

  'Bridgette Cassidy's Move That Arse?' we asked in unison.

  'Yeah,' she smiled. 'Don't yer know it? It's on Sky. It's brilliant. Bridgette Cassidy comes along and gets rid of your arse.'

  'How?'

  Debbie shrugged – or rather wobbled – her shoulders.

  'I dunno. Probably hipposuction or something.'

  Dom and I tried not to laugh.

  'So when are these programmes coming?' Dom asked.

  'They said this week. Dunno when exactly.'

  Just at that moment we heard a kerfuffle behind us, and we turned to see another TV crew trying to barge through ours.

  'Oh look,' said Debbie. 'Here comes one of them right now.'

  A bloke who looked a little like Dom (at least, they had the same rectangular glasses) came up to him and asked, 'Where you from?'

  'Pantheon Productions,' said Dom. 'We're making WonderHubby and we've got them first. Where are you from?'

  'The news,' said the lookalike, who then turned to Debbie.

  'Hello Mrs Lampert,' he smiled. 'You OK?'

  'Good thanks,' she replied, lighting a cigarette. 'What you here for this time, Bob?'

  'Little Ted again, I'm afraid.'

  'I thought he was in court,' she said. 'Big Ted took him there first thing.'

  'Seems they never turned up,' said Bob. 'So we just wanted to see if they were here.'

  'I expect Little Ted went to school instead,' said Debbie, at which point she broke out into a smoker's hacking cackle.

  We all joined in the laughter, and Dom signalled to the crew that they should start filming, and then Bob did the same with his crew, and soon we entered into a very postmodern situation in which both sets of camera crews started filming each other.

  'Do you all wanna come in for a cuppa?' asked Debbie, and so about 45 of us went into the house, which stank of fags and chip fat, and made our way through a tiny hall into a small kitchen where we found young Epernay, who was sitting at the table reading a copy of A-Listers! (The exclamation mark is not mine.) Amazingly, she just ignored us, and I noticed that she was listening to an iPod, which was causing her to draw out some annoying tattoo on the table at 250 beats per minute. Meanwhile, both crews continued filming. Bob kept asking questions about Big and Little Ted, and wondered how Debbie felt about the fact that they were earning a name for themselves as a father and son crime wave, all of which Debbie thought was rather amusing, as she manifested by her hacking laugh.

  After half an hour the news crew left, and everything felt positively anticlimactic. We all sort of sat there in silence, until Epernay piped up.

  'So what you doing then?'

  'We're making a programme about your family,' I replied.

  'What?'

  'WE'RE MAKING A PROGRAMME ABOUT YOUR FAMILY,' I yelled over the headphones.

  'No need to shout,' she said.

  I studied Epernay's face. Although she was only nine, it was already showing signs of the unattractive features she would acquire after years of being exposed to fag smoke and saturated fats, and not being exposed to sun and exercise. She was pasty and chubby, and there seemed little hope. As I looked at her, I started wondering whether this programme could make a difference, and whether it was indeed possible for WonderHubby to do anything remotely positive. Or were we just here to take the piss out of poor people, like so many other TV crews, and then share o
ur footage with other middle-class people for them to laugh at over their organic TV dinners? Probably. But then these people have a choice to be like this. They don't have to smoke all day. Fruit and vegetables are cheap. Exercise is free, as is fresh air. And it's not as though they are ignorant of the benefits of good food and exercise – it's just that they are lazy. And is there anything wrong with taking the piss out of lazy people? Probably. But I'm in too deep now.

  'Why are you looking at me like that?' Epernay asked, pulling me out of my musings.

  'Sorry,' I said, shaking my head. 'I was miles away.'

  Suddenly a couple of shadows loomed behind me.

  'Who the fuck are you lot?'

  I turned to see who I could only assume was Big Ted. He was just as I imagined – a cross between a wrestler and another uglier wrestler. His hair was short, and below it was a face that was used to playing host to fists. He was wearing a tracksuit emblazoned with the name of the local football team, and even though he may have been as fat as his wife, he looked as fit as a prop forward.

  Behind him peeked Little Ted, who was the thinnest member of the family by a ton. In fact, he was so thin he could have hidden behind one of his father's legs, which is basically what he was doing. He looked feral, and so unlike his parents that I began to doubt his parentage.

  'Hello,' said Dom, holding out his hand. 'I'm Dom, and this is Sam, and we're making a programme called WonderHubby. Has Debbie not told you about it?'

  Big Ted looked down at the hand, wondering what on earth it was doing there.

  'No,' he said.

  'I did tell yer,' said Debbie. 'Last week, when you came back from the pub on Tuesday morning.'

  Big Ted shook his skull.

  'I don't remember.'

  'Think, Ted.'

  'I remember,' piped up a weaselly voice that belonged to Little Ted.

  'Yer see?' said Debbie. 'Anyway, where have you been?'

  'To court,' said Big Ted, his eyes wide with innocence.

  'That's not what the news said.'

  'The news?'

  'Bob came round here just now, saying that you never went.'