by Matt Rudd
Mum takes Jacob. Jacob immediately stops grouching and smiles. Seriously, is it us? Are we creating a horrendous atmosphere within which no child can prosper? Or has Jacob simply got a very dry sense of humour? Does he behave angelically when any grandparents are around simply to create the illusion that Mummy and Daddy are making a hash of things for his own amusement?
‘It’s me. I must be a terrible mother,’ says Isabel the minute Mum leaves and Jacob starts grouching again. ‘I must be projecting tension or lack of confidence or something.’
‘You’re not a terrible mother. You’re an amazing mother. He just likes the super-attention he gets from the grandparents. They probably give him chocolate when we’re not looking.’
‘Well, it’s annoying.’
‘I know. Give him here. I’ll have a chat with him about this, man to man.’
Monday 25 March
Johnson is equally suspicious of the idea of washing in a giant uterus. He thinks it sounds oedipal. This is even more disgusting than it being simply a reminder of the trauma of childbirth.
The work experience who is no longer behaving like a work experience, even though she only has a six-month contract that could be cancelled at any minute, has offered to put the best bits of Alex & Geoff to the Rescue on YouTube so none of us miss it. I say it’s fine, Isabel will record it. She says it’s really no problem.
I send Andy a nice truce of an e-mail asking how his trip to Sudan went. He e-mails back saying it went fine but he can’t believe I snubbed Saskia on Facebook. I point out that I didn’t. He says I did: remaining noncommittal about someone’s offer of Facebook friendship is the same as refusing it. I tell him he’s being oversensitive. He doesn’t reply, thus proving my point.
Anastasia tells me I am to move desks to make room for the stilltechnically-a-work-experience girl.
At least I have the kick boxing. They have turned my house into female reproductive organs, they have humiliated me at work, they have betrayed me and they have whittled away at the very last vestiges of my self-respect, but they will be sorry. They will be sorry when I return and avenge myself with my kung fu fighting skills like Jean-Claude Van Damme, back for one last high-octane adventure, back to settle scores once and for all.
Except obviously that’s not quite how it turns out. For a start, does it seem unreasonable to expect that there might be some men in a kick-boxing class? The promotional video had men fighting in it, but the class I showed up for consisted of me and nine women in Lycra. I had clearly signed up for some horribly girly lunchtime aerobic work-out nightmare. There would be gym balls and skipping ropes and Travolta music and spinning and stepping and one-two-three-four, two-two-three-four, all together now…
I was wrong. It was worse than that. I had stepped into some kind of feminist boot camp. The instructor was called Ingrid. She had a six-pack, no breasts and a chiselled jaw Jean-Claude Van Damme would die for. She smiled frighteningly, broke several small bones in my hand by way of greeting and paired me with a woman who looked immediately familiar.
‘Hi, I’m William. Do we know—’
‘I don’t think so. I’m Brenda,’ she said dismissively. She was five feet tall if I’m being generous. It would be like fighting a child.
We began with a warm-up that consisted of skipping and twirling and generally behaving like we were in the Spice Girls. Then Brenda beat me up.
At home that night, lying in my giant uterus, I was amazed I didn’t have more bruises. Everything hurt. Isabel pretended to feel sorry for me, but I could tell she thought I was exaggerating. It is hard to believe that someone so small could pack such a punch. Or kick. Or punch-punch-kick-swivel-roundhouse-punch-and-dismount. But what she lost in stature she gained in what I’m guessing is an inner power developed to combat a society that routinely underestimates dwarves. And people called Brenda.
Tuesday 26 March
Still no bruises. She must have hit me in places that don’t bruise.
Wednesday 27 March
I knew that I knew Brenda. She’s the nail-filing, teeth-flossing ginger space-stealer on the train. I just hadn’t recognised her in Lycra. She was there this morning, all snug in the seat she’d already bagsied further down the line from me. Her bag was on the seat next to her, warding people away. Normally, I’d make a point of getting her to move it, but this morning, I decided to go for another carriage.
Not because I was scared of her or anything. I just didn’t want to have to say, ‘Hello, what a coincidence,’ particularly to a violent midget. And besides, maybe I was exaggerating. Maybe Brenda didn’t kick the shit out of me. She was only three feet tall, after all. And she was a girl. I’d have bruises if it hurt as much as I thought it did. It’s probably that I’m just not used to getting hit. And I was quite good at the warm-up. I should persist with the whole thing. Just because it’s all women, not counting Ingrid, doesn’t mean it’s not good for me.
Thursday 28 March
I was brushing my teeth this morning at the plinth/basin/Oscar podium Alex calls our basin when Isabel ran in and said, ‘Quick, Jacob’s still asleep. Let’s have a cuddle.’ That bloody euphemism again. So I said, ‘I can’t, I’m late for work.’ This wasn’t true – and I think Isabel knew it. She said, ‘Fine, I’ll have a shower instead, then. You listen for Jacob.’ And then she put the rainforest shower thing on and I got soaked because Alex and Geoff thought a wet room would be appropriate for a young family. Then I left the house and got to work half an hour early because it now appears I’d rather be at work than having a ‘cuddle’ with my wife.
Anastasia arrived minutes later and said, ‘Early for once.’ And I felt pleased. Then I felt suicidal. I am now keen to impress the girl who used to be the work experience but is now the Editor so that she doesn’t give the work experience who is still the work experience my job. This is ridiculous.
Friday 29 March
Thank God it’s the weekend.
Saturday 30 March
Oh God, it’s the weekend.
Sunday 31 March
It’s okay. Everything is okay. We have had sex. We have had postoperative sex. I blocked. I blocked all the voices in my head saying I shouldn’t be having my wicked way with the mother of our child. I avoided the breasts altogether in case she said something about them being painful or full or something.
And we did it. We had sex. I mean it was quick, but it had to be. I couldn’t risk her saying anything like, ‘Gently’ or ‘Careful, it’s hurting’ or ‘My God, the scar has torn open. Call an ambulance.’ But it doesn’t matter – we are back.
‘Is everything all right, darling?’
‘Yes, darling.’
‘It’s just that you seemed distracted.’
‘Nope, I was only worried Jacob might wake up.’
‘But you were humming the theme tune to the Antiques Roadshow.’
‘Was I?’
‘Yes. It was quite odd.’
‘Sorry.’ But we have had sex and that is the main thing. To celebrate, I make a cooked breakfast. Then Isabel says she’s going to pop round to her mother’s for coffee, do I want to come? I say, ‘No, I’m going to have a uterus, sorry, bath.’ Clearly, I feel able to joke about reproductive organs again. Hurrah.
This is how I remember what happens next.
I walk into the cocoon and massage the dildo taps.
The phone rings. It is Isabel. She has forgotten her breast pads and she’s starting to leak. Could I run up the road with them? I suggest she uses kitchen towel. She suggests I hurry up.
I put on some clothes and run up the road with them.
I run back.
I make myself some mid-morning child-and-wife-free coffee and watch some mid-morning child-and-wife-free television. Rick Stein makes a rather fabulous-looking fish chowder and I think how wonderful it would be to surprise Isabel by making a fabulous-looking fish chowder. We can have it for dinner and then it will last through the week. Delicious and efficient – Isabel’s favourite combination.
I pop to the shops to buy the fish chowder ingredients.
Isabel calls again. Her dad is doing a roast. She’s staying. They’d like me to come over, too. This isn’t quite what I had in mind, but her dad does do a nice roast. So I drive back to the house to drop off the ingredients, only to realise I left with such culinary enthusiasm that I’ve locked myself out.
I call Isabel. It’s okay. She has her set of keys. I should come straight over.
I go straight over. The fish is still in the boot of the car, but it doesn’t matter. It’s a crisp spring day. It will keep.
We have lunch.
Isabel’s dad is keen for me to sample a claret that he opened especially.
I sample the claret.
We get ready to leave, but Jacob needs a change, a feed, a change, a feed and a wind.
Finally, we leave.
We drive home and I notice water trickling down our path.
Isabel passes me her set of keys.
With difficulty, I open the door and a great surge of water rushes over my feet. Panicking, I step into the hall and notice that the ceiling in the living room is bowing dreadfully. I step back out and there is an almighty crash.
I step back in again and notice that the egg-shaped bath is back in our living room. All I can hear is water and whale music. Then the electrics short and the whale mating stops.
I had left the stupid dildo taps on all day.
I had destroyed our beautiful home.
‘Let’s go back to Grandma’s house, Jacob, while Daddy sorts out this little mess,’ says Isabel in her calm-sounding voice that isn’t calm at all.
APRIL
‘Henry James once defined life as that predicament
which precedes death, and certainly nobody owes you a
debt of honour or gratitude for getting him into that
predicament. But a child does owe his father a debt, if
Dad, having gotten him into this peck of trouble, takes
off his coat and buckles down to the job of showing his
son how best to crash through it.’
CLARENCE BUDINGTON KELLAND
Monday 1 April
The chief fire officer told me that he had never seen so much damage caused by one tap. Normally, the bath overflows and people notice. It was unfortunate that I’d decided to go out for several hours, he said helpfully. And it was unfortunate that they were power taps. It was also unfortunate that the wet room drained the wrong way for the overflowing bath, otherwise everything would have been fine. Likewise, if the bath’s own overflow pipe had worked. Likewise, if the egg hadn’t held quite so much water. As it was, though, the house was now structurally unsafe.
Most of the first floor had fallen on to the ground floor because of the sheer weight of water that had built up and then raced out of the stupid-shaped bathroom. The electrics were ruined. The gas was ruined. The stairs had caved in and, what with several supporting beams torn down, there was a strong possibility that the roof would cave in as well.
We spent the night at Isabel’s parents’. I didn’t sleep a wink. In the morning, I returned to the scene of my inordinate stupidity to collect more things. Fortunately, the water had only reached the level of the bottom drawer of the chest of drawers in the bedroom before the ceiling collapsed. Only my clothes were ruined.
No one, not even Isabel’s father, not even Anastasia, has called me an idiot yet. In fact, Anastasia has given me as much time off as I need to sort things out. This may be a while if my first conversation with the insurance company is anything to go by.
‘Yes, hello. Good morning. I’d like to report a flood.’
‘Your name please…and postcode…and house number…and policy number. Oh right, sir. Now, are you at the property right now, Mr Walker? Right, and is this claim for buildings or contents? Both? Oh, right, let me just check…no, I’m afraid you are not covered for flood damage, Mr Walker. It specifically states in section 37.22 that—’
I explain that by flood, I mean accidental damage caused by leaving the bath on.
‘Leaving the bath on?’
‘Yes, leaving the bath on.’
‘On what?’
‘The taps. Leaving the taps on. I left the taps in the bath on.’
‘And now you say you’re homeless?’
‘Yes.’
Skip forward twenty minutes while I go over and over my own stupidity.
‘And you say the first floor has fallen through to the ground floor?’
‘Yes. What happens now?’
‘Is the house inhabitable, sir?’
‘No. As I mentioned, the first floor has fallen through.’
‘So the bedrooms are unsafe?’
‘The bedrooms are now on the ground floor.’
‘And you can’t sleep in them?’
Skip forward another twenty minutes to the point where, with some difficulty, it transpires that I am entitled to £50 a night for emergency accommodation for up to four weeks IF we provide receipts and a claim form and the insurance certificate and a completed Rubik’s Cube and a full explanation of exactly why E equals MC squared. After that, the insurance company will pay for alternative accommodation IF necessary IF the insurance assessor concludes that the property is still uninhabitable, IF we have broken none of the clauses on modification when we installed the new bathroom, IF we pay a £500 excess, IF the moon is in its fourth quarter and it’s a Tuesday and a grasshopper crosses our path twice before sundown.
The assessor will arrive to do his assessing between 8 a.m. and 4 p.m. tomorrow.
‘Could you be any more specific?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘I have a homeless wife and a homeless baby and all you can do is give me a time frame that would embarrass an IKEA delivery man?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Is this conversation being recorded for legal reasons?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Right. Well, if it wasn’t I would call you a dickhead. Since it is, I shall simply call you an imbecile.’
‘Mr Walker, I am only doing my job. You were the one who left the taps on.’
At least I have a good excuse not to get kick-boxed to within an inch of my life by a female midget. Ingrid says I’m not entitled to a refund, but she can provide me with a receipt. And she hopes I won’t chicken out next week. She clearly thinks I’ve made up the whole flood to get out of the kick boxing. Which I would have done if I’d thought of it.
Tuesday 2 April
Alex has offered to redecorate the bathroom and promises not to bring a television crew with him this time. Frankly, it’s all his fault. I would have heard our old taps running and been reminded that I’d left the bath running. The new dildo taps were silent. That was the problem. That and the fact that the overflow pipe didn’t work. And that Alex was involved at all. I don’t care how gay he thinks he is; he continues to be responsible for making my married life a disaster.
Except Isabel, through this entire nightmare, has been incredibly circumspect and forgiving. We can argue for days about Marmite toast and whose turn it is to change a nappy and whether it’s harder pretending to work at the office than being at home with the baby, but when the chips are really down, she is the rock of this family. She has gone into emergency mode. She has us all up in the spare room at her parents’ and is behaving a bit like Sigourney Weaver in Alien 3. If, on top of everything else, we had to deal with killer aliens, it wouldn’t be a problem.
On the less helpful side, her dad is now saying I’m an idiot. Albeit in a nice way.
‘I knew someone once who left the taps on. Friend of my father’s. Had his legs blown off in the war. Poor chap never recovered. Still, he was nearly ninety when he died. Brave chap. Very brave chap. But just before he died, he left the bath on. Shouldn’t have really been still running his own bath at that age. Not without any legs. And senile dementia. And sciatica. And pancreatic cancer. Poor chap. Anyway, yes, so he left the bath on
.’
‘What happened?’
‘Oh, he remembered after half an hour. No real harm done. Except he died a week later. I think it was the fright of almost letting the bath overflow that killed him. Couldn’t handle being so useless.’
The insurance assessor is only slightly more intelligent and helpful than the insurance phone person. He makes several remarks about the whole leaving-the-tap-on thing, asks several questions that insinuate I did it on purpose (‘Have you made any late payments on your credit cards recently, Mr Walker?’ No. ‘What about less recently, then?’). We now have to wait for him to make a full report and get some builders to come and quote for repairs. It may take two or three weeks, what with it being spring.
‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Do a lot of people flood their houses in spring?’
‘Hahahaha. Good one, sir. No. You’re pretty much the only one who’s done that this year. Everyone else prefers to do home improvements. Like birds building a nest. It’s a spring thing. So the building trade is busy. You see?’
Wednesday 3 April
Back to work. Anastasia’s concern turned out to be momentary. Johnson tells me I’m an idiot. E-mail from Andy saying if there’s anything he can do, I must shout.
‘I could do with a pint, actually,’ I reply eventually, because even though he is going out with the Destroyer of Relationships, he is my best friend and I am in need of an emergency pint.
‘Afraid I can’t. I’ve got to go to Stockholm tomorrow for a couple of weeks. Then Saskia and I are driving back down through Germany. Won’t be home until mid-May.’
‘So anything you can do to help provided it’s doable from frigging Sweden? Cheers very much.’
Friday 5 April