by Matt Rudd
‘By buying one pack of bin bags? Probably because you’d forgotten to get some from the supermarket?’
‘I was supporting my local shop, paying three times the going rate for these bin bags, and they don’t work.’
‘Right.’
‘So I’d like a refund.’
‘Would you?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you’ve used half of them.’
‘I’ve used three of them. The other four broke. So if you think about it, I’m paying for a bin bag to put broken bin bags in. Now, can I have a refund?’
‘No. And I’d like you to leave. If you don’t, I’ll call Bob and Brenda.’
‘From the pub?’
‘From the pub.’
Kick boxing. Pub. Train. Village shop.
Friday 17 May
Anastasia calls me into her office for a chat. The Managing Editor is also present. She would like to put it on record that this is my first official warning. Yes, for being late. Yes, my career has reached a new low where I am judged for being late. I ask for it to be put on record that I have better things to do than to worry about arriving within three minutes of nine o’clock. And besides, things are a bit chaotic at home at the moment.
The Managing Editor and Anastasia give each other knowing looks.
‘Need we remind you that the last time you were given formal warnings, you attributed your erratic and at times violent behaviour to difficulties at home? And the Editor then was far more tolerant of that sort of nonsense than I will be.’
‘This is all because of that cup of tea, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t be childish.’
‘Don’t be adultish.’
‘How, may I ask, have you reacted to my talk last Tuesday?’
I could have been honest at this point. She really does invite the honest response. But I sense that this is precisely what she wants, so I bite my tongue.
‘Last week, I blogged. And yesterday, I Twittered.’
‘Tweeted.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Tweeted. You don’t Twitter. You tweet.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’
‘You need to get the language right if you’re going to be a convincing member of the team that takes this magazine into the future.’
I wouldn’t even be in here if it weren’t for Brenda. Kick boxing. Pub. Train. Village shop. Possibly job.
To a pub I am allowed in with Johnson and Andy. It’s just like old times, except that I have to be home by 9 p.m. and the girl Andy can’t stop banging on about is still Saskia, the Destroyer of Relationships.
‘I know you don’t want to know, but Sweden was amazing. We could really be ourselves.’ He had that starry look in his eyes. Johnson and I know that look well. The Andy Look. It’s dangerous, but it normally vanishes after the first few days, right about the time when the plans to emigrate to Sydney, Somalia or, most recently, Switzerland hit obstacles like visas, money or a total language barrier. We have a few days of Andy moping about, occasionally trying to jump off things, and then he meets another girl in another city and we’re all fine again. But he’s been with Saskia for weeks now. And he still has The Look.
‘On one beach, we went for a whole week without wearing clothes. It’s only when you’re naked that you realise how much we constrain ourselves as human beings. I mean, it wasn’t even warm, but we soon got used to it. Just us. The beach. The forests. Our skin. The fresh Scandinavian air.’
I look to Johnson for some support.
‘I know you’ve had your troubles with her, William,’ shrugs Johnson. ‘But she’s pretty amazing. I mean, a whole week without clothes. Ali won’t even let me in the bathroom when she’s naked any more.’
‘Can we stop talking about your nakedness and start talking about my job?’
‘You need to get to work on time,’ was as helpful as Andy could be.
Sunday 19 May
Out of the kindness of my heart, and because I was awake anyway, I take Jacob out for a walk around the village green so that Isabel can have a lie-in. Teresa-the-non-hippy-mum’s husband, Pete, is already out there, strolling around.
‘Morning,’ I say.
‘Morning,’ he replies.
Turns out Pete takes their daughter out every Sunday morning from 8 till 10 a.m., weather-dependent. It’s part of their routine. For a minute, while he’s telling me this, I get the impression that he’s trying to say something else. It’s like he’s mouthing, ‘Help, we are being held hostage by my mad wife. Call the police. Tell them she won’t let us have dinner when we want it.’ Then, as if he thinks he’s given away too much, his expression changes. He has to get back or he’ll be late for the second feed. We say goodbye, he scurries off and I’m left to contemplate whether I can face buying the newspaper from the village shop.
I can’t.
Monday 20 May
Isabel wants to go on holiday. With a baby. Again. She appears to have forgotten the horror of Devon, as well as the fact that she believes the best way to raise children is to let them flourish at home rather than whisk them off to places only the parents could benefit from.
‘Have you forgotten the horror of Devon?’
‘Oh come on, it wasn’t that bad.’
‘I nearly went to prison. There was a hurricane. We went two days late. We left a day early. There was a barn owl. It was the worst five days of my life.’
‘Well, let’s go somewhere Mediterranean. The weather will be better and they’re more child-friendly in Italy. We won’t be treated like lepers. We may even be able to go to a restaurant with Jacob.’
The prospect of eating out was indeed a tempting one. We had done that only once this year and had spent the whole meal staring hysterically at the mobile phone. A proper Italian restaurant with wine and prosciutto and bread baskets and maybe some dipping oil would be just the ticket. And Isabel was right – the Italians love children. In The Godfather, when they weren’t killing each other, wasn’t it all about family? We would be welcomed with open arms. ‘Ahh, bambino!’ they would cry before giving us the best table in the house. The trouble is, we had to actually get to Italy first.
‘I’m not driving all the way to Italy.’
‘No, we’ll fly.’
At this, I nearly swallowed my tongue in astonishment. ‘What, in a plane, with two hundred other people, all tutting?’
‘Look, it’s only a couple of hours. Jacob will be fine. I need a holiday. You need a holiday. It will do us the world of good.’
Wednesday 22 May
She’s booked it. Barely a second after I managed to convince Anastasia that I was due a whole fortnight off. A small villa in the hills above Lucca, leaving barely two weeks in which to train Jacob not to scream. I insist on British Airways flights, because the one thing I know intuitively is that Ryanair is no place for a new family.
Both Annabel and Teresa think it’s a brilliant idea, which must be the first time they’ve ever agreed on anything.
Both their husbands think it’s a terrible idea, because the one thing you can say about all new dads is that they quickly develop a very effective survival instinct. It’s as effective as a baby’s gag reflex. And it’s universal.
THINGS NEW DADS INSTINCTIVELY LEARN
WITHIN WEEKS OF CHILDBIRTH
Know your limits. Yes, you can change nappies. No, you can’t put on babygros.
Working late is sometimes preferable to going home for bath time.
Sex is less important than sleep.
Never fly anywhere if your children are under the age of five, not even if your exhausted wife says she really, really needs a holiday.
‘It will be fine, darling,’ she says. Which is what she said about the home birth.
Saturday 25 May
We’re okay. Isabel and I are okay. In the sex department. We have successfully copulated. Jacob fell asleep on the way back from lunch and a post-holiday slide show at Isabel’s parents. Frankly, who could blame him? We
left him in the car with the windows half down because we have now been parents long enough to know that sometimes treating children like dogs is the only way.
I did not feel the need to hum the Antiques Roadshow theme tune. And I only had to run out to the car naked twice when Isabel mistook first a seagull and second a slight breeze for the screaming of an almost five-month-old.
Nobody saw.
Mission accomplished.
Monday 27 May
Actually caught myself whistling on the way to work. Tweeting, you might call it, but in the good old-fashioned way.
Wednesday 29 May
Tweeting well and truly over for three reasons.
Jacob has got yet another cold. The only way he can sleep is vertically. This involves much standing around in the middle of the night.
Was asked by a rival magazine if I could be interviewed about what it feels like to be the subject of a one-million-plus YouTube video hit. I declined. Journalists must never become the story.
Geoff, who has come over for dinner with Alex and been rude about our rented house even though it’s his fault we’re in it, thinks I should be grateful for becoming a YouTube sensation. He would kill for that kind of publicity. Have to restrain myself from grabbing the steak knife and stabbing him a hundred times. And how come we’re having steak? And how come Jacob has gone to sleep early when they’re here? Treacherous child.
Thursday 30 May
He’d definitely started rolling, though. I left him on his front this morning while I nipped to the kitchen to make coffee. Came back and he was on his back, like butter wouldn’t melt. It happened two days ago as well, but I hadn’t been 100 per cent sure then, what with his cold and my sleep deprivation. This time, there was no denying it. My child, four months and twenty-nine days old, has mastered the art of rolling.
In comparison to the rest of the animal world, it’s pathetic, I know. I’m pretty sure monkeys don’t take this long. Even sheep are more advanced. But in comparison to Teresa’s child, who has shown no signs of rolling whatsoever, Jacob is streets ahead.
‘Children all learn at their own pace,’ said Isabel by way of spoiling my good mood. ‘It’s not a competition.’
It is a competition.
Friday 31 May
He did it again. Always with me, first thing in the morning. But always when I’m out of the room. It’s like crop circles. All I need is visual confirmation before we can write to the Guinness World Record people with news that we have the most intelligent child on the planet. It will happen this weekend, I know it, I think to myself, setting off nice and early for work, old-fashioned tweeting again.
And, as if God knows this is not the sort of tweeting that is expected of me, he immediately begins to ruin my day.
First, the postman hands me a letter at the end of our drive with a tut, a clearly audible tut.
Second, I open the letter, which has no stamp on it, to find that it is an official correspondence from the parish council.
‘Dear Mr Walker,’ it begins officiously. ‘It has been brought to our attention that you have been cavorting around your front garden not only naked, which would be disturbing enough, but also in a clearly “excited” manner. While this sort of thing may be commonplace in your permanent place of residence, can we kindly request that you restrain yourself while staying in ours? If this sort of behaviour continues, we will refer the matter to the local constabulary.’
Thirdly, the letter’s masthead lists Bob the publican as chairman, Brenda as treasurer, the village shop con-artist as secretary and the bloody postman as the, well, postman.
Fourthly, I am so shocked by this letter, I have to show Isabel.
Fifthly, she thinks it is hilarious. It takes her so long to stop laughing, I miss the early train.
Sixthly, Brenda is on the not-early train and rather than confront her unprepared, I chicken out and get on another carriage, one which never has any spare seats.
Seventhly, the builder phones while I’m on the not-remotely-early train. I tell him I can’t talk because I’m on the train. He says that’s okay, he just wanted to warn me that August (despite still being three months away) is not looking feasible in terms of repairing the house.
Eighthly, another letter is waiting for me on my desk when I finally get to work. It is a written warning. Anastasia, the small-minded, little-pictured boss from hell will have me out within the month.
JUNE
‘Men forget everything; women remember everything. That’s why men need instant replays in sports.’
RITA RUDNER
Saturday 1 June
REASONS TO BE CHEERFUL
1. We’re going on holiday next Saturday.
REASONS TO BE MISERABLE
Isabel will never be able to hear the phrase ‘public display of affection’ without giggling.
Job. House. Neighbours.
I think my hair’s falling out.
We’re going on holiday next Saturday.
Sunday 2 June
Refuse to leave house on account of cabal that runs village turning against me. Witness Brenda taking her whippet for a walk across the village green, watching it take an enormous dump right by the children’s swings, looking around to ensure no one is looking and wandering off without clearing it up. And I get a letter for being naked.
Monday 3 June
Now have to hide when postman delivers. Thinking of reporting him to the Royal Mail. Sure you’re not allowed to do non-postal deliveries at the same time as postal ones. Isabel insistent that I shouldn’t take village politics so seriously. And we’re only here for another three months, anyway. I haven’t told her that the builder is pessimistic about that. Or that the reason the children’s swings are covered in dog poo is because of the woman she’s telling me not to get wound up about. No point in both of us having a terrible start to the week.
Wednesday 5 June
Saw Teresa’s husband Pete looking haunted on the train home. We start chatting. I ask him if he knows Bob the publican. He doesn’t, but he was told by Teresa who was told by the shopkeeper who was told by the barmaid that he has a hell of a temper on him. Used to be a policeman. Worked his way up through the ranks. Knows how to get things done. Not an easy person if things don’t go his way.
I’m actually glad we’re going on holiday. We can let this whole naked thing die down.
‘Yes, we can let it droop,’ says Isabel because she still can’t stop finding it hilarious.
Friday 7 June
All week I’ve been interneting. All week I’ve tried to be punctual. All week I’ve tried to stay positive. Then, just as I’m leaving, I discover that the girl who was on work experience and who now has an increasingly popular techie column has written one about a guy in the office with only twenty-six Facebook friends.
How is it possible to be so undermined by someone I care so little about with something I so couldn’t give a toss about? I leave on a low note, get rained on all the way home, tread in some yellow dog poo thirty metres from my doorstep and get home to find that Isabel hasn’t started packing yet. Stupidly, I say, ‘Haven’t you started packing yet?’
THINGS YOU SHOULD NEVER SAY TO YOUR WIFE WHEN YOU GET BACK FROM WORK IF SHE’S BEEN LOOKING AFTER THE BABY ALL DAY
‘Haven’t you started packing yet?’
‘Haven’t you started dinner yet?’
‘Why is our child not in bed yet?’
4. ‘Why is there toilet paper all over the living room?’
‘I’ve had a really bad day.’
It takes at least fifteen minutes for Isabel to explain, at extremely high pitch and volume, why she hasn’t started packing yet, during which time I notice she is (a) covered in baby sick, (b) very, very tired and (c) at the end of her tether.
It takes another fifteen minutes for me to apologise enough for her to stop loading the dishwasher like she’s chopping wood. And another fifteen minutes of foot-rubbing once Jacob has gone to sleep before she starts to talk
to me again.
Note to self: a whole day of baby sick trumps five minutes of dog poo.
Saturday 8 June
Let us never discuss that flight again. Let us never mention the tears, the screaming, the sweat, the red-faced man in front who put his seat back even though we’re only flying to bloody Italy. Let us never discuss what happened with that nappy, that toilet and that queue of people. Let us banish for ever memories of the hire-car baby seat, of finding a way out of the airport without driving across actual fields, of the number of times we nearly died in head-on collisions that would definitely not have been our fault. I mean, why do Italians have to drive like that? But, no. Let us move on. We are here. We are in Tuscany. None of the locals are called Brenda. There’s a bottle of rosé in the fridge. We have a terrace overlooking vineyards and the only sound you can hear is of a smug English family congratulating themselves on picking the perfect little villa.