by Matt Rudd
‘Well, yes, but—’
‘But, why? Are you mad? Why would you do that? Why?’
And now she’s crying. And now she’s leaving. She’s packing bags and ordering me to put the Bugaboo in the car and telling me I’m an idiot and not listening to my explanations, which are pathetic anyway, and she’s telling me she’s going to stay with her parents – again – and that I’d better sort myself out before she comes back or it’s over, and as the door slams and the car screeches away, I can’t help being a tiny bit impressed, amid all the self-loathing and worry and desperation, that Isabel has managed to get out of the house with a baby packed for an overnight stay in less than ten minutes.
But that doesn’t change the fact that I am the world’s worst husband and father.
All I have left is Louise, a bloody chicken.
And now I don’t even have her. Because as I traipse back through the house to open the fridge and begin to drown my stupidity, I notice a ginger tom in the garden. Around his mouth are feathers. Around the garden are bits of Louise. We must have missed the terrible and, by the looks of things, prolonged attack because of all the shouting and crying indoors.
The cat has killed the only thing in the world that still loved me.
I become enraged. I rush outside, grabbing the bread knife and a pestle. The cat makes a dash down the side of the house and runs straight out on to the village green. I chase it, mad with fury, as it races towards…the pub.
The pub door opens and there’s Brenda calling out, ‘Here, Smudgie, here, girl,’ and she sees her cat and she sees me twenty yards behind. And she runs forward.
The chicken killer scurries inside. Between me and vengeance now stands a ginger midget in a Crouching Tiger pose. I have a pestle and a bread knife. For a moment, I can’t decide which one to use first.
SEPTEMBER
‘Govern a family as you would cook a small fish – very gently.’
CHINESE PROVERB
Sunday 1 September
THINGS TO BE PLEASED ABOUT
I have a job.
I have a wife.
I have a child who is on stage-3 baby food despite only being on stage-2 age.
THINGS NOT TO BE PLEASED ABOUT
1. My job is at Cat World and I hate cats.
2. My wife has abandoned me because she’s found out about my gambling debts. Or one-third of my gambling debts.
3. She has taken our extremely advanced child with her.
4. I have lost my last chicken.
5. I have been told by a policeman who is almost certainly related to the man whose cat killed my last chicken that if there’s any more trouble, I will be arrested for threatening behaviour and disturbing the peace.
I hadn’t even battered Brenda or Smudgie to death. All I had done was to point at her and then at her cat, which by now was staring at me cockily from behind a twee hydrangea. I had then done a sort-of-Crouching-Tiger pose myself, which was strange and confused everyone, not least the cat. I had then reverted to a shaken fist and a ‘Your cat killed my chicken.’
‘Really?’ had been Brenda’s response. That and a callous smirk. So I raised the pestle. Of course I was never going to bludgeon anyone with it. I might, possibly, have entertained the idea for a split second because it really would have been enormous fun, but then I lowered the weapon, smirked back and retreated.
The policeman turned up about six minutes later and asked for my side of the story. At the end of my entirely reasonable presentation of the facts, he said, ‘Cats don’t attack chickens.’
I protested because I had seen it with my own eyes. He said that I might be the sort of person to attack innocent, defenceless small women, but I wasn’t about to intimidate him.
I explained that Brenda was by no means defenceless.
He said, ‘Oh, so you did attack her, then?’
I said, ‘No.’
He said, ‘Not this time.’
And, not for the first time, I wished that I’d never gone to that stupid girly kick-boxing class. Because there’s no equality, not in this day and age.
The rest of the day was spent clearing up the remains of Louise (she had obviously fought tooth and claw to the very end, even though hens don’t have teeth and her claws look like they came off pretty early in the proceedings). I debated whether it would be more respectful to eat what was left of her than to bury her, before burying her and getting drunk.
Now it is Sunday. While happy families are playing on the village green, I am sitting in my pants, drinking.
I call Isabel and at least she answers. She’s very upset. Not about the chicken. Louise clearly meant nothing to her. She’s upset about me. She doesn’t think she knows me any more. She wants a couple more days with her parents and then she’ll call. And now she has to go. The roast has just come out of the oven.
Her parents shouldn’t be cooking the roast. I should. A nice shoulder of lamb or a chicken.
Oh, Louise. You poor thing.
Monday 2 September
I miss Louise. I miss Isabel. And I miss Jacob. His little smile. His near-crawling. His perfect pronunciation of his first and only word: ‘Daddy’.
I arrive at work to an e-mail from Isabel. She starts by saying that she loves me, which is always bad. Then she says she knows I’ve been through a lot. So I skim through the bit about how it’s been a tough year, what with the bathroom and the job and blah blah blah to the bad bit.
She has had enough.
She doesn’t want a drinking, gambling person who eats cat food for a living as a role model for Jacob (I haven’t mentioned that I am no longer allowed to be the guy who eats the cat food). She then gives me an ultimatum. If I don’t sort myself out, she’s leaving for good. I have one week.
Then Janice walks into the office clutching a smug-looking cat and I realise that in the wake of Louise’s death, my hatred of cats is becoming obsessive.
The morning is unbearable: an article on why you should never trim whiskers followed by a roundup of cat toys. All to the rasping, hacking purr of Janice’s cat. (‘I’m so sorry, everyone, he just gave me such a mournful look when I was about to leave the house, I simply couldn’t leave him at home all day. Not while Dennis is in Birmingham.’)
I have a pint at lunch. On my own. Then another.
I manage another two hours in the office before pretending to receive a call from Isabel to say that Jacob is ill and asking Janice if I can leave early. The realisation that I am now so pathetic that I pretend my son is ill to get out of work causes me to buy two gin and tonics on the train home rather than the usual one. I get home, have two beers and watch a rerun of Alex & Geoff.
It’s at this point that the door opens. It’s Isabel. She’s come back to get some more things. (I knew her record departure had been too good to be true.) I am not in the office and I am drunk. It’s not even 4 p.m. She takes one look at me, says, ‘A week,’ quite threateningly, and leaves.
I consider going for a walk to get some fresh air and then remember that I live in the village from hell. So I have another beer.
Tuesday 3 September
The only way I can survive the whole day at work, with its overwhelming aroma of pilchards and fur balls, is the promise of the emergency pub meeting I have called with Andy and Johnson. Andy is looking tanned, even though he got back from his Caribbean shagfest about nineteen years ago. He explains that he and Saskia had just chilled on their private little beach all day, every day, rubbing oil on to each other. It was perfect. He is even getting used to the sheer amount of sex he has to have. He thinks it was just a question of building up the stamina and strengthening his lower back muscles.
Johnson says he hasn’t had sex for a month, and even that was hate sex.
This seems like a good time to change the subject.
‘So, I’ve lost almost £4,000 at internet poker,’ I announce.
‘Bloody hell,’ says Andy, torn away from his fond memories of Caribbean rub-downs.
&
nbsp; ‘Christ,’ says Johnson, torn away from his fond memories of hate sex. ‘Does Isabel know?’
‘She found the credit-card bill for £1,400, went mad and moved back in with her parents. She says I have a week to clean up my act or she’s leaving for good.’
‘And she doesn’t even know about the rest of it?’ asks Andy, helpfully.
‘She was pissed off enough about the £1,400. Another £2,600 might have made her leave for good. And now I can’t exactly phone her up and say there’s more.’
‘You’re an idiot,’ they say in unison.
‘I know,’ I say, because I am. ‘And I have no idea what to do.’
‘You have to win back the money,’ says Johnson, sage-like. ‘And luckily for you, I have a foolproof system.’
‘He’s wrong, and your system isn’t foolproof,’ says Andy.
‘Tell me about the system,’ I say, sipping another pint.
Wednesday 4 September
The system worked right up until the point when it stopped working. I have now lost £6,759 across four credit cards, two of which Isabel doesn’t even know about. I now have to hide four different credit-card bills. Why did I listen to Johnson? Why didn’t I listen to Andy? Why can’t I stop making this worse, accept that there is no magic solution and start behaving like a grown-up? Thank God Isabel isn’t here. I have five days to sort this out.
Thursday 5 September
She’s here. I’m home from work, all ready to sit down with a calculator and some figures, some horrible, horrible figures, and some pamphlets from some companies offering to consolidate my different debts into one easy-to-manage bigger debt, but instead, she’s here.
And so is Jacob and he gives me an enormous smile.
‘Aaaaaaaddaaaaaa!’ he exclaims and starts almost crawling towards me.
‘I couldn’t take my parents for another minute,’ says Isabel. ‘Even my gambling, drinking idiot of a husband is preferable to Mum and Dad over any length of time. Do you know they actually iron their newspapers now? I thought that was something that only happened in sitcoms.’
And I nearly tell her. I nearly tell her that the £1,400 is actually close to £7,000. But I don’t. I can’t.
Saturday 7 September
Johnson says his system is foolproof as long as you stick with it. So now I’m at £7,432 and I’m beginning to think I might tell Isabel and then try to convince her that the most sensible strategy is for me to stage my own canoe-related death, move to Venezuela and set up a new life. She could join me with Jacob a few months later. She wants him to be bilingual, anyway. I might be able to present it as an opportunity.
Sunday 8 September
Isabel is off with Teresa and Annabel on some ill-fated shopping expedition (how she can spend money at a time like this?). I am left at home alone with Jacob, who can now just about crawl. So rather than spending every millisecond trying to rock him to sleep, I now have to spend every millisecond making sure that he doesn’t crawl off a staircase, sofa, bed or table. Of course all he wants to do is throw himself off something, so our aspirations for the morning are in direct opposition.
This is quite draining.
Isabel comes home three hours later, even though she swore she would only be two hours at most and finds a house that looks like it’s been burgled. I explain that we have a self-destructive child. Because she’s still angry with me for the mere £1,400 gambling loss she knows about, she says that I’m a pot calling the kettle black. And then explains how she’s read a book called Letting Go, which is all about how children in Amazonian jungles never fall down stairs because they are allowed to learn about risk from a very early age. Their parents trust their survival instinct.
I point out that the infant mortality rate in South America is probably an awful lot higher than it is in the UK.
She points out that this isn’t because the children are falling down stairs.
I point out that this is because they don’t have stairs in the jungle.
She points out that I’m an idiot.
Given that I’m still well and truly in the doghouse, I point out that this is fair enough. And I don’t even say anything when she opens up her shopping bags to reveal lots and lots of 9–12-month clothes for our child, even though three months is not a very big window and couldn’t Jacob manage with only a couple of babygros while money is so tight?
We all go to sleep in the same bed for the first time in a long time. I wake up briefly and watch my family sleeping. The moon lights up their intertwined bodies and I feel overcome with emotion.
I am the luckiest person alive – and the stupidest. What have I been playing at? Why have I been taking these risks? This, right here, is what I should be concentrating on. My family. I have made this boy with this woman. If I can do that, then I can get us through these difficulties. I can stop mucking around and change things. I owe it to them.
Monday 9 September
No more drinking. No more gambling. No more whingeing about jobs or people or anything. I need to count life’s blessings. I need to change.
‘Andy, we’re going to enter a triathlon.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’m starting training this morning.’
‘Okay.’
And I’m off, running at lunch, leaving Janice and her cat to share their tin of tuna. Twenty minutes in, I’m not even that tired. Despite all the drinking and the late-night gambling, I have strength. I have endurance. There can be only one explanation for this: I have Daddy Power.
DADDY POWER
For more than eight months, I have been carrying a baby around. Sometimes, I have had to rock the baby at obtuse angles, angles that require shaman-like pain control. Over the eight months, the baby has grown heavier and wrigglier. Back in January, my arms got tired a mere half-hour in, and that was when the load was only a couple of kilos. Now, I can go all day with more than double the weight. I could be an extra in the early part of a ninja movie when a monk makes his disciples hold bricks at arm’s length in a thunderstorm or something.
I have also developed the mental strength required to get up and out of bed at any hour and be immediately alert. I have SAS levels of endurance. I can listen to the Gorillaz album Kids with Guns (still Jacob’s current and only favourite) ninety-eight times back to back without crying once.
This is Daddy Power. Gritty strength, mental acuity, endurance. It is, of course, nothing compared to Mummy Power.
MUMMY POWER
All the above, but tripled and with a laser stare that can stop an eight-month-old (or, indeed, a thirty-two-year-old) in his tracks at thirty paces.
Tuesday 10 September
No gambling. No drinking. Another lunchtime run. I am now transferring my newly realised Daddy Power to work. Not once did I think about cats or Brenda despite writing a whole article about a new wave of super-deluxe cat beds and seeing bloody Brenda on the train. I blocked. I parried. I stood firm. I am putting my life back into perspective. I am winning.
Wednesday 11 September
I have consolidated all my debts into one large, easily-hideable debt.
The monthly interest is less hideable. I still need a plan.
‘Still on for training this Saturday, Andy?’
‘Yep.’ Andy is a good friend, after all. ‘How’s the gambling?’
‘Over. But I need to find £5,000 or Isabel will still kill me. All I’ve got at the moment is bloody aloe-vera pyramid-selling.’
‘Aloe vera?’
‘’Fraid so.’
‘I bloody love aloe vera. Saskia and I are really into it. It’s all about the mannans and the anthraquinones and the lectins, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’
‘Yep, we use it all the time. For bathing and massaging. It’s great for sore bits.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Saskia spends a bloody fortune on it, though. You know where we can get it cheap?’
Thursday 12 September
I am now offic
ially an aloe-vera salesperson. I have signed some forms and I have watched a video that says I could have a Ferrari by the end of the year if I create a pyramid of aloe-vera sellers beneath me. I don’t want a Ferrari. I just want to be back on track. I shall sell my aloe vera and all will be well. Of course, technically, I am now more in debt after putting £400 on the debit card for the aloe-vera area sales manager. I also have a boss who isn’t delighted that the store cupboard normally reserved for cat food samples is now full of aloe vera.
‘It will only be for a few weeks, Janice.’
‘Why can’t you keep them at home?’
‘Because Isabel can’t find out.’
‘What an exciting double life you lead.’
I go for yet another Ninja Daddy run.
Friday 13 September
It’s Friday the 13th, and it was all going so well. The builders actually called me. We can move back next Wednesday, although the paint may still be wet.
Dennis is back from Birmingham, so the office of Cat World is cat-free.
I took a whole minute off yesterday’s run.
I sold £100 worth of aloe-vera products over the phone. Yes, it was to Andy, so I had to give him a discount and get over the idea that I was selling my best mate some gel to rub on my ex. But I was making money. Secretly. At this rate, I could be debt-free by…oh.
And then Andy phoned back to say he had to cancel tomorrow’s triathlon practice because he was going to Paris with Saskia.