Mad About the Boy

by Helen Fielding

  11.45 p.m. In bed now. Tellingly, am wearing, instead of usual pyjamas with dogs on, which match the children’s, the only vaguely sexual nightie I can still get into. Suddenly have surge of hopeful feeling. Maybe Talitha is right! If I shrivel and become bitter, then what use will that be to the children? They will become child-centric, demanding King Babies: and I a negative, rasping old fool, lunging at sherry, roaring, ‘WHY DON’T YOU DO ANYTHING FOR MEEEEEEEEE?’

  11.50 p.m. Maybe have been going through long dark tunnel, which there is light at the end of. Maybe someone could love me? Is no reason why could not bring a man back here. I could put a hook inside bedroom door, so the children wouldn’t walk in on ‘us’, creating an adult, sensual world of . . . gaaah! Cry from Mabel.

  11.52 p.m. Rushed into kids’ room to see fluffy-headed figure in bottom bunk, sitting up, then quickly bending over, flat-pack style, which is what she always does as she is not supposed to wake up in the night. Mabel then sat straight up again, looked down at her pyjamas, which belched diarrhoea, opened her mouth and was sick.

  11.53 p.m. Lifted Mabel into the bath and removed PJs, trying not to retch.

  11.54 p.m. Washed and dried Mabel, sat her on floor, then went to find new PJs, remove sheets and attempt to locate clean sheets.

  Midnight. Crying from kids’ room. Still carrying diarrhoea sheets, diverted to room, only to hear rival crying emerging from bathroom. Considered wine. Reminded self am responsible mother, not slapper in All Bar One.

  12.01 a.m. Flapped in fugue-like state between kids’ room and bathroom. Level of bathroom-crying notched up. Rushed in, assuming Mabel consuming Bic razor, poison or similar, to find her pooing on the floor with expression both guilty and startled.

  Overwhelmed by love for Mabel. Picked her up. Diarrhoea and sick now not only on sheets, bathmat, Mabel, etc., but also on vaguely sexual nightie.

  12.07 a.m. Went to kids’ room, still holding Mabel, plus diarrhoea ensemble, to find Billy out of bed, hair all hot and messy, looking up as if I was benign God with answer to all things. Billy held my gaze, whilst belching sick in manner of Exorcist except head remained in forward stationary position instead of spinning round and round.

  12.08 a.m. Diarrhoea erupted onto Billy’s PJs. Billy’s bewildered expression overwhelmed self with love for Billy. Ended up in diarrhoea/vomit-filled California-style ‘group hug’ embracing Billy, Mabel and diarrhoea sheets, bathmat, PJs and vaguely sexual nightie.

  12.10 a.m. Wished Mark was here. Had sudden flashback to Mark in his lawyerly dressing gown at night, the glimpse of hairy chest, the sudden flashes of humour at baby chaos, getting all military trying to organize us all, as if it was some sort of cross-border situation, then realizing the absurdity of it all, and both of us ending up giggling.

  He’s missing all the little moments, I thought. Missing his own children growing up. Even this would have been funny instead of confusing and scary. One of us could have stayed with them and the other done the sheets, then we could have got into bunk beds again and giggled about it and . . . how could anyone else ever delight in them and love them as he would have, even when they are pooing everywhere and . . .?

  12.15 a.m. ‘Mummy!’ Billy jerked self back to reality. Was difficult situation, undeniably: everyone poo- and sick-smeared, alarmed and retching. Ideal would be to separate children and fabrics/fluids and put both children in warm bath and find sheets. But what if pooing/vomiting continued? What then? Water could become toxic, and possibly cholera-filled, like open sewer in refugee camp.

  12.16 a.m. Arrived at makeshift solution: placing plastic mat on bathroom floor with pillows, towels, etc. generally around.

  12.20 a.m. Resolved to go down to washing machine (i.e. fridge to get wine).

  12.24 a.m. Closed door and ran down.

  12.27 a.m. Having cleared head with swig of wine, realized was immaterial washing sheets, etc. Only essential objective, surely, was to keep children alive until morning, ideally simultaneously avoiding nervous breakdown.

  12.45 a.m. Realized wine, though fortifying head, had done opposite to stomach.

  12.50 a.m. Threw up.

  2 a.m. Billy and Mabel both now asleep on bathroom floor on and under towels, cleaned to a degree. Resolve simply to sleep next to them in poo- and sick-covered vaguely sexual nightie.

  2.05 a.m. Experiencing pleasing sense of triumph, like general who has brought massacre, bloodbath, etc. back from brink, engineering peaceful solution: even starting to hear theme tune from Gladiator, seeing self as Russell Crowe, partially obscured by caption: ‘A Hero Will Rise’.

  At same time, however, am unable to avoid sense that attempting any sort of erotic scenario with this sort of thing going on might not be a particularly good idea.

  A NEW START – A NEW ME

  Friday 20 April 2012

  173lb, minutes set aside for meditation 20, minutes spent meditating 0.

  2 p.m. Right. Have made a decision. Am going to completely change. Am going to return to Zen/New Age/self-help-book study and yoga, etc., starting from the inside not the outside, meditate regularly, and lose weight. Have got all set up with candle and yoga mat in bathroom and am going to quietly meditate and settle mind before taking kids to doctors, remembering to allow time to a) get snacks and b) locate missing car keys.

  Also the other things am going to do are as follows:

  I WILL

  *Lose 30lb.

  *Get on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and WhatsApp instead of feeling old and out of it because everyone except self is on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and WhatsApp.

  *Stop being scared of turning on the television but instead simply locate and read instruction manuals for TV, Virgin box DVD remotes and buttons, so that TV becomes source of entertainment and pleasure rather than meltdown.

  *Do regular Life Laundry, cleansing house of all unnecessary possessions, esp. cupboard under stairs, so is a place for everything and everything in its place in manner of Buddhist Zendo/Martha Stewart’s house.

  *With above in mind, ask Mum to stop sending me unused handbags, ‘stoles’, Wedgwood ‘tureens’, etc., reminding her that age of rationing ended some time ago and is now space rather than possessions which is in short supply (at least in Western urban world).

  *Start writing my

  Hedda Gabbler

  adaptation in order to have professional adult life again.

  *Actually write said screenplay instead of spending half day setting off to look for something then wandering vaguely from room to room worrying about unanswered emails, texts, bills, play dates, go-kart parties, leg waxes, doctors’ appointments, parents’ evenings, babysitting schedules, strange noise from fridge, cupboard under stairs, reason why telly won’t work, then sitting down again realizing have forgotten what was looking for in the first place.

  *Not wear same three things all the time, but instead go through wardrobe and put together fashionable ‘looks’ based on celebrities at airports.

  *Clear cupboard under stairs.

  *Find out why fridge is making that noise.

  *Go on email for one hour only per day instead of spending entire day in helpless cyber-circle of email, news stories, Calendar, Google and shopping and holiday websites whilst texting, then not answering any of emails anyway.

  *Not add Twitter, Facebook, WhatsApp and whatever to cyber-circle when have got on them.

  *Deal with emails immediately and so that email becomes effective means of communication instead of terrifying Unexploded Email Inbox full of guilt trips and undetonated time-vampire bombs.

  *Be better at looking after the children than Chloe the nanny.

  *Establish regular routine with children so everyone knows where they are and what supposed to be doing, esp. self.

  *Read parenting self-help books, including

  One, Two, Three . . . Better, Easier Parenting

  and

  French Children Don’t Throw Food

  in order to be better at looking afte
r the children than Chloe.

  *Be kinder to Talitha, Jude, Tom and Magda in return for their kindness to me.

  *Go to Pilates once a week, Zumba twice a week, gym three times a week and yoga four times a week.

  I WILL NOT

  *Drink so much Diet Coke before yoga that entire yoga session becomes exercise in trying not to fart.

  *Ever be late for school run.

  *Do V-signs at people during school run.

  *Get annoyed by dishwasher, tumble dryer and microwave beeping in attention-seeking manner to tell you they have finished, wasting time crossly imitating dishwasher by dancing round saying, ‘Oh, oh, look at me, I’m a dishwasher, I’ve washed the dishes.’

  *Get annoyed with Mum, Una or Perfect Nicolette.

  *Call Nicolette ‘Nicorette’.

  *Chew more than ten pieces of Nicorette per day.

  *Hide empty wine bottles from Chloe.

  *Eat grated cheese straight out of the fridge, dropping it all over the floor.

  *Be shouty or snarly with the children but talk in calm, even, electronic-person-on-voicemail-type voice at all times.

  *Drink more than one can (each) of Red Bull and Diet Coke a day.

  *Drink more than two non-decaf cappuccinos a day. Or three.

  *Eat more than three Big Macs or Starbucks ham-and-cheese paninis per week.

  *Keep saying, ‘One . . . two . . .’ in warning voice to children before have decided what to do when get to ‘three’.

  *Lie in bed in the morning thinking morbid or erotic thoughts, but get straight up at six o’clock and do self up for school run in manner of Stella McCartney, Claudia Schiffer or similar.

  *Wang around hysterically when things go wrong but instead achieve acceptance and calm – and stand like a great tree in the midst of it all.

  But how can I accept what happened?. . . Look, I mustn’t . . . Gaah! Is time for doctor’s appointment and have not got snack ready, written, meditated or located whereabouts of EFFING CAR KEYS! FUCK!

  SOCIAL MEDIA VIRGIN

  Saturday 21 April 2012

  172lb, minutes spent on exercise bike 0, minutes spent cleaning out cupboard 0, minutes spent working out how to use remotes 0, resolutions kept 0.

  9.15 p.m. Children are asleep and house is all dark and quiet. Oh God, I’M SO LONELY. Everyone else in London is out laughing uproariously with their friends in restaurants and then having sex.

  9.25 p.m. Look. Is absolutely fine being in on own on Saturday nights. Will simply clear out cupboard under stairs then get on exercise bike.

  9.30 p.m. Just looked in cupboard. Maybe not.

  9.32 p.m. Just looked in fridge. Maybe will have glass of wine and bag of grated cheese.

  9.35 p.m. That’s better. Am going to get on Twitter! With the advent of social media is no need for anyone to feel isolated and alone ever again.

  9.45 p.m. Have got onto Twitter site but do not understand. Is just incomprehensible streams of gibberish half-conversations with @this and @that. How is anybody supposed to know what is going on?

  Sunday 22 April 2012

  9.15 p.m. OK. Have got self set up on Twitter now. Need to find name. Something young-sounding: TotesAmazogBridget?

  9.46 p.m. Maybe not.

  10.15 p.m. JoneseyBJ!

  10.16 p.m. But why does it call it @JoneseyBJ? @? At? At what?

  Monday 23 April 2012

  176lb (oh God), Twitter followers 0.

  9.15 p.m. Cannot figure out how to put up photo. Is just empty egg-shaped graphic. Is fine! Can be photo of self before was conceived.

  9.45 p.m. Right. Will wait for followers.

  9.47 p.m. No followers.

  9.50 p.m. Actually will not wait for followers. A watched pot never boils.

  10 p.m. Wonder if I’ve got any followers yet.

  10.02 p.m. No followers.

  10.12 p.m. Still no followers. Humph. Whole point of Twitter is you are supposed to talk to people but there isn’t anyone to talk to.

  10.15 p.m. Followers 0. Feel lurching sense of shame and fear: maybe they are all Twittering to each other, and ignoring me because I’m unpopular.

  10.16 p.m. Maybe even Twittering to each other about how unpopular I am, behind my back.

  10.30 p.m. Great. Not only am I isolated and alone but also, now clearly, unpopular.

  Tuesday 24 April 2012

  175lb, calories 4827, number of minutes spent fiddling furiously with technological devices 127, number of technological devices managed to get to do anything they were supposed to 0, number of minutes spent doing anything nice apart from eating 4827 calories and fiddling with technological devices 0, number of Twitter followers 0.

  7.06 a.m. Just remembered am on Twitter. Feel wildly puffed up! Part of huge social revolution and young. Last night I just didn’t give it enough time! Maybe thousands of followers will have appeared overnight! Millions! I will have gone viral. Cannot wait to see how many followers have come!!

  7.10 a.m. Oh.

  7.11 a.m. Still no followers.

  Wednesday 25 April 2012

  178lb, number of times checked for Twitter followers 87, Twitter followers 0, calories 4832 (bad but fault of non-existent Twitter followers).

  9.15 p.m. Still no followers. Have eaten the following things:

  * 2 chocolate croissants

  * 7 Babybel cheeses (but one was half eaten)

  * ½ bag of grated mozzarella

  * 2 Diet Cokes

  * 1.5 leftover sausages from kids’ breakfast

  * ½ a McDonald’s cheeseburger from fridge

  * 3 Tunnock’s Tea Cakes

  * 1 bar Cadbury’s Dairy Milk (large)

  Tuesday 1 May 2012

  11.45 p.m. Have just been whitelisted by Twitter for checking my followers 150 times in one hour.

  Wednesday 2 May 2012

  174lb, Twitter followers 0.

  9.15 p.m. Am not going to do Twitter any more or check followers any more. Maybe will go on Facebook.

  9.20 p.m. Just called Jude to ask how to get on Facebook. ‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘It’s a good way of keeping in touch but you’ll end up looking at endless pictures of exes embracing their new girlfriends, then finding they’ve de-friended you.’

  Humph. Not very likely to happen to me. Am going to try Facebook.

  9.30 p.m. Maybe will wait a bit before attempting Facebook.

  Jude just called me back, laughing. ‘Really don’t do Facebook yet. I just got a thing saying Tom is checking out dating profiles. He must have ticked a box by accident. Everyone can see, including his parents and former psychology professors.’

  THE FLABBY DIAPHRAGM

  Wednesday 9 May 2012

  175lb, Twitter followers 0.

  9.30 a.m. Emergency! Back has gone. I mean, not actually gone, in sense of still having shoulders attached to bottom. But was just checking Twitter for followers then slammed laptop shut, tossing head dismissively and saying, ‘Pah!’ and whole of left upper back suddenly went into spasm. Is like I didn’t notice I had a back before and now it is complete agony and what am I going to do?

  11 a.m. Just back from osteopath. Osteopath said it is not fault of Twitter but due to years of lifting children and I should try bending from the legs instead of the back – i.e. squat like an African tribal woman, which seems a bit ungainly, though not to insult the gracefulness of African tribal women who are of course very graceful.

  She asked if I had any other symptoms and I said, ‘Acid.’ She poked around my stomach exclaiming, ‘Gosh! This is the flabbiest diaphragm I’ve ever felt.’

  Turns out, because of my age, my entire middle section has refused to go back like it was and all my intestines are flobbering about, uncontained. No wonder they are hanging over my black sweatpants like porridge.

  ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘You’ll have to start working that stomach,’ she said. ‘And you’ll have to lose some of the fat. There’s a very good new obesity clinic at St Catherine’s Hospita
l.’

  ‘OBESITY CLINIIIIIIIIIIC?’ I said indignantly, jumping up from the bed and putting my clothes back on. ‘I might have a bit of baby fat, but I’m not obese!’

  ‘No, no,’ she said hurriedly. ‘You’re not obese. It’s just very effective if you want to lose weight properly. It’s very hard when you’ve got little ones.’

  ‘I know,’ I gabbled. ‘It’s all very well knowing what you’re supposed to be eating, but if you’re surrounded by leftover fish fingers and chips at five o’clock every night, and then eat them and have your own dinner later . . .’

  ‘Exactly, the clinic puts you on meal replacement so there isn’t any argument,’ said the osteopath. ‘You just don’t put anything else into your mouth.’

  Not sure what Tom, Jude and Talitha would say about that one, harrumph harrumph.

  Left in huff, then had sudden urge to go back in and say, ‘Will you follow me on Twitter?’

  9.15 p.m. Got home and surveyed self aghast in mirror. Am starting to look like a heron. My legs and arms have stayed the same, but my whole upper body is like a large bird with a big roll of fat round the middle that, when clothed, looks like it should be served up at Christmas with cranberry jelly and gravy; when unclothed, as though it’s been cooking all night in a pot in a box full of straw in Scotland, and is about to be served up for an extended family’s post-Hogmanay breakfast. Talitha is right. The secret is to alter the automatic fat positioning of (unacceptable outdated phrase approaching) Middle Age.

  Thursday 10 May 2012

  174lb, Twitter followers 0.

  10 a.m. Just spoke to Obesity Clinic. Encouragingly, there was some doubt over whether I was actually obese enough to be accepted! Found self, for first time in life, lying about weight to make it heavier than it actually is.

  10.10 a.m. Am going to completely transform my body into a lean muscular thing with tight band of muscle round the middle, holding in the intestines.

  10.15 a.m. Just reflexively put remains of kids’ breakfast into mouth.

  Thursday 17 May 2012

  175lb, Twitter followers 0.