How to be the World's Worse Mum. Step 6: The Telephone.

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The phone is ringing. I’m counting.

Three rings.

I’ve prised myself away from the computer: bones are creaking.

Six rings.

I’ve got part way across the kitchen: heart racing.

Seven rings.

I’ve opened the living room door: muscles twanging.

The noise is louder now and insistent.
A friend is calling, and I want to get to the phone before the sound dies away. I rush across the room to reach it: tendons snapping.

Nine rings.

The teenager is sitting on the settee seemingly oblivious to the phone that’s ringing within easy reach of his arm. I could ask him to pick it up, but I lost that battle long ago. I say nothing and dive for it: instant hernia.

The teenager watches me with lazy interest as my hand touches the handset.

Ten rings. Then it stops.

I wanted to rail at him. ‘Why didn’t you pick it up?’ There was a time when he loved picking up the phone and chatting.

An old friend happily recounts the time once when he rang her up in the middle of the night and invited her around for a chat.

‘Where’s your mum?’ my friend had asked.

‘Oh, she’s asleep. She’s exhausted, so you can come around now if you like,’ he’d offered with seductive charm.

She’d resisted, but he’d chatted to my friend on the phone for ages before he’d finally decided to go back to bed himself.

He was about three years old at the time.

Nowadays, I’m the one who always has to pick up the phone. Usually when it rings I’m in one of the distant corners of the house.
I sigh, and glance at the teenager who is grinning at me.
He’s holding up his mobile phone. My phone suddenly rings again and then stops abruptly.
‘It was you!’ I say, aghast.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Let’s go. I’ve been waiting for ages.’
‘You rang my phone with that!’
‘Yup. Let’s go. It was the quickest way to get your attention. Worked didn’t it. Come on let’s go.’

Sighing, and cursing telephones, I followed the teenager out of the house ...trailing guts!

How to be the World's Worse Mum. Step 5: the Jumper

‘You’ll need a jumper,’ I call.
There had been crystals of ice on the grass this morning. I had run my hand down a single spike of grass and the ice crystals had lumped together in my hand.
‘It’s cold out,’ I yell from somewhere upstairs. ‘You’ll need a jumper.’
I bounce down the stairs, ‘You’ll need a jump…’
‘Da Dah!’ the teenager steps forward. He is wearing a jumper.
For a moment I’m relieved and pleased.
‘Oh brilliant,’ I say
Then I realise.
‘Have you taken the one from the drying rack in the kitchen?’ I ask appalled.

I know that it had not had time to dry as I’d only recently taken it from the washing machine.
It was the jumper that the pigeons had pooed on in Venice. The one that yesterday I’d carefully washed. Turning it inside out as the label demanded and laying it flat to dry.

‘You can’t wear that one.’ I say shocked. ‘It’s still wet.’
I reach out and can touch the dampness with my finger tips.
The teenager shrinks away from my hands, ‘No it’s not.’ he proclaims.
‘Yes,’ it is. You can’t wear that. Take it off.’
‘It’s fine.’ he declares.
‘No, it isn’t. It’s still wet! Take it off. You can’t wear that one.’
The teenager makes no move. His arms are folded. He is looking stubborn and sullen. His eyes despise me. He’s not speaking now.
‘Look we can’t go for a walk with you wearing that…’ I begin exasperated. ‘It’s cold outside…’
I’m wearily trying to explain the sense and logic of my thinking. ‘You have other jumpers upstairs that you can wear. That one is wet.
The teenager looks at me with contempt. The damp un-ironed jumper is clinging to his body. I fret at the thought of the wet jumper making his T shirt wet and damp too.
‘We’re not going if you don’t change your jumper.’ I say. The teenager stands almost tearfully in the hallway. He looks at me with angry, accusing hurt eyes. I close the door to shut out the scene for a moment, and then think better of it and re-open the door.
He is standing there like an appalled ghost his arms wrapped around his jumper drawing it closer to his body as if his very soul has been mortally wounded.
I go into the kitchen make a cup of tea and sit down with my suduko puzzle. I have no more to say on the matter. I am past arguing.
I wait and say nothing more.
He does finally change his jumper.
We do finally set off.
‘Why didn’t you just ask me?’ The teenager demands in the car. ‘Why did you have to shout?’
‘I wasn’t aware that I was shouting.’ I reply, knowing truly that only my tone of voice had changed during the stand-off, and that I hadn’t shouted at all.
‘All you had to do was ask me and I would have done it. All you had to do was explain to me and I would have done it. You didn’t have to shout.’ He replies like a seasoned negotiator.
‘You think I was shouting, but I only changed the tone of my voice,’ I say, wanting to close the matter. I’m an even more seasoned negotiator.
‘You were shouting,’ the teenager says. ‘All you had to do was ask nicely. Why didn’t you say, “Please”?’
‘You’re right.’ I reply.
The teenager is still aggrieved.
‘I’m sorry.’ I say finally.
And only when the blame is resting fully on my shoulders is the subject dropped …

….temporarily.

How to be the World's worse Mum Step 4 The Interrogation.

‘So how was the trip?’
‘Fine,’ the teenager replies. He’s hunting for chocolate in the kitchen drawers.
‘So what happened?’
‘Nothing much,’ the teenager answers. He’s found the gingerbread men and he’s decapitated one with the skill of an executioner.
There’s a silence.
‘We saw some paintings,’ he volunteers his voice muffled with gingerbread. ‘In Florence.’
‘Who by?’ I ask. ‘Dunno,’ says the teenager. ‘Leonardo, I think. Botticelli maybe, and Michael Angelo.’
‘Did you like them?
‘Er… yeah,’ he replies flatly. Then he becomes more animated. ‘There was so much graffiti,’ he says his eyes sparkling. ‘Everywhere. Even half way up the sides of buildings. I wondered how they did it all!’
I have dreamt of going to Florence. I’ve imagined it a city built with white clean marble with filigrees of carvings holding up the sky, and so many works of art to appreciate. I never imagined graffiti.
‘It was so dirty there. Italians don’t know what they have. They drop litter everywhere.’
‘Did you have enough money?’ I asked.
‘I ran out on Saturday.’ the teenager replies.
For a moment I am tranquil, relieved. Then I realise, ’But that was the first day!’
‘Yeah,’ the teenager answers.
‘But you had fifty pounds! Seventy Euros. How did you spend it all on one day? What did you spend it on?’
‘Dunno. I didn’t get you a present. I didn’t have any money.’ says the teenager with knife-sharp words.
‘Oh, that doesn’t matter,’ I lie, wounded. (Even a postcard would have given me much joy.)
‘Italy is just so expensive,’ the teenager explains.
So how did you manage for food?’ I ask horrified.
‘I just drank water,’ he answers. ‘When we went to Bologna, I walked around the city while the others went to MacDonalds. Three people had their mobile phones stolen in MacDonalds in Bologna. Someone had put their phone down and a tramp covered it with a newspaper. Then it was gone.’
‘Three phones were stolen?’ I asked shocked.
‘Then we went to Murphys the Irish pub.’
‘The teachers took you into an Irish pub?’ I am wide-eyed. It’s hardly the Italian experience I was hoping he’d get.
‘Yeah, and they drank from a huge boot filled with lager.’
‘What did you drink?’ I asked.
‘Just water. I hadn’t any money. Then I had to help John get back to the room without the teachers seeing him because he was drunk. And some of the group had to be taken to hospital because they’d passed out.’
‘Hospital?’ My voice is high and shocked.
‘Yeah. And someone was crying in Venice because her shoe fell into the Grand Canal and it floated away and a gondolier had to rescue it with a pole.’
‘What a shame. What was her name?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Did you eat pizzas?’
‘Oh, I got money from Neil after he threw my hair brush across the room at Ashley and it broke. They were having an argument.’ He pauses as I examine the ruined hair brush. ‘
The pizzas in Italy are terrible. Have you got a pizza?’
I put one into the oven for him, and wait for the rest of the story.
‘Padova’s a dump,’ the teenager says. ‘And we were stuck on the coach for hours so that by the time we reached Padua it was time to turn back. We didn’t see anything.’
‘What about Venice?’ I ask.
‘Oh, it rained in Venice and the streets don’t go anywhere and the pigeons pooed on my jumper.’
‘I’ve got pictures.’ He loads them onto the computer.
‘That’s a beautiful building did you go inside?’ I ask.
‘No.’ the teenager replies flatly.
‘Where’s that?’ I ask.
‘Dunno,’ says the teenager.
‘Didn’t the group have a guide?’ I ask.
‘No,’ replies the teenager.
‘Where were the teachers?’
‘We were told just to go around by ourselves,’ the teenager replies. ‘And I got my shoes wet when a wave caught me as I stood by the Adriatic Sea this morning. I had wet feet all the way back home.’ the teenager says mournfully. ‘And in the plane on the way back Neil fell asleep on my shoulder and was dribbling on my neck!’
‘So did you enjoy the trip to Italy,’ I ask.
‘It was great.’ the teenager replies tucking into his pizza.

Just One Ticket (Part Two)

‘Just one ticket is it?’ the lady at the booking office asks.
‘Yes, just one ticket,’ I reply. I can’t find anyone to go with me.’
‘I’ll give you a nice seat then,’ the kindly woman replied.
And she did.
I arrived, on the night of the concert, alone and early.
There was time for a pre-concert drink and a chance for a relaxed sit down in which to shed the tension of the motorway journey.
I could observe the others that shared a love for Irish Celtic music that was sung in Gaelic.
‘Is this seat taken?’ somebody asked.
‘No,’ I replied brightly.
He sat down and immediately turned his back to me, as did his wife when she arrived later with drinks in hand.
I wondered if the table had been set out in a hot steaming desert with nothing visible for miles if I would have been treated the same.
I felt the loneliness of the alone.
When the auditorium doors opened I experienced the novelty of being the first to find my seat. I wondered who would sit beside me as the audience drifted in. A couple joined me on my right hand side laden with coats and bags. The woman’s coat, awkward to fold, was rammed against my knee for the entire performance.
There was one seat empty next to me on my left hand side, and I wondered if the kindly lady in the box office was attempting some social engineering of her own: some benign matchmaking.
He was tall and bald but he gave me a weak friendly smile before he averted his eyes and sat down.
I glanced at his hands, short and stubby, and I wondered what work they did. The lights went down and the music started.
‘We hope to have you all dancing at the end,’ the lead singer explained in her soft Donegal accent.
‘I wondered if the short stubby hands next to me would grasp mine and spin me in a reel.
The band beat out fiery jigs that my new companion applauded enthusiastically. I remained still. It was the lyrical songs that I applauded: the songs from yesteryears that told of unknown lives.
Perhaps he would turn me in the interval and say, ‘So you like the ballads best?’ And we would fall into an easy conversation.
‘And you are like me you don’t like wearing glasses until the lights go down?’ I'd say and we would both would laugh. And he’d say, ‘Let me buy you a drink.’
I yearned for the interval. Who was he? A gardener? A reporter? Perhaps he worked for the university? I imagined his house was it large surrounded by green fields? Did he brew coffee just for its aroma in the kitchen. Did he live in a cramped flat with a cat named Biggles?
The music faded into the distance. Another set of jigs had been played and people were applauding wildly. Whoever was behind me was now catching my hair with each clap of his hand. Perhaps he was reprimanding my stillness.
I checked my watch as the music started again. Just a few more moments and I would be able to really meet the person by my side. Who was he? Why was he here alone? I’d glanced at his profile trying to read his character. He seemed nice but perhaps axe murderers also seem nice at first. At this moment the soft lilting voice of the beautiful singer announced an interval and the house lights turn up.
I sat waiting.
Was he an axe murderer?
Those around us sat still too.
We were trapped.
I waited for him to speak.
It would have been easy for me to speak, but this time I wanted someone else to take the lead, someone else to take that first brave step.
He didn’t.
There was a terrible sense of tension.
Eventually, the row on my right hand side filed out.
I stood up, a little too quickly, released like a coiled spring.
My chair sharing the same tension bounced back to its upright position with an alarming noise, as I skittered away crablike along the aisle of seats. On the steps, frightened that he was watching my every move, I wobbled like a drunk. Embarrassed, I dove between people seeking oblivion.
‘Perhaps he will seek me out as I buy a hot chocolate and I can then demonstrate that I am not a drunk’ I thought at the kiosk. Perhaps as I wander around the CDs on sale he will seek me out and say, ‘So you like the ballads best?’
I am trembling with the thoughts of this anticipated meeting. I am nervously eating a Kit Kat and there is melted chocolate around my mouth. People are giving me a wide berth and their backs are turned against me like those of conspirators’.
I find my way back and he is sitting waiting, and as I sit down again he again smiles weakly at me. And I smile back weakly too.
The lights go down and the music begins again. The beautiful singer’s daughter is dancing around the chairs. Her mother is trying hard not to be distracted by her but the audience is pointing out the young girl and is delighted by her dancing and antics.
I wonder if the man next to me likes children.
The couples in front of me are laying their heads on each other’s shoulders. There are rosy colours lighting the stage. There are melodies encircling us. I wonder if he was married before.
I am back-filling his life.
Perhaps his wife died and his friends urged him to go out again, and this was the first time ever that he’d dared to step into a place without her.
He laughs softly at some of the jokes that the band make.
He has a sense of humour. Perhaps at the end he will speak this time. He will turn to me and say, ‘Did you enjoy the concert?’ We will speak to others about how we met. ‘It was at a concert.’ We’d say and laugh. 'Irish music and there was a little girl who danced and then crawled onto the stage.'
I am front-filling his life.
It would happen in films.
The music finally ends. The house lights go on. The rows of seats empty more rapidly this time. We are left an island in the centre of the theatre. A couple for just an infinitesimal moment. This time we will speak. I will speak.
He suddenly stands and follows his line out without even a backward glance in my direction.
Slowly, I stand, turn and follow the other line out.
Even the lady in the booking office averts her eyes as I pass by.
I toy with possibilities. ‘Could I leave a message for the person who was seating in seat CE10 at the Altan concert?’They will have his name and his telephone number.
The thought vaporises. I do nothing.
I return to my car and turn on the hard rock music.

Loud!

Just One Ticket (Part One)

‘Just one ticket is it?’ the lady at the booking office asks.
‘Yes, just one ticket,’ I reply. I can’t find anyone to go with me.’
I think back to previous events here. I once bought tickets for four of us; who were all keen and eager to go. Then over time one by one they had dropped out; and then even their replacements had dropped out. Until all that was left were two of us waiting for a third. She did not turn up or even call to explain why not. We had ended up taking the school caretaker and her husband who we saw locking up the school gates. They came with us in their working clothes, hungry, and without a chance to eat an evening meal: two lovely people.
There had been the time when I had driven around streets trying to locate someone who did not have a car. ‘We’ll meet you there,’ I’d suggested to the organiser. ‘No, it’s better that you pick her up and drive back here and then we can all go together in my car,’ she had said firmly.
I had whirled around impossible suburban cul-de sacs in the strange town until finally I found the right place. I’d driven frantically back to my town and striven to drive across the breadth of it, to meet the other.
There was an impossibility of traffic lights, all set at red, to negotiate.
When we finally met the organiser she was impatiently fuming by the side of her car.
We arrived at the theatre late, after getting lost in a maze of roundabouts in the third town. The performance had already started and we were not allowed in for half an hour.
It left an atmosphere between us. We stood like thistles during the interval, in spiky silence.
Then there was another occasion when I had bought tickets for just two of us.
‘Sorry, I can’t go.’ the other had said late in the day of the event. I’d rung another friend.
‘We have to set off at seven to get there,’ I’d explained on the phone. Then I had waited in her hallway as she changed from this outfit to that and the minute hand swept the face of the clock.
Not knowing the quickest way from her house to the motorway I had taken an age to escape from the town. ‘You should have gone that way,’ my companion had said as I’d missed a turning. She’d glanced at me with a superior pitying look. And I’d felt like a fool. And despite tearing down the motorway at speeds unknown to man, we were late and had again to wait yet again to be admitted.
‘Yes, just one ticket,’ I reply. I can’t find anyone to go with me.’
‘I’ll give you a nice seat then,’ the kindly woman replied.
And she did.

Green Tomato Chutney

Green tomato chutney cannot be found!
I was in the third supermarket, Waitrose, and even they did not stock the stuff.
‘Would red tomato chutney spiked with chillies do instead?’ the assistant asked waving a short squat jar in the air.
‘I’d bought one of those yesterday,’ I replied. ‘I just wanted to see if I could find the exact ingredients for the recipe I’m using.’
‘Ah,’ said the assistant who was smiling as he walked away, bemused that anyone should want to serve their guests such an oddity as green tomato chutney.
If he knew it was to go inside a bread roll that was then to be stuffed with a round goat’s cheese then perhaps he would have run away.
I’d had to queue for ages to acquire the four goats’ cheeses. That was after waiting for the man to unload the bread rolls and a few moments after recovering from being rammed into by another shopper. She had gouged a chunk out of my heel with her trolley and had then scuttled away with an airy ‘Sorry!’ as I limped behind the potato display to attend to the wound.
Battle worn and weary I scuttled back home. There was so much to do: there was the ironing, the bathroom to clean, the delights of cleaning the bathroom sink and the loo. Not to mention sweeping the entire house, dusting every surface downstairs and tidying some rather untidy rooms and clearing papers away. There were windows to clean and everything to polish. There were birthday cards to take down (the guests had forgotten my recent birthday and I didn’t want to draw attention to it and cause any embarrassment). I wrote an earnest ‘to do’ list and set to.
By the afternoon, with the house sparkling, I started on the cooking. It took an age to tease the fresh thyme from its woody sprigs. I cried as I cut up the 1lb of onions. I diced the garlic into infinitesimal pieces and delicious cooking smells started to come from the pot.
Religiously I followed the recipes: tomatoes were skinned and then deseeded, a lemon was stripped from its zest and squeezed. Pots bubbled and steamed. The white wine, that another kind assistant in Morrisons had scoured the shelves for, had been poured into the pan and was being reduced to delicious vapours. As it bubbled away I was happily inhaling the moist kitchen air. The celery had been cut on the diagonal. Fresh rosemary was brought in from the garden and I cut it into tiny pieces to add to the bubbling vegetarian concoction.
I ironed the place mats and set them on the table. I positioned the chairs and placed empty wine glasses next to each place setting.
There was not long to go. I left a book, ‘How to Fossilise your Hamster’ on top of the hamster cage in the hope that it would cause amusement and help to break the ice and get the conversation going.
With only moments to go, it was almost time to tackle the chutney and goats’ cheese recipe. I was filling the pepper pot with bouncing pepper balls when the phone rang.

They weren’t coming!

Oh well... now where's that hamster!