Read Online Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband by Sam Holden - Free Book Online
Authors: Sam Holden
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and that
we believed the only people who should be bringing up
the children were us, and not some stranger from God
Knows Where.'
'I know that – but this would only be temporary when
I'm on location.'
' "When I'm on location",' Sally scoffed. 'Aren't we
Mr TV all of a sudden?'
'What else am I supposed to say?'
Sally shrugged. She took a large slug of her wine.
'Anyway,' she said, 'can't you see the irony of it all?
You'll be telling the world what a great dad you are, and
while you do so, you'll be leaving the children with a
complete stranger.'
'Not necessarily,' I said.
'What do you mean?'
'You could look after them.'
'Me? How?'
'If the programme got commissioned, we'd have
enough money for you to be able to give up work.'
Sally looked at me, just looked at me so witheringly,
so contemptuously.
'Give up work? You really think I'd chuck in my
career – and my responsibility to the people I work for
– just because you're on some TV show?'
'I thought you'd be dying to give it up,' I said. 'It's not
as though you're having a ball, is it?'
'That's not the point, Sam!'
'What is the point then?'
'My job is important!'
'And so would be my TV programme!'
'Really? As important as saving lives?'
'Sally Holden – she saves the world.'
'Fuck off,' said Sally, 'you're being juvenile.'
'And you're being self-important.'
'No I am not.'
And with that, she left the room and went upstairs,
where she watched TV in the spare bedroom, refusing
offers of supper, drinks or rapprochement.
Today has been frosty, to say the least. Our Sunday-night
shag is not looking that likely.
Tuesday 12 February
At least SOMEONE likes my putative TV programme,
but it's not someone I can really hold up as a cold and
neutral observer. Yup, it's Emily. Despite my attempts to
avoid her, she spotted me at the school gate after I had
dropped off Peter and Daisy, and instantly detected I
was looking somewhat down.
'Hello? What's this?'
'What's what?'
'You've got a face longer than the horse I'm about to
ride.'
I couldn't help but smirk at Emily's risqué simile.
And, true to cheap-porn-mag form, she was wearing
jodhpurs, which meant that I went into the normal
gauche unsuave form that I adopt when presented with
a woman thus dressed.
'Um . . . have I? Er . . . no, quite fine thanks. You
know, weather's a bit shit. Think I must have SAD or
something.'
'SAD?'
'Seasonal affective disorder.'
'Right,' said Emily, utterly unconvinced.
'Just need a holiday or something,' I said.
'Right,' she said again. 'Or a drink. Why not come
round for an early lunch after you've picked Daisy up?'
Was it arrogant and presumptuous of Emily to turn
round almost before she had finished the question, so
sure was she of my acceptance? I thought it was, but it
didn't stop me saying:
'Yespleasethankyouverymuch,' like an eleven-year-old
who is on best behaviour in front of his friend's mum.
And so, at 12.15, armed with a bottle of wine hidden
in Daisy's buggy (I didn't want the neighbours to think
it was an 'assignation') I knocked on Emily's door, and
she greeted me still wearing her jodhpurs and looking
as though she had just spent the last two hours
fornicating with half a dozen stable boys. Perhaps she
had.
'Sorry! I hope I don't smell! I've only just got
back!'
'That's all right.'
'Do you mind if I have a quick shower?'
'You don't have to on my account.'
Emily raised a reasonably well-plucked eyebrow.
'Interesting,' she said, and then disappeared upstairs
with a 'you know where everything is', which again was
presumptuous, as by the time I found the corkscrew
(under a pile of magazines next to the microwave), she
had reappeared looking freshly showered and spruced,
hair slicked back, and wearing not much more than a
pair of skinny jeans and a V-neck. I passed her a glass of
wine, and then we spoke about what we would feed
Daisy, who was ensconced in the living room doing
some puzzles. (She is obsessed with puzzles – I harbour
optimistic
we believed the only people who should be bringing up
the children were us, and not some stranger from God
Knows Where.'
'I know that – but this would only be temporary when
I'm on location.'
' "When I'm on location",' Sally scoffed. 'Aren't we
Mr TV all of a sudden?'
'What else am I supposed to say?'
Sally shrugged. She took a large slug of her wine.
'Anyway,' she said, 'can't you see the irony of it all?
You'll be telling the world what a great dad you are, and
while you do so, you'll be leaving the children with a
complete stranger.'
'Not necessarily,' I said.
'What do you mean?'
'You could look after them.'
'Me? How?'
'If the programme got commissioned, we'd have
enough money for you to be able to give up work.'
Sally looked at me, just looked at me so witheringly,
so contemptuously.
'Give up work? You really think I'd chuck in my
career – and my responsibility to the people I work for
– just because you're on some TV show?'
'I thought you'd be dying to give it up,' I said. 'It's not
as though you're having a ball, is it?'
'That's not the point, Sam!'
'What is the point then?'
'My job is important!'
'And so would be my TV programme!'
'Really? As important as saving lives?'
'Sally Holden – she saves the world.'
'Fuck off,' said Sally, 'you're being juvenile.'
'And you're being self-important.'
'No I am not.'
And with that, she left the room and went upstairs,
where she watched TV in the spare bedroom, refusing
offers of supper, drinks or rapprochement.
Today has been frosty, to say the least. Our Sunday-night
shag is not looking that likely.
Tuesday 12 February
At least SOMEONE likes my putative TV programme,
but it's not someone I can really hold up as a cold and
neutral observer. Yup, it's Emily. Despite my attempts to
avoid her, she spotted me at the school gate after I had
dropped off Peter and Daisy, and instantly detected I
was looking somewhat down.
'Hello? What's this?'
'What's what?'
'You've got a face longer than the horse I'm about to
ride.'
I couldn't help but smirk at Emily's risqué simile.
And, true to cheap-porn-mag form, she was wearing
jodhpurs, which meant that I went into the normal
gauche unsuave form that I adopt when presented with
a woman thus dressed.
'Um . . . have I? Er . . . no, quite fine thanks. You
know, weather's a bit shit. Think I must have SAD or
something.'
'SAD?'
'Seasonal affective disorder.'
'Right,' said Emily, utterly unconvinced.
'Just need a holiday or something,' I said.
'Right,' she said again. 'Or a drink. Why not come
round for an early lunch after you've picked Daisy up?'
Was it arrogant and presumptuous of Emily to turn
round almost before she had finished the question, so
sure was she of my acceptance? I thought it was, but it
didn't stop me saying:
'Yespleasethankyouverymuch,' like an eleven-year-old
who is on best behaviour in front of his friend's mum.
And so, at 12.15, armed with a bottle of wine hidden
in Daisy's buggy (I didn't want the neighbours to think
it was an 'assignation') I knocked on Emily's door, and
she greeted me still wearing her jodhpurs and looking
as though she had just spent the last two hours
fornicating with half a dozen stable boys. Perhaps she
had.
'Sorry! I hope I don't smell! I've only just got
back!'
'That's all right.'
'Do you mind if I have a quick shower?'
'You don't have to on my account.'
Emily raised a reasonably well-plucked eyebrow.
'Interesting,' she said, and then disappeared upstairs
with a 'you know where everything is', which again was
presumptuous, as by the time I found the corkscrew
(under a pile of magazines next to the microwave), she
had reappeared looking freshly showered and spruced,
hair slicked back, and wearing not much more than a
pair of skinny jeans and a V-neck. I passed her a glass of
wine, and then we spoke about what we would feed
Daisy, who was ensconced in the living room doing
some puzzles. (She is obsessed with puzzles – I harbour
optimistic
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