Read Online No! I Don't Want to Join a Book Club: Diary of a Sixtieth Year by Virginia Ironside - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Virginia Ironside
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see what I can do,” I said. “He wouldn’t get angry with me because I can do the mumsy old pal act.”
“I wish you would,” said James, suddenly turning to me at the lights, with an expression of such relief and gratitude on his face that I resolved to tackle Hughie as quickly as possible. “Oh,” he added, “congratulations about being a grannie-to-be. Jack told me yesterday when he invited me, but I promise I won’t tell a soul.”
When we arrived at the flat—well, actually, it’s more half a house—Chrissie was looking a little bit fatter, but the pregnancy’s not yet obvious. She isn’t giving up her job till the last minute—she’s one of these dynamic women who’s in charge of marketing some kind of spa therapy around the world and has been known—I’ve seen it—to conduct three conversations at once on different phones.
Much to my astonishment, I found Jack, once king of grunge, sitting on the sofa, wearing a cardigan and reading the Guardian. The realization that one’s child is not only an adult, but a responsible adult who is about to become a father is quite astonishing. Phrases like “Don’t you think, darling, that you might polish your shoes now and again?” seem to dry up before their bony fingers even start plucking at the vocal chords.
They had ordered an Indian take-away, with extra pappadams, which was delicious, Chrissie had baked a totally scrumptious chocolate cake and everyone sang “Happy Birthday.” They had all clubbed together to buy me a DVD player. Can’t quite think when I will use it, as I am never in, but I was incredibly touched. Perhaps they imagine that every night I curl up with a video and a crossword puzzle. I also got a whole pile of special soaps and bath gels, which Chrissie got from work, none of which I can use, unfortunately, because I am at an age when I am allergic to every single product with scent in it and have to stick with boring old Simple soap. But it was a nice thought.
Nicest present of all was a pedometer, which I’d asked for. Since I’m now out of the bunion shoes, armed with this gadget I’ll be able to find out if I am remotely fit. Feel a bit nerdy wanting a machine to tell me whether I’m taking enough exercise or not, but after five minutes pottering around the flat and going to the loo once, I’d already clocked up about one hundred steps, so I felt delighted with myself. I think I’ll have to keep it on somehow in bed because these days I must go to the loo about three times a night, and it would be a shame to miss out on a few steps. Though it might be a bit uncomfortable trying to sleep with it under my nightie.
“What do you want to be called, Mum?” Jack asked. “When the baby arrives.”
Having been brought up by two people who tried to insist I call them by their Christian names, I long for everyone to be called by their proper family names—from Daddy and Mummy to Auntie and Uncle. Then, when a friend at school refers to their own grannie, they can join in the conversation with chat about their gran, too. Not their own “Annabel” or “Chris.”
So, naturally, I replied that I wanted, if at all possible, to be called “Grannie.” Obviously if the baby couldn’t manage it, I’d be happy with “‘Moo Moo” or “Grandy” or whatever it came up with. I wouldn’t even mind being called “Grungy” or “Grumpy.” When Philippa was alive I remember she couldn’t bear the word “grannie” and even balked at the word “grandchild,” insisting that hers was always referred to as her “daughter’s baby.”
“I think you ought to be called ‘Glammy,’” said James. “You’ll be the most glamorous grannie I know.”
“Glammy!” said Jack and Chrissie in horror, together. “How naff!”
“Well, it’s better than ‘Gaga,’” I said, not that I’d like to be “Glammy,” of course.
“The five ages of man,” said James. “Lager, Aga, Saga, Viagra, Gaga.”
It was my first night
“I wish you would,” said James, suddenly turning to me at the lights, with an expression of such relief and gratitude on his face that I resolved to tackle Hughie as quickly as possible. “Oh,” he added, “congratulations about being a grannie-to-be. Jack told me yesterday when he invited me, but I promise I won’t tell a soul.”
When we arrived at the flat—well, actually, it’s more half a house—Chrissie was looking a little bit fatter, but the pregnancy’s not yet obvious. She isn’t giving up her job till the last minute—she’s one of these dynamic women who’s in charge of marketing some kind of spa therapy around the world and has been known—I’ve seen it—to conduct three conversations at once on different phones.
Much to my astonishment, I found Jack, once king of grunge, sitting on the sofa, wearing a cardigan and reading the Guardian. The realization that one’s child is not only an adult, but a responsible adult who is about to become a father is quite astonishing. Phrases like “Don’t you think, darling, that you might polish your shoes now and again?” seem to dry up before their bony fingers even start plucking at the vocal chords.
They had ordered an Indian take-away, with extra pappadams, which was delicious, Chrissie had baked a totally scrumptious chocolate cake and everyone sang “Happy Birthday.” They had all clubbed together to buy me a DVD player. Can’t quite think when I will use it, as I am never in, but I was incredibly touched. Perhaps they imagine that every night I curl up with a video and a crossword puzzle. I also got a whole pile of special soaps and bath gels, which Chrissie got from work, none of which I can use, unfortunately, because I am at an age when I am allergic to every single product with scent in it and have to stick with boring old Simple soap. But it was a nice thought.
Nicest present of all was a pedometer, which I’d asked for. Since I’m now out of the bunion shoes, armed with this gadget I’ll be able to find out if I am remotely fit. Feel a bit nerdy wanting a machine to tell me whether I’m taking enough exercise or not, but after five minutes pottering around the flat and going to the loo once, I’d already clocked up about one hundred steps, so I felt delighted with myself. I think I’ll have to keep it on somehow in bed because these days I must go to the loo about three times a night, and it would be a shame to miss out on a few steps. Though it might be a bit uncomfortable trying to sleep with it under my nightie.
“What do you want to be called, Mum?” Jack asked. “When the baby arrives.”
Having been brought up by two people who tried to insist I call them by their Christian names, I long for everyone to be called by their proper family names—from Daddy and Mummy to Auntie and Uncle. Then, when a friend at school refers to their own grannie, they can join in the conversation with chat about their gran, too. Not their own “Annabel” or “Chris.”
So, naturally, I replied that I wanted, if at all possible, to be called “Grannie.” Obviously if the baby couldn’t manage it, I’d be happy with “‘Moo Moo” or “Grandy” or whatever it came up with. I wouldn’t even mind being called “Grungy” or “Grumpy.” When Philippa was alive I remember she couldn’t bear the word “grannie” and even balked at the word “grandchild,” insisting that hers was always referred to as her “daughter’s baby.”
“I think you ought to be called ‘Glammy,’” said James. “You’ll be the most glamorous grannie I know.”
“Glammy!” said Jack and Chrissie in horror, together. “How naff!”
“Well, it’s better than ‘Gaga,’” I said, not that I’d like to be “Glammy,” of course.
“The five ages of man,” said James. “Lager, Aga, Saga, Viagra, Gaga.”
It was my first night
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