effect, salvaged pieces of pipe I’d found in a skip. Neat concept, hey? I tarted them up and put pieces in pretty boxes to sell to twee gift shops. Novelty gifts and
I was going to call the company It’s the Thought That Counts Ltd. You know how everyone has their own little private fantasies? Well, I reckoned on it being a cutesy, profitable idea. Drew up
a proposal for the bank but it met with zero interest, although I did manage to shift a dozen boxes to a shop in Ladbroke Grove.
Nadia took unkindly to my bluntness.
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Issy.’
‘Pleasure.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Sorry . . . sorry, I didn’t mean it like that . . . So what’s the big news?’
‘Forget it.’
Nadia was pissed off and I, at least a fortnight away from PMT, had no excuse.
‘Nads . . . Nads . . .’ I whinnied and whined. ‘Aw, Nadia, pleeeeeease?’
‘You are such a bitch.’
‘Let me guess. You got a record deal?’
‘No.’
‘A producer heard your tapes and wants to use you.’
‘No.’
‘OK you won a place on one of the those “Make Me a Star” programmes.’
‘No.’
My second fabulous business idea. Sprung forth whilst singing in the kitchen, with Max dancing round my heels. A Robbie number, of course. Had been singing it for the past hour, over and over
again, being in one of those femy ‘emotional’ moods. Oh the longing! Thought it would make a brilliant reality TV programme:
It Could Have Been You!
The premise, not wholly
original because it’s a
Pop Idol
scenario, but different in being restricted to mothers, i.e. those who have suffered a long line of opportunity knocks. I mean why favour the young? They have
a lifetime of false hopes ahead of them. Give the has-beens a chance. One more go at failing fabulously. The tired, strained look of motherhood would lend itself quite well to the occasion. Most of
us already have that raccoon-eyed kohl thing going on, albeit natural.
‘You won the Lottery?’
‘NO.’
‘Just tell me your good news.’
She paused for suspense, then spoke very slowly.
‘I got a gig.’
‘Really?’ I came over all green. ‘Where?’
‘In the pub across the way.’
‘Not the –’
‘Yeah.’
‘When?’ I feigning nonchalance.
‘In ten days. Isn’t it great?’
‘Whoopie for you.’
Not fair. So not fair. I wanted something exciting to happen to me. I mean nice exciting, not finding-a-hacked-finger exciting, or fucking-a-Bob exciting. Arms crossed and sulking in my
corner.
‘Issy, you look exactly like Max when you do that.’
‘Do I?’ Christ, how far have I regressed?
‘So you are going to come and support me?’
‘Yeah . . . I mean as long as I can get a babysitter.’
Babysitters being the bane of my life. And expensive – even Freddie charges me. My own sibling and over the going rate, plus I have to make dinner for him. Prior to Maria, I’d used a
girl called Kate. An A-level student, nice enough and I thought it would be fine, she could study when Max was asleep, earn a few quid, but she was seventeen.
Seventeen, rubbing my face in the fact that I was older though not wiser. I’m certain since having Max my intelligence has eroded, as one, by default, downgrades to the level of a
Tellytubby. I doubt there is a mother out there who, hand on heart, hasn’t at one time or another forgotten what day of the week it is.
When I met Kate, I was under the illusion that on a good day I could pass myself off as a yummy mummy. However, beside her, I appeared about as appetising as leftover dog food. To make matters
worse she regarded me not as a mate or an equal, but as someone who was past it. I made the mistake of being friendly, and leaving out my Robbie CDs to show her I was still with it. Even went so
far as to tell her she could smoke pot if she wanted to. Listen, even I cringe thinking about it now. The worst of it was, she used to bring her boyfriend with her. Max didn’t mind, an extra
playmate and all
I was going to call the company It’s the Thought That Counts Ltd. You know how everyone has their own little private fantasies? Well, I reckoned on it being a cutesy, profitable idea. Drew up
a proposal for the bank but it met with zero interest, although I did manage to shift a dozen boxes to a shop in Ladbroke Grove.
Nadia took unkindly to my bluntness.
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Issy.’
‘Pleasure.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Sorry . . . sorry, I didn’t mean it like that . . . So what’s the big news?’
‘Forget it.’
Nadia was pissed off and I, at least a fortnight away from PMT, had no excuse.
‘Nads . . . Nads . . .’ I whinnied and whined. ‘Aw, Nadia, pleeeeeease?’
‘You are such a bitch.’
‘Let me guess. You got a record deal?’
‘No.’
‘A producer heard your tapes and wants to use you.’
‘No.’
‘OK you won a place on one of the those “Make Me a Star” programmes.’
‘No.’
My second fabulous business idea. Sprung forth whilst singing in the kitchen, with Max dancing round my heels. A Robbie number, of course. Had been singing it for the past hour, over and over
again, being in one of those femy ‘emotional’ moods. Oh the longing! Thought it would make a brilliant reality TV programme:
It Could Have Been You!
The premise, not wholly
original because it’s a
Pop Idol
scenario, but different in being restricted to mothers, i.e. those who have suffered a long line of opportunity knocks. I mean why favour the young? They have
a lifetime of false hopes ahead of them. Give the has-beens a chance. One more go at failing fabulously. The tired, strained look of motherhood would lend itself quite well to the occasion. Most of
us already have that raccoon-eyed kohl thing going on, albeit natural.
‘You won the Lottery?’
‘NO.’
‘Just tell me your good news.’
She paused for suspense, then spoke very slowly.
‘I got a gig.’
‘Really?’ I came over all green. ‘Where?’
‘In the pub across the way.’
‘Not the –’
‘Yeah.’
‘When?’ I feigning nonchalance.
‘In ten days. Isn’t it great?’
‘Whoopie for you.’
Not fair. So not fair. I wanted something exciting to happen to me. I mean nice exciting, not finding-a-hacked-finger exciting, or fucking-a-Bob exciting. Arms crossed and sulking in my
corner.
‘Issy, you look exactly like Max when you do that.’
‘Do I?’ Christ, how far have I regressed?
‘So you are going to come and support me?’
‘Yeah . . . I mean as long as I can get a babysitter.’
Babysitters being the bane of my life. And expensive – even Freddie charges me. My own sibling and over the going rate, plus I have to make dinner for him. Prior to Maria, I’d used a
girl called Kate. An A-level student, nice enough and I thought it would be fine, she could study when Max was asleep, earn a few quid, but she was seventeen.
Seventeen, rubbing my face in the fact that I was older though not wiser. I’m certain since having Max my intelligence has eroded, as one, by default, downgrades to the level of a
Tellytubby. I doubt there is a mother out there who, hand on heart, hasn’t at one time or another forgotten what day of the week it is.
When I met Kate, I was under the illusion that on a good day I could pass myself off as a yummy mummy. However, beside her, I appeared about as appetising as leftover dog food. To make matters
worse she regarded me not as a mate or an equal, but as someone who was past it. I made the mistake of being friendly, and leaving out my Robbie CDs to show her I was still with it. Even went so
far as to tell her she could smoke pot if she wanted to. Listen, even I cringe thinking about it now. The worst of it was, she used to bring her boyfriend with her. Max didn’t mind, an extra
playmate and all
Similar Books
