Julia Gets a Life (29 page)

            I fear this as only a woman who knows that she has been number one topic of conversation at a certain corner of Pottery Workshop for the past half dozen years can. And now I have achieved cult status as well. I wonder if perhaps I should dye my hair green. It would be such a pity to disappoint.

            ‘It all sounds wonderful,’ I enthuse obediently. ‘And the children are so looking forward to seeing you. And please don’t worry about planning loads of meals and suchlike (some hope). I expect we’ll be doing lots of day trips. We could even hit the coast a couple of times if it’s nice.’

            As always, I regret the word ‘coast’ immediately. For my mother, the word ‘coast’ evokes a Pavlovian response involving hard boiled eggs, salad cream, two dozen brawn sandwiches, cold sausages, pork and egg pies, crisps, individual fruit tarts and (always) a Swiss roll. And topped with a treatise on burger bar catering. McDonalds, she’ll say, serve such
un
healthy food.

            ‘Anyway,’ I go on, ‘we can decide what to do when we get there,
can’t
we.’

            Which, short of extracting a promise in blood not to pillage
Dewhursts
, is the best I can do to promote culinary restraint. ‘And now,’ I say, ‘I have a favour to ask you.’

            So I distil Colin’s message into manageable parts - in fact, mainly the part where she will be required to look after the children for the twenty four hours between me speeding off to Brighton (where
Kite
are playing at the Rock Up Front festival next Friday) and the arrival of their father on the Saturday afternoon, ready to speed them across the channel for their annual fix of horizontal rain and garlic infested roadside
frites
vans.

            She homes, as I’d known she would, onto the part that involves access to said ex-husband without the complicating factor of truculent (sic) daughter.

            ‘Oh, that’ll be no problem at all,’ she assures me. ‘We’ll have a lovely time. Perhaps Richard could come for lunch. He must be very proud of you, dear.’

            Bah!

            ‘Richard doesn’t know.’

            ‘Oh.’

            ‘And I don’t want you to tell him.’

            ‘But..’

            ‘Because it isn’t his business.’

            ‘But why
are
you going to Brighton, dear? I thought you’d already done the photographs for that newspaper.’

            ‘I have, but they want a few more. This gig -’

            ‘Gig?’

            ‘Concert. It’s part of some sort of charity roadshow. There will be lots of bands playing, and quite a few TV celebrities involved. And I think someone Royal.....Mum? Are you still there?’

            ‘Royal? Actually
Royal
? Which one? Not Princess Anne, I hope. I’ve never been keen on her. I’ve always preferred Princess Michael of Kent. I always like watching her on the tennis. Or is that the Duchess of Kent? Will you get to meet them? Goodness, how exciting...’

            ‘I don’t know. My brief is to shoot
Kite
. I really don’t know much more until Colin firms up the details. I imagine there’ll be some sort of aftershow, so I suppose....’

            ‘Ooh, Julia, you sound so glamorous! Just wait till I tell Minnie! Now we’d better crack on. I’ll put Max on the Z-bed and Emma in the spare room. Would you like the sofa or the li-lo?’

Chapter
20

Our Holiday

Sunday

Sun, hot, lovely, lovely, lovely day etc.

            I start the day feeling an unexpected seepage of positive mental attitude into loathsome depression/angst /fear of metamorphosis into second rate single parent combi. (Why? Bizarre pre-menstrual turnaround?)

            But it is short lived. Only fifteen minutes into the M4 corridor and am already experiencing in-car turbulence vis a vis selection of musical accompaniment. Decide to stamp authority on situation (and, therefore, hopefully, remainder of holiday) by declaring all knobs/stalks/buttons etc. as total exclusion zone and conducting said mission statement as 95 decibel tirade. Put
Kite; Flying High
on, volume twelve.

            Fifteen minutes into
Kite; Flying High
suffer sudden and debilitating attack of parental guilt, as Max apoplectic about perceived favouritism towards sibling. Agree to drawing up of musical accompaniment rota, in tolerance-friendly fifteen minute cycles. Heated debate over inclusion of Radio Four’s
Desert Island Discs
, as is forty five minute programme but also family travelling tradition (Unlike Early Learning Centre Favourite Nursery Rhyme Cassettes - a point of some pride
chez
Potter). By time have browbeaten offspring into sullen acceptance, programme is already at disc six, and guest’s voice is tantalisingly familiar yet infuriatingly unidentifiable. Decide must be ageing theatrical (boring) luvvie and submit instead to fifteen minutes of
Throb
FM.

            Five minutes in, experience pang of wistful regret that never quite mastered Richard style of mobile parenting, i.e. SHADDUPPPP!I’MDRIIIIVVVINGGGGG!!!!!

followed by occasional ejection on to roadside for reinforcement purposes.

            Later

            Rest of population of South of England are clearly trying to go to my Mother’s house also. Sit in now stationary car, dispensing wine gums, and try to conjure mental picture of sitting in Mother’s garden, developing tan, with large glass wine plus Pringles, buzz of bees, scents of summer etc. Start and make stop again, this time at Happy Traveller, to partake of nutritious grease/chips/milkshake lunch, but coincide with coach party of Ghurkas - none have assimilated concept of queuing, but they smile so engagingly as they shunt relentlessly forward that instead of grousing and bitching everyone nods and smiles and says ahhh.

           
Much
later

            Arrive at Mother’s just as sun slides behind big cloud and nip forms in air. Sit in mother’s kitchen drinking tea from leaky art-deco effect ‘Potty’ teapot, listening to buzz of moribund striplight, drinking in scent of giblets boiling etc.

Monday

Rain

            God. Offal problem already underway. Mother has almost inexhaustible supply of animal organs with which to prepare meals (sic) for remainder of holiday, and produces frozen wodge of pigs liver from freezer as we breakfast. Emma (still very tense/taciturn etc) announces,

            ‘I can see I’m going to spend the week vomiting,
Mother
’ and flounces from room.

            Mother entertains Max with mild (fifteen minutes or so) rant about powdered eggs, bread and dripping, digging for victory etc. Plus expresses concern about volatile nature of youth of today/additives in orange squash/ rays that emanate from Sky satellite dishes causing leukaemia clusters.

            See-sawing between mad, mad, mad at Richard and sensing seedling of self esteem in place concerning Brighton expedition/resurgence of proper career etc. But very damp at night. Wake in blue funk with bolt of terror about incontinence possibility, then recall properties of plastic li-los. Will camp on sofa from tomorrow.

Tuesday

Rain

            Am good parent. Did museum combo today. Started with Natural History; dinosaurs (crap), sea life (crap) bugs(crap) followed by fossils (really crap). Had lunch in purpose built indoor picnic area (cheapskate sad family). Moved on to the newly re-vamped/ restyled (awardwinning?) earth galleries (okay), and did earthquake simulation exhibit (crap plus like,
really
bad taste, Mum).

            Moved on once again, this time to more feverishly interactive exhibits of Science Museum. Paid extortionist on door, did engines (crap), miracle of reproduction (flicker of interest but ‘Mum,
don’t
! if touched moving parts.) Home to Croydon via Covent Garden and Piccadilly Circus, where did Goth Heaven type shops (wicked) and Trocadero (cool).

            De-railment near New Cross afforded excellent opportunity to instil in offspring sadly lacking as yet sense of appreciation for heritage/history/culture, plus wealth of enriching experience visit to nation’s finest museums brings.

            ‘But it’s boring’

            ‘No. it’s...’

            ‘Boring.’

            ‘Tsk. You say that now, but you’ll thank me for it later. Look at what you’ve learned today...’

            ‘Mum, we do learning in school. This is the holidays.’

            Wrong tack. ‘Not learned then. Discovered, been amazed by....’

            ‘You’re right. I had no idea there were so many styles of Doc Marten. Why can’t we live in London. Cardiff’s so crap.’

            ‘....the wonders of science and that amazing...’

            ‘Boring, boring, boring, boring...’

            ‘You wait till you’re parents. You’ll be bringing your own children to these places one day...’

            ‘What for?’

            ‘To look, to discover, to...’

            ‘...be
bored
.’

            Hah. Offspring will regret thinking museums-with-Mother outing worst that can happen to them. Will be taken next week to
Musees
instead, where will understand only one word in fifty seven (Emma on German option at high school) and will be forced to listen to father recounting key points about Storming of the Bastille etc. Hah.

            Eve.

            Peak Experience Moment when Emma (screaming) found large blood vessel in nutritious brown stew offal type dinner.

            ‘That’s an aorta, that is,’ said Max.

            Not a totally wasted day, then.

Wednesday

Low cloud, threatening rain

            Shopping in Croydon. Not crap, as determined to make up for suspect parenting qualities by showering large chunk of promised pop photography fee on grateful (salivating) offspring. Return home from biggest, brightest shopping experience in South (apparently) with Tongue Twisting (or something) almost hang-out-looking-cool-by-themselves type
K-Swiss
trainers, and whole bag of seriously desirable
Bench
garb. Rashly quote cost. Mother speechless and dribbling.

           
And
uncharacteristic and alarmingly frank telephone message from Richard, via Mother;

            ‘He says can you ring him as soon as possible, and to tell you he’s very sorry, and please can you talk. Julia, does this mean that Richard and you are
talking
...And are you and he are
considering
....’etc. etc. ad nauseum.