Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy (16 page)

The door burst open. Mabel stared solemnly. ‘Billy’s exasperating me,’ she said, then ran back into the room yelling, ‘Mummy’s eatin’ a towel!’

Billy rushed eagerly, then suddenly remembered: ‘Mabel hit me with Saliva.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘You did.’

‘Mabel, I saw you hit Billy with Saliva,’ I joined in.

Mabel stared at me under lowered brows, then burst out, ‘He hit me wid a . . . wid a HAMMER.’

‘I didn’t,’ wailed Billy. ‘We haven’t got a hammer.’

‘We have!’ I said indignantly.

Both started spontaneous crying again.

‘We don’t hit,’ I said despairingly. ‘We don’t hit. I’m going to count to . . . to. . . It’s not OK to hit.’

Ugh. Ridiculous expression: ‘Not OK’, suggesting am too idle or
passive-aggressive to locate or use word categorizing what hitting actually is (very bad, effing annoying, etc.), so, instead, hitting has to make do with mere exclusion from vague generalization of things which ‘are OK’.

Mabel, regardless of hitting’s OKness or otherwise, grabbed a fork from the table, jabbed Billy, and then ran off and hid behind the curtain. ‘Mabel, that’s a One,’ I said. ‘Give me the fork.’

‘Yes, master,’ she said, throwing down the fork and running to the drawer to get another one.

‘Mabel!’ I said. ‘The next thing I’m going to say is . . . is . . . TWO!’

I froze, thinking, ‘What am I going to do when I get to Three?’

‘Come on! Let’s go up to the Heath,’ I said in a jolly way, deciding it wasn’t the moment to hit the hitting issue head on.

‘Nooooo! I want to do Wizard101
.
’

‘Not goin’ in de car! Want to watch
SpongeBob
.’

Was suddenly wildly indignant that own children’s values were so entirely off-key, due to American cartoons, computer games and general consumer culture. Had flashback to own childhood, and urge to inspire and teach them with song from the Girl Guides.

‘There are white tents upon the hillside / And the flag is flying freeeee!’ I sang.

‘Mummy,’ said Billy, with Mark-style sternness.

‘There are white tents upon the hillside / And that’s where I long to beeee . . .’ I warbled. ‘Pack your kit, girls! / Feeling fit, girls! / For a life of health and joy!’

‘Thtoppit,’ said Mabel.

‘For it’s off to camp again / In a lorry not a train.’

‘Mummy, stop!’ said Billy.

‘Camp ahoy!’ I finished with a rousing flourish. ‘Camp ahoy!’

Looked down to see them staring at me nervously, as if I was a zombie from Plants versus Zombies.

‘Can I go on the computer?’ said Billy.

Calmly, deliberately, I opened the fridge, reaching for the enormous stash of chocolate-from-Granny on the top shelf.

‘Chocolate buttons!’ I said, dancing about with the buttons in an attempt to mimic a fairy-themed party entertainer. ‘Follow the trail of buttons to see where it leads! Two trails,’ I added, to ward off conflict, laying a careful line of exactly matching chocolate buttons up the stairs and towards the front door, ignoring the fact that tradesmen may previously have trailed dog-poo traces into the carpet.

The two of them obediently trotted up the stairs after me, stuffing the no-doubt-dog-poo-smeared buttons into their mouths.

On the way in the car, I thought about what I should do about the hitting. Clearly, according to
French Children Don’t Throw Food
, it should be outside the cadre (but then so should putting chocolate buttons in a trail out of the house) and according to
One, Two, Three . . . Better, Easier Parenting
there should simply be a scorched-earth, zero-tolerance, three-strikes-and-you’re-out Donald Rumsfeld kind of policy.

‘Mabel?’ I said in preparation, as we drove along.

Silence.

‘Billy?’

Silence.

‘Earth to Mabel and Billy?’

They both seemed to be in some sort of trance. Why couldn’t they have had the trance in the house so I could have sat down for a minute and read the Style section from last week’s
Sunday Times
whilst believing myself to be reading the News Review?

Decided to let the trance just happen: to go with the flow and make the most of any moment of calm to clear my head. It was really quite jolly driving along, the sun was shining, people out and about, lovers in each other’s arms and . . .

‘Mummy?’

Hah! I seized the moment, adopting a statesmanlike, Obama-esque tone. ‘Yes. Now. I have something to say: Billy – and particularly Mabel
– hitting is not allowed in our family. And I say to you now: every day when a person doesn’t hit – or jab – they will get a gold star. I say to you: any time a person does hit they get a black mark. And I say to you, as a non-violent person and as your mother: any person who gets five gold stars by the end of the week will get a small prize of their choice.’

‘A Hellvanian bunny?’ said Mabel excitedly. ‘A Fuckoon Family?’

‘Yes, a Raccoon Family,’ I said.

‘She didn’t say Raccoon. She said the F-word. Can I have crowns on Wizard101?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wait. How much is a Raccoon Family? Can I get crowns that are worth the same as a Raccoon Family?’ Mark Darcy the top negotiator in child form. ‘How much money does Mabel lose for saying the F-word?’

‘I didn’t say de F-word.’

‘You did.’

‘I didn’t. I THAID Fuckoon.’

‘How many Wizard101 crowns does Mabel lose for saying the F-word again?’

‘Here we are at the super-dooper Heath!’ I said rousingly, pulling into the car park.

Is amazing how everything calms down once one is in the outdoors with blue skies and crisp winter sunshine. Headed for the climbing trees, standing close by as Billy and Mabel hung upside down, motionless, from the conveniently broad, low boughs. Like lemurs.

Wished, for a fleeting second, they
were
lemurs.

1 p.m.
Suddenly had urge to check my Twitter followers and pulled iPhone out to take a look.

1.01 p.m.
‘Mummeee! Mabel’s stuck in the tree!’

Looked up in alarm. How had they got up there in thirty seconds when they’d just been hanging upside down? Mabel was now way
up, clinging to the tree trunk like not so much a lemur as a koala, but slithering alarmingly.

‘Hang on, I’m coming.’

I took off my parka and hoisted myself awkwardly into the tree, positioning myself under Mabel and putting a firm hand under her bottom, wishing I hadn’t come in quite such low-rise jeans, and high-rise thong.

‘Mummy, I can’t get down either,’ said Billy who was crouched, wobbling, on a branch to my right like an unsteady bird.

‘Um,’ I said. ‘Hang on.’

I leaned my full weight against the tree, placing one foot on a slightly higher branch to lift me towards Billy and putting my hand on Billy’s bottom, whilst keeping the other hand under Mabel’s bottom, simultaneously feeling the low-rise jeans descending lower over my own bottom. ‘Calm and poised! Just hold on tight and . . .’

None of us could move. What was I going to do? Were we going to be frozen against the tree for ever, like a trio of lizards?

‘Everything all right up there?’

‘Is Mr Wolkda,’ said Mabel.

I peered awkwardly down over my shoulder.

It was indeed Mr Wallaker, running, in sweatpants and a grey T-shirt, looking like he was on an assault course.

‘Everything all right?’ he said again, stopping suddenly below us. He was oddly ripped for a schoolteacher, but staring in his usual annoying, judgemental way.

‘Yes, no, everything’s great!’ I trilled. ‘Just, um, climbing a tree!’

‘Yes, I see that.’

Great, I thought. Now he’ll tell everyone at school I’m a completely irresponsible mother letting the children climb trees. Jeans were now slipping below my bottom-cleavage, my black lacy thong on full display.

‘Right. Good. Well. I’ll be off then. Bye!’

‘Bye!’ I called gaily over my shoulder, then reconsidered. ‘Um . . . Mr Wallaker?’

‘Yeeees?’

‘Could you just . . .?’

‘Billy,’ said Mr Wallaker, ‘let go of your mum, hold onto the branch, and sit down on it.’

I released my frozen arm from Billy and put it round Mabel’s back.

‘There you go. Now. Look at me. When I count to three, I want you to do what I say.’

‘OK!’ said Billy cheerfully.

‘One . . . two . . . and . . . jump!’

I leaned back and nearly screamed as Billy jumped out of the tree. What was Mr Wallaker doing?

‘Aaaaaaand . . . roll!’

Billy landed, did a strange military-style roll and stood up, beaming.

‘Now, Mrs Darcy, if you’ll forgive me . . .’ Mr Wallaker hoisted himself into the lower branches. ‘I’m going to take hold of . . .’ Me? My thong? ‘. . . Mabel,’ he said, reaching his arms past me to put his big hands round Mabel’s plump little form. ‘And you wriggle out and jump down.’

Trying to ignore the exasperating frisson brought on by the scent and closeness of Mr Wallaker, I did what he said and jumped down, trying to pull up the jeans. He took Mabel in one strong scoop of his arm, leaned her on his shoulder and placed her on the grass.

‘I thaid Fuckoon,’ said Mabel, looking at him gravely.

‘I nearly said that, too,’ said Mr Wallaker. ‘But we’re all all right now, aren’t we?’

‘Will you play football with me?’ said Billy.

‘Got to get home, I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘to er . . . the family. Now try to avoid the upper branches.’

He started running off again, pumping his arms up and down with palms extended. Who did he think he was?

Suddenly found self shouting after him: ‘Mr Wallaker?’

He turned. Did not know what had intended to say. Mind
whirring frantically, I shouted, ‘Thank you.’ Then added, for no reason whatsoever, ‘Will you follow me on Twitter?’

‘Absolutely not,’ he said dismissively, then started running off again.

Humph. Grumpy bastard. Even if he did get us down from the tree.

A NEEDLE IN A TWITTERSTACK

Saturday 5 January 2013 (continued)

Twitter followers 652, Twitter followers I might fancy 1.

4 p.m.
Whole Mr Wallaker tree/‘back to the wife and kids’ thing has left self feeling abnormal, and that everyone else is spending Saturday afternoon in nuclear family, while Dad plays ping-pong with the lad, and Mum shops and does mani-pedis with her immaculately dressed little girl. Ooh, doorbell!

9 p.m.
Was Rebecca! Had lovely evening sitting at her kitchen table while kids ran around. Was still feeling a bit abnormal, as Rebecca has a husband, or at least a ‘partner’ as they are not married. He is tall, handsome, though frequently a bit wrecked-looking and always dressed in black, and a musician. Told Rebecca about the everyone-else-in-nuclear-families-paranoia at which she snorted.

‘Nuclear families? I never see Jake from one month to the next. He’s always off on some gig or tour, and when he appears it’s frequently like having some kind of teenage stoner in the house.’

Then we all came back to our house, and watched
Britain’s Got Talent
while I cooked (i.e. microwaved popcorn) and now the children are asleep. Billy and Finn are over the road, and Mabel and Oleander are here.

Sunday 6 January 2013

Twitter followers 649 (feel like tweeting disappeared followers saying, ‘Why? Why?’).

8 p.m.
Another good day with Rebecca and the kids. Another good evening with me, Mabel and Billy on my bed watching the
Britain’s Got Talent
results while I checked Twitter on my iPhone, tweeting my followers (649) with piercing aperçus on the ongoing programme: e.g. <
@JoneseyBJ
Aww #Chevaune song v. moving totes amazog.>

8.15 p.m.
Ooh. Have got response to my apercu from someone called @_Roxster!

<@_Roxster
@JoneseyBJ #Chevaune song ‘totes amazog’? My tears are getting mixed up with my sick.>

‘Mummy,’ said Billy.

‘Mmmm?’ I said vaguely.

‘Why are you smiling like that?’

DO NOT TWEET WHEN DRUNK

Thursday 10 January 2013

Twitter followers 652, Twitter followers who came back 1, new Twitter followers 2, alcohol units (do not want to even think about it. But – quavering voice – don’t I deserve a little happiness?).

9.30 p.m.
Chloe staying over again after her night out with Graham in Camden. Is nice sitting down at the end of the day and updating myself with current affairs and Twitter with a well-earned glass or two of white wine.

10 p.m.
Woah. Fantastic story: ‘
Beef Lasagne 100% Horse
’.

10.25 p.m.
Hee hee. Just tweeted.

<
@JoneseyBJ
Warning: Fish fingers found to be 90% Sea Horse.>

Sure will be retweeted and bring more followers like spambot tweet!

Maybe will have another glass of wine. I mean, Chloe is here, so is fine.

Love that the tone of my Twitter feed is so loving and friendly. Not like some, where everyone is slagging each other off. Really, is like going back to the days of Robin Hood with all these little fiefdoms and oh . . .

10.30 p.m.
Everyone is slagging me off. And my tweet.

<
@_Sunnysmile
@JoneseyBJ You think that’s a new joke? Don’t you read anyone except yourself on Twitter? Self-obsessed or what?>

Really need another glass of wine now.

10.45 p.m.
Right, am going to tweet back to @sunny or whatever she’s called ’erself and tick her off. So people aren’t allowed to make up their own jokes any more?

11 p.m.
<
@JoneseyBJ
@_Sunnysmile If you don’t stop being mean I will de-follow you.>

11.01 p.m.
<
@JoneseyBJ
@_Sunnysmile Here one spreads joy & positive energy by tweeting. Rather like birds do.>

11.07 p.m.
<
@JoneseyBJ
‘They toil not, neither do they tweet.’ Hmm. No, they do tweet though. Thasu point with birds.>

11.08 p.m.
<
@JoneseyBJ
Anyway f*** em. Stupid birds flapping around tweeting all over s place. Oh oh look at me! I’m a bird!>