Diary of a Single Mother

Today is 'THE' Day

2008-02-05T20:00:00.000Z

I really have to start pulling myself together, and today is 'the day'. I decide to take Scarlet to the library after I pick her up from nursery, for two reasons really, one I need to get out of the house to avoid a) Doug the electrician who resembles the lead singer out of the Flying Pickets and who has the most annoying habit of saying um? after everything he says, like he is asking a question but then when you query it, he looks at you blank and I have little patience for peoples idiosyncrasies at the moment as you can imagine, and b) The Letter. Time is running out, I’m not going to be able to put it off making a decision one way or the other for much longer but today is 'the day' I am going to get myself some self help books, plus Scarlet loves the library.

I park the car in the church car park next door as I am sure being Christians they will understand my plight, the library doesn’t have a car park and I have a phobia about leaving my car parked on the main road ever since a bus decided once to do battle with my precious Morris Minor. The library is a resplendent old fashioned building built by Andrew Carnegie the Philanthropist; I bet he didn’t have to wrestle with exes and single parenthood. Its all fine and dandy being a 'do gooder' if you have fuck all else to do and very few problems of your own, then I realise I am being incredibly mean spirited and feel myself flush with shame. Once in the library, this is as silent as any library can be Scarlet rushes off shouting ‘Mummy, those orange seats that make my bottom itch‘. The draconian librarian looks over her half moon glasses and wrinkles her warty nose in evident disgust, not surprising really, Scarlet whispers over three fields. As my mother would say 'She isn't bred out.' I smile my meekest most apologetic smile at the Nanny McFee look-alike behind the counter; she pointedly ignores me and continues examining a book for rips, scuffs and any form of graffiti.

I follow Scarlet to the children’s section which always looks like a mini hooligan has been let loose. Books are strewn all over the floor, thrown haphazardly into the squat, wood boxes at toddler height, I'm assuming that's so toddlers can just drag the books out and toss them around with vigour. Scarlet parks her bum on the 'itchy bottom' giving seat and picks up a book that has a grumpy looking princess on the front, the title an emblazoning 'I want my Potty.' If I have read this book one thousand times I wouldn’t, well okay yes, I would be exaggerating, but I have read it numerous times so I suggest to Scarlet that seeing as she is a big girl now maybe she could pretend to be a teacher and read the book to her class. She blows a stray ringlet out of her eyes and contemplates my suggestion before agreeing, crossing her legs she picks up the book and starts to chatter on before banging an imaginary pupil on the top of his or her head for being 'naughty'. I make a mental note to interrogate her later about any forms of minor abuse she might be witnessing in the quaint village nursery, but I am here on a mission, I am here to find help, self help, in the form of a book.

I saw a life coach on a daytime programme I was watching, feet up, dunking chocolate digestives into my cup of PG Tips when in reality I should have been researching ideas for my column and was quite impressed with her theory that it is within us all to be high achievers, happy, rich, successful and just as I was becoming slightly bored with what I saw as being a load of rubbish, she gave an example of a case study about a woman, just like me, who had a loser radar installed. To all intents and purposes 'Monica's ' radar had seemed to be in over drive even by my standards but she had embraced the life coaches teachings and had met a wonderful man who now treated her right, brought her ice cream in bed every day, massaged her feet, respected her, was hung like a donkey and looked like a male model. Considering she looked like Huxley Pig, you can imagine my excitement; I was going to read up on this life coach lark, I was going to survive.

With Scarlet happily ensconced chiding her imaginary class before making one of them sit in the naughty corner behind her chair, I meander over to the 'self help' section. What a section. It is positively overflowing, ‘How to get Happy, ‘How to Have the Life you want NOW, ‘Success in Ten Minutes Flat, that kind of thing. The list is bloody endless. I realise there is a self help book for every malady, emotional fuck up and any mental instability that can be found on this planet. I find one that has Life Coach in the title, the front cover has a picture of a deckchair and on the back is a photograph of the author who is the happiest, impish, radiant looking person I have ever seen, I can tell just by looking at her that she is probably damn annoying but the reviews on the back are promising. 'Gloria CAN change your life; don’t leave home without this book in your pocket.' They really should add ‘and if you are in a public library, declare you are borrowing it before slipping it in your pocket.’ 'Not only is Gloria Jackson the most dynamic, positive person you could ever wish to meet, she makes you feel that way about yourself instantly.' I’m right, she probably is damn annoying. I plump for this book anyway; it isn't as chunky as some of the others, a couple of the other books look like they are of Britannica Encyclopaedic proportions.

Scarlet has now moved onto the large table in the middle of the junior section and is happily crayoning away; I take a seat beside her and open my book. I don’t read the preface. I can never be bothered with prefaces, it’s always some message from the author, they have written a whole book, isn't their message going to be clear somewhere its in various chapters? The title of Chapter One: Life is Important. No shit Sherlock I think, of course it’s important, without it we would all be dead. I read the pages and suddenly find myself identifying with what this woman is saying. In a nutshell she is telling me that the fact I have chosen her book, and that I have even thought about life coaching proves I am her kind of person. I’m not too sure if I am happy with this but then she goes on to use great examples of people who have succeeded against the odds through drive and determination, Richard Branson, (always had a crush on him) Anita Roderick (brilliant woman) Martin Luther King (must really make the time to look up his Freedom speech) Andrew Carnegie (apologies for prior comment, must Google him later) Then at the end there are little exercises for you to do. I haven’t got a pen with me and I don’t really fancy doing a life changing exercise with a crayon and I really want to get into this book. I’m itching to get home and get started on my new life and luckily for me Scarlet is getting bored and wants to go home, so I let her choose three books because any more and they are bound to get lost and we get them scanned before leaving. This book has really got me thinking positive, Scarlet grabs hold of my hand, her books under her other arm and we skip through the car park together before I stop dead, scuffing my new boots in the process, my car has been clamped. So much for bloody Christianity.

Electrical Faults and Dilemma's

2008-01-29T16:58:00.001Z

Scarlett looked so cute today as I took her to nursery dressed in a Snow White outfit. She is totally beautiful, dark curly hair and violet coloured eyes. Jim thinks she looks like a mini Elizabeth Taylor, I try to be happy but I’m really upset by Max’s letter. As I kiss my daughter bye at the nursery gates and she bounds off, waving a chubby little hand whilst the other is holding her big, baggy skirt, I wonder if I am being unfair hiding her father from her. I trudge home, my heart feels as heavy as the mist of drizzle that has descended, and on arriving home I sit down to write my column, whilst I put on the television for background noise and Jeremy Kyle’s sanctimonious voice filters through, people are crying and screaming, the girls seem to think leggings are cool whilst blaming their angst on the fact they never knew their father, or the father they knew was a twat. By 10am I am worn out by it all. Maximilian wasn’t from a rough back ground. In many respects he was and probably is, still privileged. I know if he had input in our daughter’s life he would embrace all the things I want for her. He would insist Scarlett washed her hands before meals, said her please and thank you’s, but a section of my heart is still hurt and broken. He wasn’t there at her birth, he wasn’t there to help me with night feeds, and yes goddammit, I think there have been massive parts he missed out on. He wasn’t there when at night I woke up frightened to death that I was going to have to grow up. Crying because I had suddenly given up on all my careless dreams, I wasn’t allowed them any more. Whilst he was plucking chickens in Israel, ‘finding’ himself, I was having scans every week because Scarlett was growing in my womb incorrectly. She could have been downs (75% chance) all the time all he had to think about was where the next chicken leg was coming from. But deep down I hate myself for building up this resentment. I don’t know what to do for the best. I shut down my lap top, writing articles on ‘Why are men and women different’ is having an adverse effect on me. I stifle the urge to drink a glass of wine with my lunch, under the premise that this is what ‘writers’ do.

Doug the electrician arrived to say that whoever had owned the house before me must have been in his words 'a right bloody cowboy'. It transpires that all the fancy lighting under the kitchen cupboards, the alcoves in the sitting room, the lights in the little shed are all rigged up to one point, he ascertained this by going under the floorboards and crawling around with his torch. He did use technical terms but I wasn't really listening, anyway, it isn't a simple job, he needs to return tomorrow with his team of men, which translates as 'this is going to cost you at least double what I originally quoted you.' Great.

Stop the world I want to get Off

2008-01-28T15:09:00.000Z

I woke up today with a stinking hangover. My body was jittery and fragile whilst my mind raced like Schumacher in a new world record bid. My mind jumped from one thing to another, the letter, my illegitimate daughter who now had a father wanting to be a father and the guilt that I hadn’t even woken up to take her to nursery. This doesn’t happen very often I hasten to add but I vaguely remembered Jim saying last night as he helped me upstairs not to worry he would sort it all out. Single mothers need a break sometimes.
(I said that, not Jim, I just remember slurring that one out)

I was in the middle of having a ‘stop the world I want to get off moment’ when the bedroom door opened and Jim appeared with a tray holding a glass of pure orange and a plate of toast and I would have jumped up and kissed him but my head felt like a ton weight sat on my self pitying shoulders.

We spent the rest of the day watching my favourite films as Jim dealt with his client’s queries via his Blackberry. At 12pm he had to dash, he had a meeting with his new client and I assured him I would drag myself back into the land of the living before 5pm in order to collect Scarlett. He set my alarm, pecked my cheek and dashed off, I haven’t been able to get in touch with him all night, I’m getting slightly worried.

2 a.m

I think I am developing separation anxiety. Jim has not called me since he went to deal with his client and I can’t sleep. Max’s letter has sent me right back to square one as I toss and turn trying to get comfy and praying for sleep to engulf me and put me out of my misery. I’d take a Nytol but it’s too late now, I simply can’t afford to overlie tomorrow. I have the workmen in tomorrow. They are carrying out extensive works to make the cottage safe, since it transpires the electrics are fucked. I discovered this little nugget of information when Fred my Persian cat decided to piss in the corner of the living room right near an electric socket and it had erupted and spat forth sparks like an errant firework before stopping like a squib and then the flames had appeared. Scarlett thought it was great, it was like bonfire night on a smaller scale, my panic and hysteria had soon dampened her delight.

I think I need someone to drill some sense into me, or at least fuck some sense into me. Now that would be cool.

Another year over

2008-01-27T14:50:00.000Z

I had lunch with Jim today at the Olive Grove in town. It’s my favourite place to dine because the interior is swish and fancy but the prices on the menu don’t reflect the effort the owner Marco de Blackio has put into the refurbishment. You have to book in advance but usually just a day ahead instead of three years like other top notch places.

Marco makes the best Italian pasta dishes in the word and wears the tightest pants to known to man which always brightens my lunch no matter how shitty I am feeling. Plus Marco always throws in a free bottle of wine for me making me feel incredibly special.

Jim looks tired and spends half an hour telling me how he is designing an incredibly difficult website and I would give you the details but I heard the word website and promptly switched off, resorting to throwing in a few ‘ahhs’ and ‘Oh my Gods’ For someone so good looking and witty, at times Jim can be terribly dull when he gets into his work mode. Luckily he shuts up after 31 minutes and turns his attentions to real life.

Jim is every girls dream in lots of respects. He doesn’t have that intrinsic selfishness that most men develop due to their mothers spoiling them, mainly because Jim hates his mum which is alarming I agree, but it saves me getting bored of him. He is like an onion, loads of layers and his jokes which are inevitably terribly sick bring tears to my eyes and he adds that certain something to my life, oh and he is always there, so exactly like an onion in my opinion. No dish would be worth serving without onions being in it, without Jim in my life I would be okay but it would be like eating chilli con carne with no kidney beans.

Today we discussed Jim’s lack of sex and my ex Max Birtwistle, and his name is so apt because I know you read it out loud and think ‘what a cock he sounds’ Well he does and he behaves like one to boot. I received a letter from him today asking if he could see our daughter Scarlett. Apparently he is feeling guilty about not seeing her and it is playing on his mind and maybe he did act in haste when he left me in the lurch. I carefully guided the conversation away from Jim’s lack of a sex life, if he had a girlfriend he would be less attentive to me. Selfish I know, but hey, I never said I was perfect.

Jim suggested that I reply by saying ‘Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn’.
I promptly threw my bread stick at him for taking the piss out of Scarlett’s name but the letter has left me feeling all confused. I drank an extra glass of wine to deal with the confusion, the extra glass became a bottle and Jim had to drive me home, agreeing to play the doting Godfather by collecting Scarlett from nursery, saying it was the least he could do under the circumstances and although he loves Scarlett he couldn’t risk having her living with him full time because the social services get a whiff of the fact that I might be an alcoholic. As you can see, Jim can be pretty droll at times.

I remember reading Max’s letter one more time before passing out. I really need to stop drinking wine.

The history

2007-12-31T20:00:00.000Z

I called my daughter Scarlett after Scarlett O Hara. Gone with the Wind was always my favourite film as a child. I loved the dresses and she is my favourite screen idol, Betty Boop excluded of course.

Scarlet’s father is no longer on the scene. He decided that a life on a Kabbutz was far more preferable than sticking around and welcoming his daughter into the world. I have a knack of attracting losers.

His excuse was that he wanted to be at one with nature and find his spirituality. This was a guy who freaked out if his Armani suit was creased.

‘Does this mean you are searching for God?’ I asked as I dipped my breadstick into the garlic mayonnaise before promptly feeling like I was going to chuck up. The smell of garlic was suddenly having a totally negative effect on my system as my stomach churned in protest. I would have preferred morning sickness, one chuck up and then feeling okay for the rest of the day, but no, in pregnancy, my body had decided it hated the smell of garlic. Seeing as we were sat in my favourite Italian restaurant at the time only added to my pain.

My question lulled him into a false sense of security and never one to miss an opportunity (he worked in marketing after all) or a get out clause, Max, christened Maximillian, (I kid you not) had nodded emphatically before taking both of my hands in his, his mocha chocha brown eyes swimming with tears.
‘I’m so glad you understand. You have always been so understanding, it brings a lump to my throat’
‘I’ll welcomingly rid you of the lump with my bare hands’, I retorted and it certainly wasn’t an idle threat, I wanted to choke the fucking living daylights out of him.
‘You should have thought about your spirituality and relationship with God whilst you were getting down to nature with me’ I hissed, aware that the couple on the next table to us had gone briefly quiet as they nibbled on their after dinner mints like two demented chip munks. I flashed an evil look in the woman’s direction. I could practically see her heavily bejewelled ears waggle as she tried to grasp every word of our conversation as my world fell apart.
‘Please don’t make a scene’ Max pleaded. ‘I just want to get my head straight before the baby is born. I didn’t say I was going forever’.
I wanted to believe him because the strain on my mind and soul was as tight as a mistuned guitar, the hormones were surging through my body at a rate of knots and despite my anger I suddenly found myself sobbing with self pity and panic fluttered in my chest threatening to suffocate me from the inside out. I fled the restaurant with Max chasing after me. I jumped in the nearest black cab and left him waving his arms at me as I looked out of the rear window, tears trickling down my cheeks. Oh the drama of it all. It was like something out of an Ultravox 80’s music video.

I soon snapped back to my angry self as the hormones turned the left and then surged onto an opposite path. ‘I will survive without the bastard’ I announced Gloria Gaynor style. . ‘Anyone can father a child, it takes a real man to be a daddy’.
The taxi driver pulled up outside my cottage, took my ten pound note and practically threw my change at me, before wheel skidding off in his haste to get away.

I would love to say I kept up the fighting talk but I spent nine months yo- yoing from a self pitying Princess Di type to a murderous, vindictive bitch that I am sure would even have put Joan Rivers and her caustic tongue to shame.

Through it all Jim was by my side, like a loyal faithful Labrador. Sharpening knives with me to stab into Max’s back one minute, to passing me bundles of Kleenex tissues and oodles of Ben and Jerry ice cream the next as snot and tears dripped out of me.

As my bump got bigger and bigger, Jim was always there to hold me up as I waddled along, complaining as my feet swelled and my body was overtaken by mother nature. He even attended classes with me and despite his phobia over blood he promised to be my birthing partner, which in turn meant of course he was frequently mistaken as the father to be, after trying to explain the situation twice we gave up, mainly because I got pretty irate and emotional.

People often ask why we aren’t together as a couple? We both react by bursting out laughing like two demented teenagers at the ludicrousness of it all. Me and Jim? Jim and me? How fucking ridiculous, besides I have always had a sneaking suspicion he is gay!