Chapter 8

It was bitterly cold last night. Wild vicious easterly winds pissed down with vertical pinpricks of rain that left any skin it came into contact with looking like raw meat on a butcher’s slab.
I already felt slightly dishevelled as I sat in Charles’ Range Rover when he drew up outside Humpington Hall for Squire Percy’s dinner. Why I threw caution to the wind and wore a lacy cardigan and pashmina instead of my old warm coat, God only knows. Okay, sheer unadulterated vanity. But why wear a coat that adds five years to your age when you can wear a sexy cardie that takes five years off instead?
I should have listened to aunty Thelma when she came to baby-sit Joey. "I should wrap up warm dear if I were you," she warned,"You’ll catch your death if you go out dressed like that."
I gaily dismissed her wise advice with a wave of my hand as I sashayed round the kitchen, hand on hip in my satin frock and six inch stiletto-heeled platform sling-backs.
"I’ve got a choice of either cold and glam, or warm and dowdy, and I definitely don’t do dowdy," I laughed, before merrily going to open the front door to Charles.
I reasoned that I would only have to walk from my house to the car and then from the car to the Hall. So wrong. By a cruel, cruel twist of fate the remote central locking system on Charles’ Range Rover went haywire the minute I reached for the passenger door. Even though it only took a couple of minutes to right itself, it was long enough to make me feel as cold and stiff as a corpse and the wind and rain to whip my hair into Rastafarian dreadlocks with a crazy beehive. It took the three miles to the Hall with the car’s heating on full blast to defrost my jaw.
We travelled almost half-a-mile down a long drive lined with ancient oaks before the bleak stone facade of Humpington Hall loomed out of the inky darkness in the glare of the Range Rover’s headlights.
As the wheels scrunched over the gravel, the lights picked out the Hall’s architectural idiosyncrasies. Twin medieval circular turrets dominated an eclectic range of styles that had been added on over the centuries to the original timbered great central hall and undercroft, built in the 1300s by the founding Lyle de Stocking’s.
Charles parked a short drive away from the Hall next to a row of cars, including Delia’s infamous navy Freelander. I braced myself as I pushed open the car door against the powerful force of the wind, only for a huge gust to swing it open with such violence that I tumbled out in a most unladylike fashion to land in an undignified heap flat on my back with my legs akimbo.
Charles rushed round and gallantly picked me up off the ground. "Love your pink knickers," he yelled with an appreciative leer before opening a huge black umbrella that proved absolutely useless in the teeth of the stormy night turning inside out in an instant. He grabbed my arm and bent double, we slowly made our way to the cavernous Gothic porch with the family motto, Rise up and Conquer inscribed in the stone. I stood huddled against the nail studded door with my pashmina draped unflatteringly round my head like a beggar woman. I was frozen and stiff with cold and my teeth chattered so loudly they sounded like a cacophony of mating grasshoppers.
While Charles pulled the heavy doorbell I cursed myself for my profound vanity and stupidity for not wearing my coat. After all, it is a designer label I reminded myself, even though I got it from Age Concern for a tenner. The warm inviting interior of the hall seemed to mock me as it shone out from between the chinks of heavy wooden shutters folded across the inside of the windows to keep out the icy blast. According to the locals it flies unimpeded from the remote and frozen slopes of the Urals in Russia, across the North Sea and the flat fields of Lincolnshire, directly to Ruddlesex. Sometimes, if it’s in the right direction, I can taste the salt from the sea pounding along the shore a hundred miles to the east when I stand on one of the windy ridges overlooking the small, fertile, undulating valleys outside the village .
"Where’s that old crone, Mrs Hoare?" Charles muttered through clenched teeth as he pulled on the bell for what seemed like the hundredth time. "I cannot see the sense in employing a woman to open the door who’s as deaf as a post and as slow as a tortoise. We’ll have frozen to death before she gets her slippers into gear."
Turning to see me huddled in the corner like a drowned rat, he opened wide his cashmere coat and invited me to cuddle up inside. "Sod it," I thought as I wound my frozen arms around his back and pushed my face into the welcoming warmth of his scarf. "Just because I’ve accepted his kind offer of refuge from the storm and the sharing of his body heat, doesn’t mean he’ll be silly and assume it’s an invitation for anything else." Wrong. Soon after our bodies made contact I became acutely aware that he had a massive hard-on.
How can a man experience a stiffy in subzero temperatures? I thought with incredulity. If he knocks it against anything it’s likely to snap. Unless rigor mortis is setting in I thought as I lost all sensation in my feet.
I was saved by any further amorous advances by the sound of the great wooden door opening with a creak of its massive ornate hinges. The face of Mrs Hoare, lined with more contours than a map of Everest appeared in the gloom, before disappearing behind the door that opened to reveal a magnificent timber roofed hall with black oak panelled walls and a huge stone fireplace with logs as big as small trees burning in the grate.
Charles, obviously aware of the big bulge in his trousers, suddenly looked distinctly discomforted and seemed reluctant to let go of me. And, as my body temperature had dropped to what seemed like freezing point, my limbs felt locked to Charles like a frozen ice cube to a warm lip.
Unsure of how to proceed, we shuffled sideways into the house like conjoined twins, drawn like magnets to the blazing hearth, under the disapproving glare of Mrs Hoare. It was here that Percy found us as he bounded forward to greet his guests.
"Hi Charlie old boy," he said, slapping his friend heartily on the back. "Is this you’re latest squeeze then?"
He stared intently into my face before pronouncing in a very pleased, loud voice, "We have met before haven’t we, I never forget a face, you’re the doggie woman aren’t you?"
Charles looked faintly shocked. "Doggie woman?"
Percy threw back his head and laughed revealing two rows of perfectly straight white teeth. I hastened to explain to Charles about my little adventure with Flossie and then turned to Percy to congratulate him for recognising me after such a brief encounter.
"I must have looked a complete fright I was so hot and bothered and my hair was all over the place," I laughed, casually turning to glance into the magnificent ornate mirror hanging above the fireplace.
My eyes widened in horror as a ravaged face stared back. Think ‘Mortica does Alice Cooper.’ My hair had gone completely haywire around my face, white except for flushed red checks and black eyeliner that had streaked into two black triangles.
"OMAGOD," I shrieked.
Percy smiled and said in jest, "Oh, so you don’t always look like this then?"
To cover up my obvious confusion and embarrassment he beckoned to Mrs Hoare and asked her to show me to the nearest bathroom so I could repair the damage. "Show her into the drawing room when she’s ready," he said and then, tenderly pushing a tendril of hair from across my forehead and looking deeply and longingly into my eyes he whispered, "I’m quite sure you are really very beautiful."
My heart, and another certain part of my anatomy, quickened and I felt like reaching out to run my fingers over his soft perfect lips.
"Chop, chop," said Charles breaking the spell as he took Percy’s arm and marched him off. "Make haste and join us as soon as you can."
It took a while to redo my makeup which had suffered serious structural damage. And although I dragged a comb through my hair it still refused to calm down and hung in damp wild curls around my face.
I followed Mrs Hoare to the drawing room. She shuffled along at a snail’s pace, in worn sheepskin slippers. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves as I entered the room elegantly furnished with antiques. The walls were decorated with faded tapestries and huge cracked oil paintings of cows and horses hung alongside portraits of long dead De Lyles.
I suddenly became acutely aware that a host of male eyes suddenly seemed to have locked onto my chest with the accuracy of short-range guided nuclear missiles. I blushed furiously as I realised that my indrawn breath had accentuated the fact that I wasn’t wearing a bra and my erect nipples, which hadn’t had time to defrost, were starkly outlined beneath my damp satin frock which clung to my curves like a second skin.
Feeling flustered I frantically tried to smooth them down with my hands only to arouse them further until they were so rigid and stiff they were positively pornographic.
Percy’s father, Sir Walter, was positively drooling in his wheelchair by the fire. His eyes bulged and his mouth dropped open and a piece of chewed olive fell onto the tartan rug covering his knees.
"My Gad, she’s a decent bit of horseflesh," he said. "I demand that she sits next to me at dinner."
Hastily pulling my cardigan together I went over to Delia who was tittering into a glass of sherry.
‘Do you think you could flash your tits under Henry’s nose, with a bit of luck it might give him a heart attack,’ she whispered.
I looked over to Henry who was warming his buttocks by the fire as he flirted with a young bottle blond woman with a radioactive tango orange tan.
"I think she must be the new woman who’s moved into the restored coach house on the estate," I observed to Delia. "And that middle-aged bloke over there with the matching tan and leather trousers has got to be her husband."
Delia cast a critical eye over him. "He calls himself a business consultant but I’ve heard he’s an asset stripper. Made all his money in the 1980s. Can you believe it, he’s wearing child molester shoes, look, shiny loafers with a gold chain."
We continued to dissect the couple critically for the next few minutes, dragging out their fashion sense and social status like bloodied entrails, poking around for signs of disease. We finally decided they were ‘new money,’ probably swingers with his ‘n’ hers towelling bathrobes and a villa in Spain.
"That dress is Versace," said Delia. It costs £335, 45p and it’s made of polyester."
I was just about to offer another juicy observation when I suddenly became aware of someone standing at my shoulder. It was Gladys Poole. Gladys has worked at the Hall as a housekeeper for as long as I can remember. I bet the tied cottage she lives in on the estate with Cess must be worth a bomb, but he's there for life working on the land just as his father and generations of Poole’s have done since the year dot.
"Sherry?" asked Gladys.
"Thank you, that would be nice," I said, "or maybe not, maybe I should stick to soft drinks. Thelma doesn’t like it if I go home whiffing of alcohol."
"So it’s a soft drink then?" said Gladys shuffling off.
She brought me a sweet sherry. I looked at Delia and shrugged. "I hate sweet sherry," I said wrinkling my nose up with disgust.
"Word’s going round there’s a family crisis," whispered Delia. Lady Horsham mentioned it to Percy before you came in after Gladys had spilt gin all over Sir Walter. She’s all at sixes and sevens."
I glanced around the rest of the large spacious room to see Lord and Lady Horsham deep in conversation with Camilla and Neville Shotley, two big cheeses in the hunting fraternity. Camilla shuddered as she caught my glance from across the room. Camilla and Neville treat me with complete disdain just in case they’re tainted by association with my side of the family. It's not my fault we're distantly related on Dad's side. I think it was Camilla’s great grandfather Arthur who was a cousin of my great grandfather Joel. I suppose I'm lucky, their side of the family inherited most of the land, the money and the buck teeth. Our side inherited a few acres, a flair for business, brains and good looks. Much better deal in my book.
I gave her a little wave. Her face momentarily tightened before relaxing into a saccharine smile.
"Well, well, it’s the bitch queen from hell and her outrider," I remarked to Delia. She can’t stomach the pair of them either but puts up with them as they're big hunting chums of Henry.
As my eyes scanned the rest of the room I came to the conclusion that the chance of any decent talent appearing was negligible until Percy appeared at the door of the drawing room and invited us all to follow him into the dining room. Sitting at the table was the most unutterably and indescribably beautiful man I’ve ever clapped eyes on.
"I think Michelangelo's David has metamorphosed into flesh and appeared as a guest." I said turning to Delia.
"What was that?" said Charles who had just joined us after chatting to Sir Walter.
"Er, I was just saying how Michelangelo's David was the most memorable highlight of my holiday in Italy, a masterpiece of classical sculpture whose exquisite lines are only rivalled by Donatello’s David in the Bargello."
Charles looked impressed as he sat down next to me at the table. "Didn’t know you were an art expert," he said.
"I just dabble," I improvised wildly, changing the subject by commenting that the cutlery was rather attractive. I saw Camilla’s eyes narrow in disapproval at the observation which I’m sure she considered to be very vulgar.
"Cow," I thought.
I was joined on my right by Sir Walter who was wheeled to the table by Gladys, while Percy sat at the head flanked by the gorgeous guest who was joined by Delia. She looked across at me and smiled before briefly sucking her index finger in a very suggestive manner. Torturer.
I was told by Charles not to expect haute cuisine as all the meals at the Hall are cooked by Gladys and Mrs Hoare who’s repertoire hasn’t been updated since the 1950s. The only attraction of a dinner invitation is the wine cellar, it's impressive and extensive, lined with fine wine and port from some of the best vintages of the last century.
As the starter was served Percy introduced the gorgeous guest as Seamus O’ Neill, a distant relation and old student friend from their days at agricultural college in Cirencester. Seamus it appears hails from County Kerry in Southern Ireland where he lives in the converted stables at the vast family pile, surrounded by thousands of acres of land and tenanted property that has been in the family for generations. Must remember to check out cheap flights on Ryanair.
"Seamus' family is one of the oldest in Ireland," said Percy proudly, "pure Irish blood. One hundred per cent proof. I’m a little less pure," he laughed with a naughty wink, "But traces of it run in my blood from my mother’s side of the family."
"How quaint," said Camilla patronisingly as she turned to speak to Seamus across Henry and Delia, " how did your family manage to stay so Irish, is it because Kerry is so wild and inhospitable? I believe it’s a vast peat bog with clouds of savage midges and continuous rain."
Seamus casually leaned back and draped his arm over the back of his chair before answering in a beautiful, lyrical Irish lilt. "Ah, no, it’s because we fought off the fuckin’ English bastards that tried to steal our country from us. The O’Neill’s are a proud family, we never arse licked no one."
As he spoke he drew a battered packet of Woodbines from his pocket and withdrew a very large hand-rolled cigarette .
"Do you mind if I smoke?" he said to Camilla’s shocked face, "or does it offend your delicate English sensibilities?" It’s maybe okay to murder a few Irish leprechauns but you must observe your table manners?" He lit his cigarette.
Camilla looked stony faced.
‘I’m from County Kerry," a quiet voice suddenly piped up. We all turned to look at the bottle blond who went on to fill the embarrassed silence with an account of her childhood in Cork which she left reluctantly to take up a place at Trinity College Dublin to read social anthropology.
Delia and I looked at each other a tad shamefaced. Slightly out in our calculations. Soon Seamus and the bottle blond, who introduced herself as Mary, were entertaining us with stories about their wild and beautiful county. It wasn’t long before the wine and conversation flowed as freely as the fragrant smoke from Seamus' cigarette drifting over the table.
‘Damn fine tobacco, that," remarked Sir Walter sniffing the air, "smells very sweet. It reminds me of when I was doing my National Service in the Middle East during Suez. We bartered with the locals. Came home with sacks full of frankincense. Used to burn it after dinner. Cracking stuff, you could fart like billy-o and no one would notice."
Everyone laughed except Camilla. Neville managed a weak smile.
‘I hope I haven't offended your delicate ears," said Sir Walter turning to me and laying a hand on my arm.
"Oh no," I replied smiling. "I’m as tough as old boots."
"Good," he said, "I don’t believe in upsetting attractive dinner guests."
He turned to Percy, "Fine woman don’t you think? Glorious, breasts like a brace of plump woodcocks. Decent handful."
Percy blushed. "Reminds me of your mother," reminisced Sir Percy staring into his wine. "Fine woman, a bit gamey, but that’s how I liked it. Earthy."
Percy’s face registered complete shock. "He can be a bit ga ga sometimes," he said hastily and then he beckoned to Mrs Hoare and asked her to take his father to the bathroom.
"What the hell’s going on Mrs Hoare?" Sir Walter roared, pronouncing her name as Mrs Whore as she obediently wheeled him off. Percy explained apologetically that his father resorted to addressing her like that when he was in a strop. Sir Walter returned very perplexed as the pudding was being served and the incident was forgotten, although the description of Percy’s mother struck me as very odd. I distinctly remember the late Lady Venetia De Lyle Stocking from when I was a child. She was a remote, thin, highly strung woman who used to pray very devoutly in church holding onto a string of rosary beads, much to the consternation of the rector who was very ‘low church.’ "Neurotic," my mother used to call her. She died when Percy was fifteen among wild rumours that she committed suicide, although the official story was that she died of pneumonia after a lifetime suffering with a weak chest.
After we had eaten dessert and a huge selection of cheeses made with milk from the farm, we retired to the drawing room to wait for coffee to be served. Seamus by this time was on his third cigarette and the atmosphere was decidedly relaxed.
Sir Walter was insistent that I sat next to him so he could quiz me about my life.
"So, are you and Charles courting or are you on the market?" he asked as he swirled a large brandy around in a glass.
"Charles and I are just friends," I told him.
"Damn fool him then," Sir Walter said.
Camilla, who was standing close by with Lord and lady Horsham interrupted our conversation to inform Sir Walter that I was divorced and that my ex-husband was Giles Pearce who lives in Stainsby. "A good and decent man who really deserved better," she said, turning to Lord and Lady Horsham. "We stay in touch for the sake of their child, he appreciates it."
What rot, I thought, Giles and I, while we might have fought like cat and dog agreed on one thing, that Camilla is a dreadful social climber, a snob and a stirrer.
"And which one of your friends is babysitting for Joseph tonight?" she asked bitchily as though the poor child were posted around like a parcel.
"Oh, he’s with our aunty Thelma," I replied sweetly. "You know our aunty Thelma, don’t you?" I said to Lady Horsham. "She’s the sister of my mother Vera who does meals on wheels with you on a Friday."
Camilla’s face looked like thunder.
"I know Thelma, she sometimes plays the organ in church," said Lady Horsham. Percy who had been politely half listening to our conversation suddenly brightened.
"Do you mean Thelma who used to teach at the village school?" he asked wistfully. "I will never forget Thelma. She understood me. You see, I," he started to stammer, "I was rather bullied at school, and, well Thelma, she used to encourage me. I was devastated when I went up to Eton." He stammered to a stop and we all fell silent. Camilla gave him an odd stare as she took a cup of coffee from a tray being held by Gladys Poole.
"You were bullied because you were a namby pamby girl’s blouse," said Sir Walter roughly, that’s why I sent you off to school. Your mother mollycoddled you."
The silence was shattered by a loud crash as Gladys dropped the tray laden with cups full of coffee onto the floor. Her hands flew up to hide her face and then she bent to down, scrabbling around trying to pick up the pieces.
"Clumsy woman," muttered Camilla as she brushed coffee off her dress.
Gladys apologised as she started to clear up the mess. As I bent down to help her Sir Walter motioned us to leave it. "Send for that good-for-nothing stable lad, he can clean it up," he said as Glady's tottered off.
I almost dropped my own cup of coffee when Neville sidled up to me and to my complete surprise apologised for Camilla’s cowish behaviour. His voice slurred slighty as he said, "I think I know what went wrong between you and Giles. After all, you were so young and beautiful, absolutely luscious. Giles as an older, more mature man should have realised that you were too hot to handle."
I felt him stroke his hand down my spine as he leant towards me and whispered, "Ignore Camilla, the tight-arsed bitch......."
"Neville!" he stood to attention immediately as though a poker had been shoved up his backside as Camilla came bearing down on us like a battleship in full steam.
I scarpered quick and joined Delia who it seemed had found a soulmate in Seamus. It seems that he had given up managing one of the family’s farms to set himself up as a potter with his own studio.
He lay sprawled in a leather armchair by the fire. His chest, which could easily qualify as 'Torso of the Week' in Heat magazine was visible through a crumpled frilly cheesecloth shirt. A real pant wetter. He wore a green faded velvet jacket with beautiful soft denim jeans ripped at the knee and soft suede moccasin mules with tassels. I felt myself dribbling into my coffee.
Charles wandered over and placed his arm possessively around my waist and began to chat to Seamus about Irish history which he obviously knew very little about. Seamus listened politely until his attention was caught by the entrance of the stable lad who appeared with a dustpan and brush and a cloth over his arm.
He casually asked Percy who he was.
"None of your business," said Percy who wandered over to join us. Seamus looked piqued, shrugged his shoulders and changed the subject. It wasn’t long before the lad came over and asked Percy if he was satisfied that the carpet had been sufficiently cleaned. Seamus smiled invitingly at the lad and asked him his name, how old he was and if he lived locally.
‘My name is Thomas sir and I’m nineteen and I live here at the Hall."
Seamus smiled at him and stretched like a cat before slipping off his moccasins to reveal his feet with toenails painted a bright pink.
" Why would a man paint his toenails pink?" I asked Charles on the way home in the car.
"Because he bats for the other side, my dear girl," replied Charles.
I refuse to believe it. It would be too, too cruel. He's just asking for the love of a beautiful woman. Preferably me. And soon.
‘I don’t know about you but my head feels very strange," I said to Charles as we drew up outside my house. "The wine must have been very strong."
Charles undid his seat belt and fixed me with a peculiar stare as if I was a simpleton. "More to do with Seamus's wacky backy," he murmured as put his hand around my face and drew it towards him.
‘You are so beddable, it’s not true," he said hoarsely as his tongue made it’s way down the back of my throat playing tonsil tennis with all the finesse of a Dinarod dislodging a blockage.
I hastily pulled back. "Aunty Thelma might see," I said all flustered.
"Don’t torment me," he said roughly. He put his hands on my thighs and then slid them up under my dress and into my stocking tops. I struggled to push him off.
"Don’t, don’t," he moaned, bending his head and burying it in my lap. I felt his whole body tremble and for a moment I felt a reciprocal response as his urgency seemed to consume us both. I must be bloody sexstarved I thought as the light from the moon shone into the car illuminating his shiny bald head freckled like an egg. It dampened my desire to the status of a chaste and virginal nun. I opened the door and let in a draft of air, fresh after the storm. He groaned.
"Another time maybe, " I said as I made my escape, wobbly legging it up the drive like a new born calf in my slingbacks.
"Nice night?" asked aunty Thelma who had spent the evening catching up on episodes of Coronation Street on the video.
‘Interesting," I said as I flopped down on the sofa and kicked off my shoes with relief.
"Very interesting."

Chapter 7

Joey looked disdainfully at the blue and white plant pot holder shaped like a clog. I’d dug it out from the back of a cupboard for his school bazaar’s tombola.
"Ashley’s mum does cakes, and cheese straws," he said accusingly.
He stood there, arms akimbo with a scowl on his face, then, wrinkling up his nose and pursing his lips, he gingerly picked up the offending object from the kitchen table. He examined it closely as if he were an expert from Sotheby’s, before discarding it with disgust.
"It’s rubbish."
It was difficult to disagree. The clog was crap. Nevertheless, I felt obliged to defend the wretched thing and my magnanimity and generosity in donating it to a good cause.
"It’s from Holland," I said defensively, as if this automatically increased its value. "Aunty Thelma bought it back full of tulip bulbs, from Delft."
Joey pondered on this piece of information thoughtfully and then announced, "It’s still rubbish. You say everything in aunty Thelma’s house is rubbish. You say she’s got a heart of gold but the style and taste of a chav."
Why, when I'm in a hole do I unwisely keep digging?
"Never," I exclaimed in an artificially high falsetto voice. "Aunty Thelma’s house reflects her personality, it’s, it’s original." I floundered, waving my arms vaguely in the air as if searching for inspiration, "and it’s full of, of...."
"Kitsch," interjected Joey.
I glared.
"You’ve said it lots of times," he reminded me. "And anyway, if all her stuff’s so nice and priceless, why are you giving it away?"
I stood there flummoxed. My shoulders sagged and I conceded defeat. ‘We could fill it with sweets," I implored. "And it wouldn’t take five minutes to make some flapjacks."
Sensing victory, Joey decided to push home his advantage to see if he could secure further strategic gains.
"Okay," he sniffed. And then, looking decidedly smug, he overplayed his hand.
"Maybe we could make a fancy dress costume as well. Ashley’s mum’s made him a hobbit’s outfit." He studied my impassive face. "It’s got papier mache feet and pointy ears."
I rubbed my hands wearily across my eyes, tired and red-rimmed from the copious weeping fit following my speed-dating cock-up.
"Ashley’s mum’s got a cleaner, a gardener, a husband, she doesn’t go out to work and she has all her ironing delivered in a van," I said in a voice laced with envy.
Then a thought suddenly struck me. "Anyway, how long have you known about this fancy dress costume lark, I can’t remember having a note about it from your teacher?"
Joey squirmed.
"It couldn’t by any chance be lurking about in the bottom of your school bag, could it?" I asked archly. "The temporal vortex where things just mysteriously disappear?"
"Whatever," he said, shrugging nonchalantly as he wandered over to the pantry.
"I suppose Ashley’s mum could rustle you up a fancy dress costume out of thin air," I said. I felt well peeved, trust me to be the only mother at the bazaar with a fancy dressless child.
"Bet," said Joey.
I felt the familiar wave of a grave sense of injustice overwhelm me. It reminded me that despite the fact that Ashley’s mum is a thoroughly decent, kind and inoffensive woman, I often wish that she were dead. At least three or four times a week in fact. Whatever feeble efforts I make at motherhood, Ashley’s mum always does it better. Heaps. I simply can’t compete. She is to me what an Olympic athlete is to a contestant running in a local marathon with the stamina of a truss-wearing octogenarian suffering from a hernia.
I followed Joey into the pantry and scanned the shelves for the necessary ingredients; "syrup, flour, sugar, salt, margarine, oats," I muttered as I grabbed stuff from the shelves and the fridge.
I passed Joey the ingredients as I found them, but it soon became obvious that there were no porridge oats.
"Oats, oats, please God let me find some oats," I muttered beseechingly. My search became more and more frenzied as it slowly dawned on me that I hadn’t got any.
My pantry is like my life, I thought, smiling bitterly at the cruel analogy, it’s an oats-free-zone.
"What’s so funny?" asked Joey.
"Life," I said.
"Does that mean I can’t take any flapjacks to the bazaar?"
His bottom lip began to wobble and his big blue eyes started to swim with ushered tears.
"Of course not ," I said with more hope than conviction
How odd that a child should sense the correlation between comedy and tragedy I thought as I smoothed back his hair from his forehead. "But, if you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, we are not going to make any flapjacks unless I drive like a bat out of hell to the shops in Downmarket. The problem is it would waste too much time driving around looking for a non-existent parking space."
Joey’s eyes widened in fear.
"Or," I said suddenly inspired, "you could pop round to aunty Thelma next door to see if she’s got any."
Joey was out of the door like a flash.
If anyone’s got a spare box of porridge oats floating about I thought, Thelma’s the most likely candidate, because despite the fact that she lives alone, her weekly shop is so huge it could be delivered in a skip. I’m sure she’s got a reinforced trolley reserved for her at the Co-op.
"You never know when you might get caught short," is a favourite aunty Thelma maxim. Any potential world crisis such as a war in the Middle East, or a radioactive leak from a nuclear power station, spurs her into buying industrial quantities of toilet rolls and bottled water, and the first flakes of snow acts as a trigger to fill her three freezers to bursting point. She’s got bottled runner beans going back to the 1970s.
"I lived through the war," she explained to me once. "We used to have to recycle our sanitary towels, scrub them clean with scraps of boiled soap. If the Germans had reached Ruddlesex my dear, we would have been totally unprepared. Mother wasn’t a planner."
The only drawback with Thelma’s food stash I remembered as I saw Joey running joyfully up the garden path with a packet of oats under his arm, is that everything’s usually well past its sell-by-date.
Joey burst into the kitchen bringing with him the scent of autumn and the chill of the dying year.
"I’ve got some Mum," he panted, "and aunty Thelma says she will be across soon to help."
I quickly grabbed the clog and shoved it under the sink before getting out the mixing bowl and scales. Joey blew a layer of dust off the top of the packet before handing it to me. I studied it carefully, only six weeks out of date, insignificant in the circumstances. Surely, any weevils or fungi bits will be incinerated in the oven. Anyway it was a balance between the negligible health risks and my sanity if I didn't get the blasted things made.
Soon the kitchen was a hive of frantic culinary activity with the ingredients being weighed and stirred while Flossie zoomed round hoovering up the crumbs from the floor, wagging her stubby tail with unashamed ecstasy. When aunty Thelma’s head popped round the door it was followed by a pile of folded cereal boxes, coloured paper and a bag of old plastic margarine boxes balanced precariously in her arms.
Within a couple of hours thirty-six delicious flapjacks lay resplendent on the kitchen table and, as if by magic, Joey was transformed into a cardboard pterodactyl complete with a mask and margarine pots slung round his arms like plastic vertebrae sporting magnificent glued-on wings.
"Nigh on thirty years teaching in a primary school comes in handy sometimes," said aunty Thelma as she surveyed her handiwork.
"You’re a star," I said as I kissed her, before rushing out the door laden down with two biscuit tins full of flapjacks.
"You’re bad," said Joey as he manoeuvred his wings into the car.
"What makes you say that?" I queried innocently as I pulled out of the drive.
"You’ve got aunty Thelma’s clog hidden in your bag."
I took a deep breath and frantically tried to think up a suitably impressive excuse but failed miserably.
"Do you think we should keep it then?" I asked him.
He shook his head so vigorously in affirmation that his wings rattled.
"Aunty Thelma’s kind and it would be rank to chuck it."
I felt truly chastened by the time we arrived at the school to queue with crowds of bored parents and excited children to get into the main hall. We were confronted with the familiar ragbag assortment of games and stalls selling recycled junk, while teas were being served against a backdrop of the school orchestra screeching like a cacophony of tom cats being castrated simultaneously.
Joey flapped around excitedly in his fancy dress costume begging for a ticket for the bran tub and a go on the rubber coconut shy.
I was suddenly overcome with a massive sense of ennui as the noise and an overwhelming smell of wax crayons and stale pee seeped into my brain. I handed over a fiver telling him to spend it wisely and then sank gratefully onto a hard wooden chair to enjoy a cup of tea and a bun.
As I watched him run over to Ashley to show off his fancy dress costume my mobile phone rang.
"Hi, it’s Mervin. We’ve got to talk."
My heart sank as I switched to automatic pilot as his plaintive drone bored into my brain like a pneumatic drill. He launched into an epic emotional saga charting my speed dating betrayal. I visualised him, a quivering mass of indignant bristly jelly and distinctively shuddered at the thought.
I gave a yawn as wide as the channel tunnel as I listened to the predictable self-indulgent rant I’d heard from so many men over the years; the palpable sexual chemistry between us thwarted only by my refusal to face up to my repressed sexual urges, how, if I’d only let go I could climb to untold heights of ecstasy and achieve shuddering multiple orgasms that would make my teeth rattle.
"I’m prepared to give you a second chance," he said, pausing for breath.
"I’ll let you know," I said as I turned the phone off and slung it in my bag with more force then was necessary. Dream on, I thought.
Mind if I sit here?" said a voice suddenly.
I turned to see Julia, Ashley’s mum had sat down next to me, her usually placid and perfectly made-up face drawn with school-bazaar-induced stress.
Feel free," I said grateful for a distraction from Mervin's drivel.
We chatted away about the humdrum issues that fixate parents, the iniquitous injustice of SATS, and the progress of the PTAto raise funds for basic school equipment. And then, in the middle of a conversation slagging off the naughtiness of other people’s children in an attempt to delude ourselves that our kids were perfect little angels, she suddenly dropped a bombshell of nuclear proportions."You know I envy you," she said.
"Me?" I squeaked with incredulity.
"Yes, Ashley’s always going on about you, how you’re such a fun mum, so trendy and with-it compared to me. All I hear is ‘Joey’s mum said this, or Joey’s mum said that.’ I feel really dowdy and inferior by comparison."
She look puzzled as I started to laugh and then helpfully thumped me on my back as bits of bun went down the wrong way as I doubled up with mirth.
"I bet you’ve secretly wished that I would disappear from the face of the planet," I said when I’d recovered my breath. I wiped tears of laughter from my eyes. She looked sheepish and blushed so I relieved her of her embarrassment and explained about my own seething jealousy at her apparent mythical status as ‘the perfect mum.’ We both realised we’d been ‘had’ and decided that the best thing to do was to play along with it.
"Mum’s the word," I said as we parted the best of friends.
I was positively jaunty as Joey and I drove home in the car despite the fact that he’d blown his fiver on the bran tub and accumulated a useless heap of tat worth about 50p.
But nothing could dispel Joey’s joy as he’d won the fancy dress competition, judged by the Downmarket mayor.
"She’d got a long chain made out of real gold," said a wide-eyed Joey to aunty Thelma, as he proudly showed off his winner’s badge.
"Did you get anything nice dear?" she said turning to me.
"She won a prize on the tombola," interjected Joey.
I held up an orange Gerbera plant for inspection and offered it to her.
"I’d like you to have it actually as a ‘thank you’ for bailing us out in our hour of need."
"I wouldn't dream of it my dear," she replied. "I don’t expect a present every time I give you a hand. I enjoy it."
Turning to Joey she asked if he could find a nice plant pot to put it in. Joey looked at me inscrutably. "We’ve got just the thing aunty," he said as he ran from the room. He returned triumphantly with the clog and placed it slap bang in the middle of the coffee table.
"Perfect," said aunty Thelma as she popped the plant inside. Just perfect."

CHAPTER 6

Mervin’s hot beery breath fanned my face as he leant earnestly towards me across the table. I sat and listened impassively wondering how, despite every effort to the contrary, I was having a ‘date’ with Spam Man. It was so surreal it made me think about Daniel Defoe.
It's amazing how the memory of a stuffy tutorial at university should spring to mind just then. Old Professor Grimshaw rambling on about Daniel Defoe, how as the father of the novel and a realist writer he created an illusion that there's a relationship between ‘art’ and a hidden reality. The job as narrator, he'd ponderously say was to convey, through words, the ‘truth.’ And, as the author, or ‘God’ was able to demonstrate the workings of Providence, or fate.
It was really quite straightforward. Providence smiled benignly on white, male, rational, adventurous colonialists such as Robinson Crusoe, and they prospered. But a malevolent glare was reserved for enterprising but irrational and morally loose women like Roxana, who invariably came to a sticky end.
I tired to reassure myself that nobody believes that bullshit anymore as I suddenly became aware that random globs of sausage-like meaty bits were glued to Mervin's chin like scabs in between the bristles of his moustache.
Every enlightened person knows that the novel has been used in the past as a tool by the ruling hegemony to oppress women and the masses in order to maintain a white, middle-class, protestant, capitalist, male dominated society.
I watched a sausagey fleck waft down onto the table idly pushing it around as my thoughts continued to drift. If Providence is merely an illusion I reasoned, why, as the author of my own life, was I sitting here being well and truly spammed? And, even worse, why could I see Kathy across Mervin’s acrylic-clad shoulder, flirting for dear life with a good looking man whose body language was saying, "Fuck me, I’m yours." A good looking man who answers to the name of Jack. As in my ex. You really couldn’t make it up.
"So you see," said Mervin, his drony voice dispelling my intellectual ramblings as his hand brushed my knee under the table, "fate has brought us together."
Reality suddenly invaded my thoughts like a wet bum-flannel in the face.
"I think your time’s up," I replied as the ear-splitting sound of a bell rent the air - a bell that signalled it was time for Mervin to move on to the woman sitting at the next table, a move that drew Jack inexorably closer to me.
It hadn’t taken long for my speed dating hopes to be dashed when I walked expectantly into the retro Neon City bar and bumped straight into Mervin. He was instantly recognisable even though he looked like a shady sex-tourist. He was wearing these weird clip-on shades attached to his glasses in an attempt to arrive incognito. As if.
As soon as his eyes adjusted to the low lighting and he realised it was me, he lifted up his shades and embraced me in such a tight hug that they dug into my forehead and left scars. Kathy was mystified.
"Do you two know each other or are you taking the term speed dating quite literally?"
Mervin’s eyes swivelled appreciatively to Kathy.
"We are acquainted," he said. "I’m Mervin Purvis by the way and I was at Rebecca’s house until the early hours last Friday where we spent a very enjoyable evening together sharing our life experiences."
"Is that all you shared Rebecca," she said nudging me in the ribs and giving us both a naughty wink, "or is there something you’re not telling me?"
Kathy and Mervin seemed to find her remark hugely amusing but all I could manage was a thin smile as we made our way to the bar.
"I don’t know about you but the level of talent in here seems pretty grim to me," I whispered to Kathy, "if it doesn’t improve soon I’m going to ask for my money back."
"There’s always Mervin," she teased. "Have you said a nice thank you for the flowers yet?"
I glared at her as we collected our drinks and then wandered over to queue for our name badges and ‘courting’ cards. When a loud bell rang a bottle-blonde woman introduced herself as Shelly. She invited us all to sit down at one of the small tables scattered around the bar and explained the rules of engagement. Women were told to sit tight at a table while the men were instructed to make a three minute visit for a chat during which time you both had the chance to size each other up and decide whether or not you fancied seeing each other again. If the answer was yes, you put a tick against their name on your card, if you thought they were pants you put a cross. Matching ticks meant the agency exchanged your e-mail addresses. Pretty ruthless really, but then natural selection never took any passengers. Survival of the fittest has always been the name of the game. So that’s how I came to be having a ‘date’ with Mervin, the big fat fossil.
It was such a relief when our interview finished and he shifted his bulk to the next table for some other poor unsuspecting woman. I took a sharp intake of breath as I watched Jack edging closer. It turned my thoughts and stomach into complete turmoil. It didn’t help either when a 50-something man sat down in front of me wearing a wig that looked as if it had been hacked out of an old moth-eaten afghan coat.
"Hi, the name’s Ted," he said extending his hand and smiling widely, revealing a set of ill-fitting dentures. Ted was number 28 out of 30 men up for interview as a potential lifelong partner or short-term shagger who had paid £15 quid to meet the woman of his dreams. It was difficult to reconcile the sight of Ted with the blurb in the speed dating literature that hinted obliquely at ranks of testosterone-fuelled men and libidinous women all lined up waiting for a perfect match to ignite their mutual dormant flames of passion. The only interest passion-wise I’d encountered pre-Ted, could be compared to a paraffin heater that had rusted to extinction in some outside lavatory in a northern slum earmarked for demolition under a government regeneration scheme. I wanted to warm myself by a furnace, a fierce heat that could scorch me from a distance, melting my resistance with a sidelong glance that hinted at shared pleasure, tender, raw and desperate, all night long. I thought of Jack and instinctively licked my lips. Ted reached out and squeezed my hand.
"You're a beautiful lassie m’dear," he slathered, as beads of sweat oozed out from underneath the thatch perched on top of his head.
"That’s very kind of you to say so," I replied primly as I swiftly withdrew my hand and sat on it. So, are you in the glamour business then?" he enquired hopefully.
"Good god no," I exclaimed indignantly, "I’m a reporter on a well respected newspaper."
Ted looked a bit shifty and shuffled uncomfortably in his seat before changing tack and asking me all about my interests. I told him I reserved all my passion and energy for the garden.
His eyes lit up like flash bulbs before launching into an eloquent speech about the beloved half-acre plot behind his cottage that he might lose in a divorce settlement. He lovingly described his shallots, his old-fashioned sweet scented bed of roses and all the flowers and salad stuff he’d reared in his greenhouse.
"I won’t miss the wife," he said, "but I won’t-half miss my garden, all my own work for the past 25 years." I thought he was going to cry.
I reached out and squeezed his hand, offering him my heartfelt sympathy as one gardener to another and then covered up his obvious distress by telling him about my less ambitious but equally loved patch of flower-filled ground.
Before we knew it our three minutes were up.
"It’s been lovely talking to you Rebecca," said Ted.
"You too," I replied truthfully as we warmly shook hands.
Lovely guy I thought as I watched him saunter off to the next table. A kindred spirit talking the universal language of flowers, a mutual, unspoken understanding that only true garden lovers can comprehend, an obsession that crosses every social, religious and racial divide.
"Obviously smitten."
I turned my head to see a smiling stranger sitting opposite me, his greenish eyes fringed with long brown lashes, twinkling with amusement.
"No, no, no," I spluttered, blushing furiously, emphasising my disinterest by making slow exaggerated scissor-like movements under my chin, "absolutely no way." Then, leaning forward with my hands splayed on the table I whispered conspiratorially, "he’s hideous, hideous, lecherous and bald."
And then backtracking, so as not to sound like a complete cow, I said obscurely, "but he likes gardening," as if that explained everything.
"Well Rebecca," he replied glancing at my name badge, "there’s no hope for me then. What would you say if you knew I’d only got a slab for a backyard?"
"Well," I said, drawing out the vowel sound to give me time to think up a suitable response, "it’s not an essential qualification, handy, but I could make allowances if there were other, you know, compensations."
My hot little eyes glanced at the shadow of chest hair exposed between the open collar of his shirt, his clean, sharp cheekbones and lithe body clad in arty clothes.
"You mean, like a nice personality?" he queried.
"Yeah, yeah, something like that," I muttered, wondering if hidden in his remark there was a slight rebuff for my character assassination of Ted. Or, was he being ironic because he knew I was a tad interested sex-wise?
I decided to go on the offensive. "So, if you don’t spend your time gardening what do you do instead?
He explained that he was a fabricator, holding out his calloused hands to illustrate that he was a man of manual toil. I also discovered that he loved sushi, Degas and the Simpsons and he had a ten-year-old daughter called Freya who was the light of his life. And he was named Tor because his father loved walking in mountains. I gave him an edited, slightly sexed-up version of my life and then the bell went and he was gone and Jack sat down in his place.
"Well Well, fancy meeting you here," he said, smiling his familiar heart-stopping smile.
"I could say the same to you," I replied. "Where’s the saintly Susan, gone off you has she?"
"I’m here for research purposes actually," he answered a bit pompously.
I arched my brows.
"I’m here with Maggie from the department to analyse the political dynamics of social interaction between the sexes in a post-modern syntigmatic scenario."
‘You mean you’re looking at the new ways people cop off with one another," I answered facetiously.
Jack sighed and his eyes went heavenward. He looked gorgeous as he struggled to rein in his irritation. He took a deep breath.
"So, tell me why you’re here then, you obviously haven’t managed to snare a knob with a double-barrelled name and Range Rover yet."
Conveniently forgetting about Charles Smythe Bothum-Wethum, I managed to look suitably aggrieved at his assumption that I was only on the look out for a rich bloke to look after me, a weary bone of contention throughout the whole of our relationship. Memories flooded back, how we used to argue about his deep-seated insecurity a legacy from his working class background that had left him with a massive chip on his shoulder.
How could I forget the look on his face when he told me proudly that his dad had been a docker and I, unfamiliar with his toned-down Newcastle accent and sounding dead impressed said, "A doctor! Wow. Is he a GP or a surgeon?" Me and my big mouth.
Pointing to Kathy I explained that I was actually here with a girlfriend - a relationship he used to claim I was incapable of achieving because in his book, women with big tits who told men how to give them an orgasm in bed were incapable of female friendships. Too vain and selfish to share. A ball-shriveller in other words.
No, only ‘nice’ women can achieve solidarity with other women, the sort who breast-feed their kids until they are five, have pasty faces scrubbed clean of makeup and sport a chest as flat as an ironing board. Like Susan, who was the biggest bitch in Christendom despite looking as demure as a nun - when it suited her.
"So you’re friends with Kathy?" said Jack, his tone changing from one of slight hostility to one of genuine interest.
"Yes, it was Kathy who suggested we came here tonight, actually," I said, casually looking down to examine my fingernails before hiding them when I saw they were black rimmed from the garden.
"Meow," said Jack.
I bristled with indignation, although I had to secretly admit that my remark could be interpreted as a bit un-sisterly and my gesture might be construed as slightly Freudian - an unconscious unsheathing of claws.
Emphasising every word, Jack went, "She is gorgeous. And then, quite casually, "By the way, did I mention that Susan was seconded to an Australian university for a year - and she’s been there for two?"
"No you didn’t."
"The split’s mutual, we’d grown apart emotionally and geographically - literally. Now, tell me all about Kathy."
I spent the last minute eulogising about her, what a great friend, clever, nice, funny, popular, ten years younger than me, childless and looking for a long-term relationship. Every word felt like a dagger in my heart, or as if I was on the receiving end of a gesture used by Joey when he is really out of order, a finger up the bum - with a twist. Ouch!
I couldn’t work out if I was relieved or sad when he had gone and the ordeal was over and Kathy and I sat down with a drink for a post-mortem of the talent on offer.
Kathy was euphoric. "What did you think of the dark haired chap with the blue eyes who was wearing a Paul Smith shirt? Was he gorgeous or what? I wet my pants as soon as he sat down. God, I thought I was going to come he was so sexy. Did he tell you he was a politics lecturer? He’s got a PhD you know, Dr Manderson he’s called at the university. He said he’s never been married, he’s got no kids but really wants them, he lived with someone years ago but they split and he’s had a string of relationships since but they’ve all been disastrous."
"I was one of them," I said bleakly.
Kathy’s mouth dropped and she smote her forehead with the palm of her hand.
"Of course, Jack, politics lecturer, drop-dead gorgeous, I should have known, I can see now why you were obsessed. Lucky you. Was he good in bed?"
"Rampant," I said woodenly.
We both fell silent.
"Look," Kathy said slowly, "I will understand if you don’t want me to put a tick by his name."
I felt her looking at me closely for my reaction and I briefly struggled with my conscience before giving an Oscar winning performance.
"I Don’t mind a bit," I lied through my teeth, "it was all over ages ago, and as Jack said, ours was just one disastrous relationship in a string of others. I just hope you have better luck then I did, and anyway, why should I care when I could have that babe magnet Mervin?"
Kathy laughed and gave me a hug and I felt a huge sense of warmth and affection towards her and then the conversation thankfully moved on and I asked her advice about the terrible dilemma facing me. Should I be callous and put a big cross by Mervin’s name or be kind and give him a tick so as not to hurt his feelings?
She advised that the best thing to do was to blow him out or he’d be hanging round like a bad smell for ever and I’d never shake him off. I didn’t mention my other dilemma, whether I should put a cross or a tick by Jack’s name. I wanted so much to tick his name, just to see if he ticked mine. If he ticked mine and I didn’t tick his I thought, that would really hurt his feelings, and if I didn’t tick his, how would I ever know if he ticked mine? Round and round I went until I was in a right tizzy.
I managed to avoid filling in my card in front of Kathy as we queued to hand them in. She gave hers in with a flourish but I lingered, standing there chewing my pen looking as if I was agonising over which man to choose. Turning my back I scanned down the list of names quickly putting a tick by Jack’s name and then I looked at the other names to put a tick by Tor’s. I saw Ted Franks’ name followed by Tor Franklin. "Are you ready?" Kathy asked as she tried to peer over my shoulder.
I panicked as I quickly put a tick by Tor’s name and thrust the card into Shelly’s hand.
"All done," I smiled.
"So go on then, who tickled your fancy?" Kathy asked.
Luckily I was able to elaborate in-depth about my interview with Tor. As I recounted our meeting I realised with surprise that I would in fact really like to see him again. Yes, I really hoped that I would find his e-mail address in my inbox the next day.
"I just knew you’d fancy him, he’s just your sort, creative. He’s a sculptor isn’t he, quite successful by the sound of it? Not my type though, not with my analytical brain. He seemed nice too, coming here for his neighbour’s sake, that weirdo in the wig. Poor man, his wife ran off and left him you know, for a woman, the president of the local WI no less. Apparently he found them ‘at it’ in his caravan in Ingolmells. You’d think they’d be too busy, making all that jam."
I was absolutely speechless. Mute. "Are you all right," Kathy asked solicitously as she unlocked the car.
"Don’t even ask," I said as my thoughts ricocheted from my appalling crucifixion of Ted as to why Tor had pretended he was virtually a labourer. Why, why, why? Did that mean he fancied me or not? It was too, too cruel. Did he want to see if I fancied him for himself, or was he being economical with the truth because he didn’t want me to want him.
And then a horrible thought struck me. Was I absolutely sure I ticked Tor’s name and not Ted’s? I was in such a state. I couldn’t remember for sure but I had a horrible feeling......
I’ll soon find out I thought as I lay in bed with the events of the evening playing over and over again in my fevered brain like a sitcom repeat on BBC 2. Tossing and turning, my fevered imagination ran riot with images of Kathy and Jack trying out all the sexual positions in the Karma Sutra. I ground my teeth with jealous rage.
I’m going to look like a dog again for Charles Bottum Wettum tomorrow night, was my last thought as I drifted off to sleep to the sound of the dawn chorus.
I was still bleary eyed when Kathy phoned excitedly at lunchtime. "I got Jack’s e-mail, that means he wants to see me again. I can’t wait. Did you get one from Tor?"
I told her I didn’t realise they would arrive quite so soon and that I’d phone her back. I made my way upstairs to Joey’s bedroom and switched on the computer with trepidation. What would I find? Would I get an e-mail from Jack, or Tor?
It seemed to take forever. Then suddenly there it was. ‘Speed Dating.’ I clicked. The message read: " Your speed dating evening has been a success. You have one e-mail match." It was from Ted. I flung myself down on Joey’s bed and howled.

Chapter 5

I lay in a state of suspended animation dreaming of a sun kissed balcony overlooking the Mediterranean. A flawless blue sky hung like a banner between two sheer white apartment blocks, framing pink floor tiles surrounding the vivid blue slash of a swimming pool; clean, angular lines broken only by the sharp umbrella fronds of green palms, a vista as flat, surreal and silent as a Hockney.
"Mum! Where are my football socks?" Reality punched its fist through the thin veneer of my consciousness and I rolled over and groaned. That philosopher guy, Baulderise or Baudrillard who maintained that art is a simulacrum of reality, was talking cobblers. Life is a small child jabbing you in the back at some ungodly hour of the morning as chirpy and bright as a butcher’s dog. Paint that and stick it in an art gallery.
I crawled out of bed and looked balefully at my tummy cruncher exerciser lying supinely on the carpet with arms outstretched, ready to embrace my flabby body and convert it into a toned, rippling sex machine. I made a vow to start a strict early morning regime - tomorrow.
I dressed in two seconds flat except for my tights, opened the relevant drawer with trepidation in anticipation of the tentacles that erupted in a tangled skein of coloured nylon. I frantically choose from 300 assorted pairs tangled in knots in various stages of decay, ladders, holes and lacy patterns circa 1990, that are too expensive to chuck out, but too naff to wear. I also rejected various sizes and shades of stockings which a champion Krypton Factor contestant would struggle to match up.
Fifteen minutes later and wearing a pair of tights with an ozone-sized hole in the crutch, I extricated Joey’s football socks from a damp pile of washing in the bath. Damn, I’d forgotten to put them on the radiator to dry last night.
The hands on the clock whizzed round alarmingly. I vainly tried to iron the damn things dry with one hand while eating a bowl of cereal with the other. Guilt coursed through my veins like ice. I imagined Joey pale and prostrate against the sheets, ravaged with pneumonia, rickets or the onset of premature arthritis caused through my wanton neglect.
Fortunately it was dispelled instantly after rushing upstairs expecting to find him pristinely dressed in his school uniform, satchel at the ready, but instead found him in his pyjamas grimy and dishevelled with sleep, ruthlessly slaying the Lord of Destruction in Diablo II on the computer.
I’d only been awake for an hour but it already seemed like a lifetime. What bliss it must be to wake up and only have yourself to get ready. A hassle-free start to the morning, casually sauntering down to breakfast, a leisurely read of the newspaper, before cruising off to work arriving at your desk on time, alert and relaxed, ready for a productive day.
After a bout of hysterical arm waving persuading Joey to co-operate and get ready, I zoomed round like a dervish, packing his bag, my bag, his lunch box, my lunch box, fed Gums the goldfish and shoved some dirty clothes into the washing machine. Smug with satisfaction I opened the front door with a sigh of relief only to feel the dog shoot between my legs as it made a dash for freedom and next door’s cat.
I’ve always thought that people who believe they are the reincarnation of some famous long-dead illustrious person like Cleopatra or Napoleon must have a really exalted view of themselves. Why, out of all the zillions of people that have inhabited the earth, should they have been singled out to have been someone memorable in a past life instead of a sheep stealer or a circus freak?
But sometimes, such as an occasion like this, I do have an irrational conviction that the whole world is conspiring against me. God wakes up in a capricious mood, yawns, scratches his arse and on a whim, revolves his clenched fist in a circular motion over the world before singling out with his finger some unfortunate soul to suffer an off day. This morning it was my turn.
Abandoning all decorum I made an undignified dash around the village as Flossie zig-zagged down the main street yapping excitedly after the cat. After three fruitless circuits Squire Percy de Lyle Stocking came into view riding a magnificent hunter with a bull mastiff loping alongside. Fortunately, Flossie made a beeline for the mastiff’s bum and was so distracted having a good sniff that I was able to grab her by the collar and retreat crab-like, dragging her away from the horse’s hooves. I looked up and managed a forced smile at Percy between tortured gasps for breath, peering up at him through bedraggled matted hair, before gabbling an apology like some mediaeval witch. The shame of it.
He smiled munificently as if at a craven peasant and then suggested it might be a good idea to keep my dog on a lead.
Muttering inanely about being in a frantic rush, I dragged a reluctant Flossie off down the road by her collar, slowed down by the fact that she stiffened her back legs in rebellion. They looked as if they had been suddenly struck by paralysis. The strain made me go over very inelegantly on the heel of one shoe. Damn. Percy gave me a salute as he went by at a fast trot, his delectable jodphur-clad backside bouncing up and down in counter rhythm to his horse. God, what a waste, if that guy was straight I’d be in love.
Arrived at work really late after depositing Flossie back at home and dropping Joey off at school because he’d missed the school bus in the excitement.
"You look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards," said Kathy after taking in my dishevelled appearance as I rushed to my desk all hot and breathless.
Funny you should say that," I replied, before regaling her with my morning’s adventure and the tragedy of the Perfect Percy who pretends he’s hot and happening with women when we all know he only has eyes for guys.
I must stop yawning at work. I think I should sue the Broadcaster Herald, my job as a reporter is nothing like it said in the advert. Writing obituaries and 'News from the Women's Institute' is hardly the stuff of Lois Lane and the nearest I get to a Superman is Super Spam Man beamed down from planet Zog. I spent the first half of the morning shuffling through a pile of press releases that were so boring to read that I lost the will to live after the first paragraph.
I decided instead to spice up the reports on the various village shows that have been happening around the county by writing slightly lewd captions about the size and shape of the prize winners’ vegetables. The punters love it.
It's a shame not a lot of things happen of national or international importance in the nowhere land of Broadcaster or next door in Downmarket, home to my invaluable colleague Colin, an inebriated hack in the district office. The best headline we've dredged up was when a cow got its hoof stuck in a bog at the local nature reserve. It took three fire engines and an armed response team from the local police force to extract it. It was the most exciting thing they’d had to deal with for years.
It's a shame there's nothing better to do than torturing the local council by muckraking over their internecine squabbles and their grossly inadequate handling of the council budget, or stoking the dormant flames of local disputes until they erupt into an inferno of claim and counter claim, overspilling onto the letter’s page with juicy accusations so close to the knuckle they give our legal guy palpitations.
I caught up with Kathy and Delia in the kitchen at lunchtime. D had popped in to discuss her weekly society news column, Delia's Diary, she writes it with such effortless style even though the content's as thin as the hair on Charles Bottum Wettum's bonce. I bet the reader's would rather hear about her salacious sexploits than a round-up of the farmer's balls. Maybe I should rephrase that. Whatever, Delia got that job through sheer nepotism and I'm not ashamed to admit it. If you can't do your best friends a favour now and then what's the point of having influence if you hide it under your bushel?
Kathy and Delia are my rock-solid friends due to the fact that we all experienced an intellectual hunger that led us to study on an Access Course at the Broadcaster College of FE, a grey, ugly, concrete dump that nonetheless inspired in us a belief that we weren't after all redundant, hormonal cretins. We were drawn together as we slowly deciphered the contradictions in Haralambos and discovered the lyricism of the Metaphysical poets, emerging triumphant, liberated in mind and spirit and armed with enough qualifications to get us into decent universities.
Where would we be without our mutual sisterly support through the various trials and tribulations of divorce, bereavement, love affairs and the pecuniary circumstances that have almost driven us back into the slavery of female anonymity, a condition spawned by Jean-Jacques Rousseau, the 18th century writer who launched the blockbuster fantasy fiction genre with the ‘Social Contract’.
Kathy asked for an update on Mervin. I explained how I'd had a nightmare with the realisation that he'd given me a poke, I almost fell out of bed with the shock until I remembered it had been on Facebook. What a relief!
Delia was wracked with worry about the potential expose that could result following her horizontal jogging episode in the back of the Freelander with Toy Boy and the unwise deployment of the penis ring.
‘A bit of a major cock-up you might say," she laughed half heartedly.
"Well, if this juicy tit bit of tittle tattle ever got out it would create such a scandal that the gossip hounds in the Doom and Gloom would feast off it for weeks," I replied. I suddenly had a horrible thought. "I hope it doesn’t come out before next Saturday."
"What, you mean it’s still in there?" Kathy quipped.
We all fell about laughing and between bouts of bawdy sniggers I told them about my dinner invitation to Humpington Hall from Charles and Mum's reaction when I told her Delia would be there with Henry. Then a thought struck me.
"If the news about the penis ring got out they could hardly go and make polite conversation at the table if everyone knew that Delia’s bits had been buzzed by remote control." The image had us in hysterics.
I offered Kathy and Delia a Cheesy Wotsit and went on to explain how it came about that Charles had asked me to go as his date and then described the sequence of events leading up to it including the miserable Mervin miasma.
"I know just how you feel," Kathy sympathised. ‘I went to a night club in Broadmarket with some some of the girls from accounts and I got chatted up by this bloke who’s breath could strip paint at 90 paces. I lied and said I was in deeply committed relationship with a seismic love life." She sighed sadly.
Delia urged her to elaborate. "He backed off, but unfortunately relayed the information back to his best mate who I’d been eyeing up all evening. He lost interest and disappeared with this woman with fat ankles," Kathy explained forlornly.
She suddenly stuck her out own neat ankle and surveyed it keenly. "I hope mine never get like that," she said. It prompted her to tell us about this new holistic diet that she’s on that involves drinking lots of herbal tea sitting in a yoga position meditating on kind karmas and positive images of lithe Naomi Cambellesque limbs.
"I didn’t lose an a ounce actually," she admitted, "but it gave me a great excuse to keep walking past Dick, the dishy new deputy editor, on the way to the ladies."
I must try it I thought.
Suddenly Kathy sat up and and clicked her fingers. "I know what I wanted to tell you," she said. But before she could elucidate Moyra our matronly receptionist burst into the kitchen.
"There’s been a delivery at reception for you Rebecca," she said, breathless with excitement.
Curious we followed her out of the kitchen into the reception area, festooned with pictures of village fetes, school sports days and ruddy faced councillors at civic receptions.
There lying resplendent on the counter was a bouquet of pink carnations, fragile gipsophila and furry ferns all wrapped up in shiny purple paper and tied with a big gaudy ribbon.
"Oh," squeaked Kathy.
My heart leapt. Who could have sent me flowers? I picked them up and buried my face into the petals inhaling their sweet, heady fragrance.
"Open the card, open the card," came a chorus of voices.
I extracted a pink card from beneath the ribbon with Rebecca Pearce scrawled on the front. I opened it slowly, my heart beating hard with hope. Who could it be? Maybe, maybe, it was from Jack to say he was sorry for being such a heartless, ruthless bastard. It wouldn’t be a day overdue. The thought flashed across my mind like a comet with a shiny tail of sparkling dust, only to have it burst like a boil when I read out the inscription.
"Thanks for such a lovely evening. I hope this is the start of a beautiful and prosperous friendship. Speak to you soon. All yours, Mervin."
I dropped the bouquet as if it was contaminated with ricin. "Yuck!" I wailed and walked off leaving the flowers abandoned on the carpet. I plonked myself down in front of my computer and started to viciously hit the keys with more force than was necessary.
I heard Moyra bustling up solicitously behind me. She thrust the flowers under my nose.
"Now dear," she said soothingly, "it’s not often that a woman gets sent such a lovely bouquet of flowers."
Unfortunately for Moyra that was true. Not even the most inventive and audacious advertorial writer could call Moyra attractive or even ‘interesting.’ The poor thing had been born with looks to die for - literally. Cruelly, Keith the editor once jokingly re-christened her, changing her name from Moyra Hadman to Moyra Never-Had-a-Man and we’ve called her that behind her back ever since. Sad.
"You have them," I said, looking at her kind face, "you love flowers."
She flushed with pleasure. "Are you sure, dear?" she asked.
I nodded and she walked off, gently cradling the bouquet to her ample bosom like a child, savouring second hand a romantic gesture from a man to a woman.
I fell into a slough of despond, faced with the familiar problem of how to detach myself from a persistent Spam Man. My reverie was broken as Kathy bounced up behind me like Tigger on acid.
"I take it that was a no?"
I looked up at the high windows where the only view is the sky and pondered dreamily if it would be fairer to Mervin if I were really truthful. I turned to Kathy. "Do you think it would be okay to be brutally honest rather than get his hopes up?"
Well, it depends on how you phrase it really," said Kathy.
"I thought along the lines of, look, why don’t you piss off and leave me alone as the only way I could have sexual intercourse with you is if I was anaesthetised first."
"I bet you go out with him for a drink next week," Kathy said dryly.
"Over my dead body," I spluttered.
I suddenly remembered that she was just about to impart some spicy piece of information in the kitchen before being cruelly interrupted by Moyra. I asked her to elaborate.
"Oh yes, I forgot in all the excitement," she said. "Forget about old Merv the Perv, we are going to indulge ourselves in the latest spot of man baiting to hit the singles scene this century. I’m taking you speed-dating on Friday and we are going to catch us a man each with maybe a couple to spare."
Well, Kathy’s news really cheered me up, here was a ray of light at the end of a very dark tunnel. Surely out of 20 or 30 men I could snare at least one-half decent guy.
Kathy slapped me on the back as she returned to her desk yelling over her shoulder as she went, "You’ll have no trouble. With your big tits you’ll knock ‘em dead. WMDs or what!"
I clocked a lascivious glance from Dishy Dick who joined in a hilarious ricochet of ribald office banter that continued to ring in my ears as I happily returned to caption more pictures of proud gardeners fondling their engorged vegetables. Things were certainly looking up at last.

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Everything’s easy in retrospect. You can spot life’s mistakes like black boulders littering a snow covered hillside or as neon lights phosphorus in the gloom - the hieroglyphics of your existence carved out in sharp relief on your memory. Sometimes in your dreams you feel as if you can run your hand over them and feel the scars.
One such scar - or rather a running sore, is my ex - not my ex-husband but my last ex-but-one boyfriend, Jack, a politics lecturer. Such a face ache. One of his most irritating traits was to smile condescendingly at me and say: “I know exactly what you want, what you think, what you think I think and what you want me to think you think.” And I would reply: “I don’t think so.”
And so it went on. But one of the most painful lessons I've learnt from that experience is that I'm rather addicted to men like that. Even worse, not particularly rich, or handsome, or kind or deeply spiritual ones. On the contrary, they are invariable left-wing urban intellectuals, with paltry public sector pay packets and deeply sexist beneath their carefully cultivated PC exterior.
But on the plus side, much more adventurous in bed than any right-wing Tory. They can’t handle feisty women, they prefer the sort that do it with their tights on and the lights out. Listen carefully and watch my lips: “That’s why I don’t fancy Charles. I might as well flog a dead horse. Preferably his.
How things have changed since Jane Austen’s day. It’s no longer a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. On the contrary. A sensible loaded single bloke won’t risk burdening himself with a wife who could push off and hoover up half his cash, and a spinster’s no longer a marriage market commodity perched prettily on the shelf branded ‘unmarked goods.’ Unless you believe what’s written in the Daily Mail.
In Mrs Bennett’s hey day Charles would have been a monster catch. But now poor Charlie Boy is a mere minnow in the lido of life, a dying breed that will soon be extinct, incapable of adapting to mating with women with highly developed brains, voracious sexual appetites and capable of independent thought. Oh yeah, and very low boredom thresholds. A bit like me.
Which means it could be a wise move to keep old hairless but heir-to-loadsa-dosh ‘warm’ as a reserve relationship - just to amuse myself with until someone more interesting shows up. Keep him dangling on a string, as granny used to say. Let’s face it, despite my vocal protestations that I’ve got a full buzzy social life, a brill job, a fantastic kid and great friends - I’m still gagging for it in the knickers department.
Thinking about kids, Joey will be home soon from his dad’s. I must grit my teeth while I hear about this paragon of virtue who has seemingly endless patience, a bottomless wallet and is so nice that he allows Joey to watch Little Britain - unlike his evil mother who resembles an ogre - on a good day.
Joey's looking forward to this afternoon for our weekly pilgrimage to take tea at mum’s house in the next village, Humpington. Its picture postcard streets resonate with the sounds of baaing sheep and lowing cows grazing in nearby fuzzy-felt fields.
It’s the perfect vision of an olde worlde country utopia that shatters on close acquaintance when you realise that it’s been taken over by a swarm of townies. Their imported urban values now dominate the parish council which goes into a spasm every time a piece of dog poo desecrates the immaculately mown wildflower-free verges, or mud from the farm splatters their BMWs as they drive through the village. ‘And do the animals have to be so loud and smelly?’ they whimper. Grrrrrrrrrrr.
My mother fortunately is not one of those kind of people. But she does have other irredeemably bad habits. Why does the whole afternoon have to take on the form of a ritual with an atmosphere of faint disapproval and a chiding reminder of the chaotic state of my own life. She defers to ten-year-old Joey, who admires his smug reflection in the gleaming silver teapot when granny pours the tea, preening over her reference to him as the ‘man of the house,’ “seeing as grandpa has passed over to the other side - until the Rapture.”
My mother Vera is a curious mixture of execrable snob combined with low church evangelical leanings due to the fact that she married into money but couldn’t shake off the childhood shackles that bind her to the Bible and ‘The Lord.’ How can I forget one of my earliest memories visiting auntie Nora and her minah bird? She was happy in her prefab in Leicester, since swept away in the name of ‘progress’ to make way for a retail park. You don't find many people like her around anymore, a devout Methodist and a war widow. I never met uncle Cyril who was slaughtered on the Somme - she got peanuts for a pension.
“The Lord will provide’ she’d say as she packed me off to the front room to listen to Burl Ives LPs while her and mum rank orange coloured tea with two sugars. Mum would then pour out her troubles to wise old auntie Nora, usually over dad’s latest fall from grace - mainly sexually deviant in nature like looking at the girl at the till in the Co-op in ‘that way.’
I remember listening at the door and then bored, turn up the volume of ‘When the roll is called up Yonder’ so I could teach auntie Nora’s minah bird to say ‘bugger.’ Happy days.
“We amused ourselves when we were children,” I say self righteously to Joey, after the millionth time of hearing his regular mantra of “I’m bored” to the strains of 'Smile.' Poor kid, I sound just like my mum did years ago when I'd beg her for the bus fare to go to C&A’s cafe for egg and chips with my friends. Scary.
“Well, now,” my mum’s voice interjected into my musing, “how did it go with Charles Bothum-Wethum - any wedding bells yet?” We’d arrived slightly late for tea to find her anxiously scanning the street for our arrival through lead latticed windows peeping out from underneath the low thatched eaves of a former farm labourer’s cottage, tarted up for commuters hungry for a taste of the good life.
“Well if there are you’ll need ears with sonic stereo to pick them up,” I replied as I tucked into a scone with jam and cream.
“Really darling, you are a ninny you know, it’s not as if you are getting any younger and if you don’t heed my advice about staying out of the sun you’ll get as leathery as, as,” she waved her arms about vaguely as she searched for a suitable synonym, “as an old cow,” piped in Joey, faining innocence.
“Yes, well, whatever dear,” mum replied a tad sharply, not quite sure if Joey had transgressed the boundaries of good taste.
I gave him a wink.
“Charles is a sweetie mum,” I explained, “but he’s so conventional and predictable.” And short and bald and probably in possession of a small penis, I thought to myself.
“But his uncle Sir Horseham is president of the Ruddlesex Conservative Association and I do Meals on Wheels with his aunt on a Friday, they are sooooo our sort of people.” I sensed a faint rebuke.
I could feel the conversation drifting into its familiar groove, the declining drop in today’s standards, the sheer horror at the way Labour has dismantled the country, fond reminiscences of the Empire and the scandal at the indiscriminate axing of condensed milk.
“The country is falling apart, what with those 'hoodies' and single mothers, she cast me a reproving look, and your father always loved condensed milk on his tinned peaches, people just don’t know what’s good for them these days. I was only talking about it yesterday with your auntie Thelma.”
She fell into a quite reverie as her mind struggled to make sense of the frightening new world that seemed to menace her from all sides.
“I know mum,” I answered gently, wildly irritated but loving her in her bewilderment and nostalgia for a lost organasist world. Everything was so easy then, men were right and women invariably wrong.
Women in her day knew when to be thankful, most of the eligible men had been killed during the war, so if any man showed any interest it offered an escape from a sexless and childless spinsterhood where you became more and more invisible with the passing years.
Mind you, that mindset still exists for loads of divorced 40-something women today who are quite happy to trade in their independence for hard currency. It wouldn’t be so bad except for the fact that they often go all high ‘n mighty and expect the rest of us, perceived as gathering dust on the shelf to not only be envious, but respectful of their new elevated status. Yeah right. They might have designer handbags, be botoxed up to the eyeballs and drive a Porsche Carrera but they have to actually have sex with men who wear slacks! Ugh! Sugar daddies might be gold plated but they're invariably physically repulsive, wear incontinence pads or live in a permanently vegetative state. Or, like Charles are kind, wet, sexless, worthy and dull. Or maybe not. For all I know, old Charlie boy could be so turbo-charged in bed I’d be his willing and grateful slave. But I doubt it. Mind you, it could be that my scarred and troubled relationship history has made me so wary of commitment I will find fault with every man I meet until I shrivel up like a dried old prune and no one will want me anyway. I will become such a lonely old biddie I will settle for any old codger I meet in the Post Office pension queue.
Mum and I sat there, quietly musing our own private thoughts on opposite side of the coffee table littered with the detritus that defined her existence, her doilies, china cups and saucers, jam spoons and crocheted tablecloth. Suddenly the leaden silence was shattered by the ring of my mobile phone.
It was Charles.
‘Oh hello,” I said, mouthing Charles’ name and pointing at the phone to mum. She sat bolt upright and listened so attentively that she mouthed every syllable as I ummed and arrred, yes and no’d and finally said goodbye.
“Is it back on?” she queried hopefully after I triumphantly put the phone back in my bag with a flourish.
Well, I don’t know about that,” I laughed, “but he’s invited me to go as his partner to a dinner party at Squire de Lyle Stocking's place at Humpington Hall. Obviously my resistance to his right-wing rantings and his amorous advances has only spurred him on.”
Mum put a warning finger to her lips and her eyes glanced sideways at Joey at the oblique reference to sexual relations, in case it sullied his innocence.
“Is he rich?” asked Joey.
“He’s a nice gentleman and your mother should thank her lucky stars,” said my mum. “Breeding and money, the perfect combination.”
I felt well chuffed, this dinner party was going to be a perfect opportunity to put myself about to scan around for other talent.
“Delia and her husband will be there,” I offered as a tit bit of information.
Mum reveres and worships Delia’s husband Tom Fielding who reads the lesson in church with the same dramatic delivery as Sir Lawrence Oliver’s rendition of Henry V’s ‘into the breach.’ She sees him as the epitome of all that’s great about England, good old gentry farming stock, backbone of almost every village committee and a paragon of self restraint, susceptible only to the odd glass of Talisker, a little more often than is good for him. But then, for mum, men are allowed their little foibles.
Little does she know that he’s humped more stable girls than hay bales during his marriage to Delia, hurls crockery at the wall if the dinner isn’t to his liking, and now, thanks to the drink, can’t get his willy up without Viagra.
Delia says she indulges him with the occasional humping session to keep him quiet. Apparently he pops his pill, waits for the desired effect and then lays down with it sticking up like a poker and then roars at Delia to, “hop on quick,” as if she’s a jockey.
Delia’s worked out that for a 10 minute gallop on top she burns off at least 250 calories so it’s really not that different from an aerobics workout and it’s great for toning the thighs.
“And, credit where it’s due,” Delia conceded with awe, “he’s hung like a bloody horse!”
‘Of course Tom’s wife’s a bit of Tartar,” Mum said suddenly.
“How’s that then?” I replied, my tolerance level dropping faster than a flasher’s trousers.
“Well, have you seen her shoes - for a woman that age! Bleached hair, and jeans with her tummy on show, it’s positively indecent. And these ‘adult’ art education classes she teaches sound very suspect to me and she never closes her eyes during confession in church, poor, poor, Tom what a heavy cross to bear.”
Joey suddenly looked up from playing with his PSP and adopted his most innocent stare. “Cesspool says Mr Fielding is as randy as an old goat and he’s had his leg over more women than five bar gates. He told me when we took Horace the bull to mate with Squire Percy’s heifers.”
His announcement had the desired effect. Mum positively swooned from the shock, spilling tea down the front of her twin set.
“I knew it!” she moaned, “It was only a matter of time before this innocent defenceless, fatherless child got drawn into the wrong company. Your father would turn in his grave.”
“Joey is neither fatherless nor defenceless, in fact he’s a machinatory little menace,” I replied, trying hard not to laugh. “And he doesn’t understand a word of it,” I lied.
Driving home in the car, I read Joey the riot act, warning him in sepulchral tones that a repeat of such a heinous crime would result in unspeakable punishment.
“Yeah, yeah, “ he replied wearily, casually picking his nose and eying a particularly juicy bogie before popping it into his mouth, “There’s no need to go into orbit.”
As I instinctively slapped his wrist I caught his eye and we shared a furtive smile, and then looked fixedly at the road ahead until we reached home.

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Everything’s easy in retrospect. You can spot life’s mistakes like black boulders littering a snow covered hillside or as neon lights phosphorus in the gloom - the hieroglyphics of your existence carved out in sharp relief on your memory. Sometimes in your dreams you feel as if you can run your hand over them and feel the scars.
One such scar - or rather a running sore, is my ex - not my ex-husband but my last ex-but-one boyfriend, Jack, a politics lecturer. Such a face ache. One of his most irritating traits was to smile condescendingly at me and say: “I know exactly what you want, what you think, what you think I think and what you want me to think you think.” And I would reply: “I don’t think so.”
And so it went on. But one of the most painful lessons I learnt from that experience is that I'm rather addicted to men like that. Even worse, not particularly rich, or handsome, or kind or deeply spiritual ones. On the contrary, they are invariable left-wing urban intellectuals, with crap public sector pay packets and deeply sexist beneath their carefully cultivated PC exterior.
But on the plus side, much more adventurous in bed than any right-wing Tory. They can’t handle feisty women, they prefer the sort that do it with their tights on and the lights out. Listen carefully and watch my lips: “That’s why I don’t fancy Charles. I might as well flog a dead horse. Preferably his.
How things have changed since Jane Austen’s day. It’s no longer a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. On the contrary. A sensible loaded single bloke won’t risk burdening himself with a wife who could push off and hoover up half his cash, and a spinster’s no longer a marriage market commodity perched prettily on the shelf branded ‘unmarked goods.’ Unless you believe what’s written in the Daily Mail.
In Mrs Bennett’s hey day Charles would have been a monster catch. But now poor Charlie Boy is a mere minnow in the lido of life, a dying breed that will soon be extinct, incapable of adapting to mating with women with highly developed brains, voracious sexual appetites and capable of independent thought. Oh yeah, and very low boredom thresholds. A bit like me.
Which means it could be a wise move to keep old hairless but heir-to-loadsa-dosh ‘warm’ as a reserve relationship - just to amuse myself with until someone more interesting shows up. Keep him dangling on a string, as granny used to say. Let’s face it, despite my vocal protestations that I’ve got a full buzzy social life, a brill job, a fantastic kid and great friends - I’m still gagging for it in the knickers department.
Thinking about kids, Joey will be home soon from his dad’s. I must grit my teeth while I hear about this paragon of virtue who has seemingly endless patience, a bottomless wallet and is so nice that he allows Joey to watch Little Britain - unlike his evil mother who resembles an ogre - on a good day.
Joey's looking forward to this afternoon for our weekly pilgrimage to take tea at mum’s house in the next village, Humpington. Its picture postcard streets resonate with the sounds of baaing sheep and lowing cows grazing in nearby fuzzy-felt fields.
It’s the perfect vision of an olde worlde country utopia that shatters on close acquaintance when you realise that it’s been taken over by a swarm of townies. Their imported urban values now dominate the parish council which goes into a spasm every time a piece of dog poo desecrates the immaculately mown wildflower-free verges, or mud from the farm splatters their BMWs as they drive through the village. ‘And do the animals have to be so loud and smelly?’ they whimper. Grrrrrrrrrrr.
My mother fortunately is not one of those kind of people. But she does have other irredeemably bad habits. Why does the whole afternoon have to take on the form of a ritual with an atmosphere of faint disapproval and a chiding reminder of the chaotic state of my own life. She defers to ten-year-old Joey, who admires his smug reflection in the gleaming silver teapot when granny pours the tea, preening over her reference to him as the ‘man of the house,’ “seeing as grandpa has passed over to the other side - until the Rapture.”
My mother Vera is a curious mixture of execrable snob combined with low church evangelical leanings due to the fact that she married into money but couldn’t shake off the childhood shackles that bind her to the Bible and ‘The Lord.’ How can I forget one of my earliest memories visiting auntie Nora and her minah bird? She was happy in her prefab in Leicester, since swept away in the name of ‘progress’ to make way for a retail park. You don't find many people like her around anymore, a devout Methodist and a war widow. I never met uncle Cyril he was slaughtered on the Somme - she got peanuts for a pension.
“The Lord will provide’ she’d say as she packed me and my sister Lydia off to the front room to listen to Burl Ives LPs while her and mum rank orange coloured tea with two sugars. Mum would then pour out her troubles to wise old auntie Nora, usually over dad’s latest fall from grace - mainly sexually deviant in nature like looking at the girl at the till in the Co-op in ‘that way.’
I remember listening at the door and then bored, turn up the volume of ‘When the roll is called up Yonder’ so we could teach auntie Nora’s minah bird to say ‘bugger.’ Happy days.
“We amused ourselves when we were children,” I say self righteously to Joey, after the millionth time of hearing his regular mantra of “I’m bored” to the strains of 'Smile.' Poor babe, I sound just like my mum years ago when Lydia and me begged her for the bus fare to go into Leicester to have egg and chips in C&A’s cafe. Scary.
“Well, Now,” my mum’s voice interjected into my musing, “how did it go with Charles Bothum-Wethum - any wedding bells yet?” We’d arrived slightly late for tea to find her anxiously scanning the street for our arrival through lead latticed windows peeping out from underneath the low thatched eaves of a former farm labourer’s cottage, tarted up for commuters hungry for a taste of the good life.
“Well if there are you’ll need ears with sonic stereo to pick them up,” I replied as I tucked into my third home made scone with jam and cream.
“Really darling, you are a ninny you know, it’s not as if you are getting any younger and if you don’t heed my advice about staying out of the sun you’ll get as leathery as, as,” she waved her arms about vaguely as she searched for a suitable synonym, “as an old cow,” piped in Joey, faining innocence.
“Yes, well, whatever dear,” mum replied a tad sharply, not quite sure if Joey had transgressed the boundaries of good taste.
I gave him a wink.
“Charles is a sweetie mum,” I explained, “but he’s so conventional and predictable.” And short and bald and probably in possession of a small penis, I thought to myself.
“But his father Sir Horseham is president of the Ruddlesex Conservative Association and I do Meals on Wheels with his mother on a Friday, they are sooooo our sort of people.” I sensed a faint rebuke.
I could feel the conversation drifting into its familiar groove, the declining drop in today’s standards, the sheer horror at the way Labour has dismantled the country, fond reminiscences of the Empire and the scandal at the indiscriminate axing of condensed milk.
“The country is falling apart and your father always loved condensed milk on his tinned peaches, people just don’t know what’s good for them these days.”
She fell into a quite reverie as her mind struggled to make sense of the frightening new world that seemed to menace her from all sides.
“I know mum,” I answered gently, loving her in her bewilderment and nostalgia for a lost organasist world. Everything was so easy then, men were right and women invariably wrong.
Women in her day knew when to be thankful, most of the eligible men had been killed during the war, so if any man showed any interest it offered an escape from a sexless and childless spinsterhood where you became more and more invisible with the passing years.
Mind you, that mindset still exists for loads of divorced 40 something women today who are quite happy to trade in their independence for hard currency. It wouldn’t be so bad except for the fact that they often go all high ‘n mighty and expect the rest of us, perceived as being left idling on the shelf to not only be envious, but respectful of their new elevated status. Yeah right. They might have designer handbags but they have to actually sleep with their ancient decrepit sugar daddies who are invariably physically repulsive, wear incontinence pads or are chronically unfaithful. Or like Charles; kind, wet, sexless, worthy and dull. Or maybe not. For all I know, old Charlie boy could be so turbo-charged in bed I’d be his willing and grateful slave. But I doubt it. Mind you, it could be that my scarred and troubled relationship history has made me so wary of commitment I will find fault with every man I meet until I shrivel up like a dried old prune and no one will want me anyway. I will become such a lonely old biddie I will settle for any old codger I meet in the Post Office pension queue.
Mum and I sat there, quietly musing our own private thoughts on opposite side of the coffee table littered with the detritus that defined her existence, her doilies, china cups and saucers, jam spoons and crocheted tablecloth. Suddenly the leaden silence was shattered by the ring of my mobile phone.
It was Charles.
‘Oh hello,” I said, mouthing Charles’ name and pointing at the phone to mum. She sat bolt upright and listened so attentively that she mouthed every syllable as I ummed and arrhed, yes and no’d and finally said goodbye.
“Is it back on?” she queried hopefully after I triumphantly put the phone back in my bag with a flourish.
Well, I don’t know about that,” I laughed, “but he’s invited me to go as his partner to a dinner party at Squire de Lyle Stockings place at Humpington Hall. Obviously my resistance to his right-wing rantings and his amorous advances has only spurred him on.”
Mum put a warning finger to her lips and her eyes glanced sideways at Joey at the oblique reference to sexual relations, in case it sullied his innocence.
“Is he rich?” asked Joey.
“He’s a nice gentleman and your mother should thank her lucky stars,” said my mum. “Breeding and money, the perfect combination.”
I felt well chuffed, this dinner party was going to be a perfect opportunity to put myself about to scan around for other talent.
“Delia and her husband will be there,” I offered as a tit bit of information.
Mum reveres and worships Delia’s husband Tom Fielding who reads the lesson in church with the same dramatic delivery as Sir Lawrence Oliver’s rendition of Henry V’s ‘into the breach.’ She sees him as the epitome of all that’s great about England, good old gentry farming stock, backbone of almost every village committee and a paragon of self restraint, susceptible only to the odd glass of Talisker, a little more often than is good for him. But then, for mum, men are allowed their little foibles.
Little does she know that he’s humped more stable girls than hay bales during his marriage to Delia, hurls crockery at the wall if the dinner isn’t to his liking, and now, thanks to the drink, can’t get his willy up without Viagra.
Delia says she indulges him with the occasional humping session to keep him quiet. Apparently he pops his pill, waits for the desired effect and then lays down with it sticking up like a poker and then roars at Delia to, “hop on quick,” as if she’s a jockey.
Delia’s worked out that for a 10 minute gallop on top she burns off at least 250 calories so it’s really not that different from an aerobics workout and it’s great for toning the thighs.
“And, credit where it’s due,” Delia conceded with awe, “he’s hung like a bloody horse!”
‘Of course Tom’s wife’s a bit of Tartar,” Mum said suddenly.
“How’s that then?” I replied, my tolerance level dropping faster than a flasher’s trousers.
“Well, have you seen her shoes - for a woman that age! Bleached hair, and jeans with her tummy on show, it’s positively indecent. And these ‘adult’ art education classes she teaches sound very suspect to me and she never closes her eyes during confession in church, poor, poor, Tom what a heavy cross to bear.”
Joey suddenly looked up from a comic he was idly flicking though and adopted his most innocent stare. “Cesspool says Mr Fielding is as randy as an old goat and he’s had his leg over more women than five bar gates. He told me when we took Horace the bull to mate with Squire Percy’s heifers.”
His announcement had the desired effect. Mum positively swooned from the shock, spilling tea down the front of her twin set.
“I knew it!” she moaned, “It was only a matter of time before this innocent defenceless, fatherless child got drawn into the wrong company.”
“Joey is neither fatherless nor defenceless, in fact he’s a machinatory little menace,” I replied, trying hard not to laugh. “And he doesn’t understand a word of it,” I lied.
Driving home in the car, I read Joey the riot act, warning him in sepulchral tones that a repeat of such a heinous crime would result in unspeakable punishment.
“Yeah, yeah, “ he replied wearily, casually picking his nose and eyeing a particularly juicy bogie before popping it into his mouth, “There’s no need to go into orbit.”
As I instinctively slapped his wrist I caught his eye and we shared a furtive smile, and then looked fixedly at the road ahead until we reached home.