OCTOBER

Friday 1

My last day at work before a week’s holiday (yay! A week’s holiday!!!).  Struggle to get everything up to date and split the workload between three different secretaries before I’m told a float will be covering for me.

During a fag break (yes, I’m still smoking!), chat to a bloke who works as a waiter in a nearby restaurant.  He’s tall, he’s handsome, he’s wonderfully gay.  I ask about his strange accent and he tells me he was born in Holland, lived in Germany, currently has a house in Gran Canaria.  “How many languages can you speak?” I ask.  “Dutch, French, German, Spanish, Italian and English,” he says with a flourish.  “And you work as a waiter?” I gasp, “You’re wasted”.  In more ways that one (so handsome).  Being nosey, I ask, “What language do you think in?”  “I think in the language of the country I’m in.”  I’m hugely impressed, especially when he adds, “I dream in the language of the country I’m in too.”  

Amazing.

Saturday 2

DAY 1 OF HOLIDAY:  Absolutely determined to have the biggest lie-in in history this morning.  Woke up 'naturally' at 9.20am (latest I've woken up in years) and lounged luxuriously in bed for half an hour deciding what to do with the first day of my holiday.  Nothing, I decided, which sounded good to me. 

So that's what I did, nothing.  No washing, no shopping, no cleaning, just unmitigated pleasure doing whatever I wanted to do (as opposed to what I should do).  It was GREAT.  Me and the laptop on the sofa in front of a roaring gas fire for the ENTIRE DAY. 

Bliss.

Sunday 3

DAY 2:  Right, we've got the tiler coming tomorrow so we'd better get the bathroom painted in readiness.  Only neither of us feel like it.  Partner still ill with his viral infection (and coughing like a goodun), and I'm just lethargic - worry I may have caught Partner's virus (knew I shouldn't have kissed him!) but suspect its probably my body telling me how much it liked doing Absolutely Nothing yesterday and could we do it again today please. 

Listlessly paint window and doorframe, but it's not a good effort and will have to be done again - but hey, it's white, it'll do for now. 

Shopping?  Nah, let's watch a good film instead, we're on holiday after all.

Monday 4

DAY 3:  Right, enough of this lethargy, get yer ass in gear, girl, and Get Something Done.

Haul ass out of bed at 7.30 (brain: I thought we were supposed to be on holiday? body: yer gotta be kidding me, 7.30 am?).  Have a bath, clear bathroom, welcome tiler at 8.30 (his name's Peter Kaye, so what did Partner wear?  A "Garlic Bread?" t-shirt!).

Weather appalling.   Take 17 tons of clean, damp washing to the laundrette, read paper while it dries.  Get shopping, unpack, put washing away, make bacon butties for three.  All before midday (yes!).

On a roll now, catch Small Son having a (legitimate) day off work and 'sort him out'.  Make him ring companies he owes money to and arrange standing orders/direct debits.  I ring court official who came the other day hoping to charm him into accepting monthly payments for the motoring fine, but he wants paying in full or he will arrest Small Son.  I manage to scrape together the money (every penny I have) and take Small Son's bank card as collatoral (I will be paid back!). 

Start hitting Partner every time he says, "Do you not know Bolton?", which is roughly every 15 minutes!

Tuesday 5

DAY 4:  Partner still ill, pale, coughing, phlegmy and lethargic.  He doesn't look good.  Tiler, on the other hand, grafts his socks off 8.30am to 5.00pm with barely a break!  Embarrassing to sit around apparently doing nothing (Partner watching tv and sniffing a lot, me laptopping) when someone in the house is working so hard - I feel like I should be stripping wallpaper off the living room walls or something.

Man arrives from the court and I reluctantly hand over my hard earned cash to pay him off.  Jeez, this teenage stuff is hard.  My dad says that some parents in America actually leave their own homes and live elsewhere to get away from demanding offspring, and I can fully understand why!  ("Dear Sons, We've made a run for it.  We're not coming back until you're married with families of your own, then we'll come mess your house up and plead poverty and see how you like it.  Love, mom x.")

Wednesday 6

DAY 5:  The tiler finishes.  Perfect job.  The bathroom is FABULOUS (the bathroom of my dreams ... God, I must get out more!).  Despite the fact that we've paid for his services, we're still inordinately grateful (we're odd like that).  Rush out to buy chromed accessories (I'm now a woman with Chromed Accessories in her Perfect Bathroom!) and I hear myself nagging my still phlegmy partner to Get The Shower Fitted and Put The Door Back On.

Begin to suspect I'm becoming ... houseproud!!!  May have to seek therapy for this.

Thursday 7

DAY 6: Take Small Son to my bank to open up new bank account for him in the hope he'll sort his out diabolical finances.  There for 20 minutes before the bank person glares at the screen and tells us Small Son can't have an account bank because, apparently, he has a bad credit record!  I act surprised when really I want to crawl under his desk with embarrassment.  Small Son 'encouraged' to set up standing orders with his old bank to pay off his debts (the words "Do it or experience pain" are mentioned).

There's a programme on tv at the moment called Little Angels, where a woman helps parents with their out-of-control toddlers (toddlers! if they can't control a three year old they stand Absolutely No Chance when they're teenagers!).  There should be a programme for parents of adolescents, where someone comes in and says things like, "Make him do it!" and I can scream, "How?" and they'll tell me ("Pin the lanky bugger to the floor" perhaps, or "Go on, hit him, you know you want to!").

Any tv producers reading, get in touch. 

Friday 8

DAY 7:  Something strange has happened in the night (no, I'm not abducted by aliens - although this might account for a lot of things!).  A cosmic vacuum cleaner has sucked all the energy from my body.

I'm ill!

How boring!  Blame Partner entirely, but he's still too sick to care about accusations of viral spreading.  Try to ignore it, but break into a sweat washing up, after which I'm exhausted.  So give in to it.  Flop.  Huddle in front of fire.  Force partner to go to doctors as the sound of his phlegm shifting is seriously getting on my nerves.  Doctor gives him cough linctus.

My mother rings.  Always a relief to know she's still talking to me after What I Did About the Ex-Mother-In-Law (who still hasn't rung - result!).  Mom says she's going to visit and admire my new bathroom.  "We're both ill," I mention casually.  "Oh, I won't come then," she says, "I don't want to catch anything." 

Right, so we'll cope on our own then. 

Cough cough splutter sigh.

Saturday 9

Still ill ... and now depressed because the Holiday is Over (wah!!).  God, I so Do Not want to go back to work.

I'm not saying we've been watching too much tv lately, but has anyone seen the Canesten advert?  Absolutely cracks us up every time we see it.  This normal looking woman with a big smile on her face goes into a chemist and calmly asks for Canesten.  She's then seen leaving the shop, still with a carefree smile, popping a tablet into her mouth.  Now excuse me, but is this Real Life?  It is not.  In reality, a dishevelled woman with a pained expressed would rush into the chemist with a hand clamped between her legs.  She'd scream for Canesten ... and a toothbrush.  She'd then fall to the floor to apply the 'conveniently sized' cream.

Afterwards, she'd ask for Valium to help with the teenager problem, and something to stop her partner from shifting his snot all day.

But hey, she's probably got a nice bathroom filled with Chromed Accessories, so all is right with the world.

Monday 11

Right, back to work then.  Oh God!

Expect desk to be heaving with a week’s worth of work, but pleasantly relieved to discover this isn’t so - the float secretary kept it at bay.  Phew!

A boss-type has left the company, but a fax comes through for them.  I approach the boss-type who’s now sitting at absent solicitors desk.  “Who’s dealing with so-and-so’s work now?” I ask cheerfully.  The boss snaps, “I don’t know!”  My smile drops like a rock and my eyes bore into the back of his rude head.  “Who’s the fax from?” he asks.  I tell him, my eyes now opening up his miserable skull and prodding at his shrivelled brain.  “No idea what that is,” he says (then why bloody ask!).  With a final filthy look, I walk away before I can say out loud what I’m thinking (“Get over yourself, you moron!”).

I tell ya, if you speak to secretaries like they’re single-celled organisms, you’ve already lost the battle up that corporate ladder.

Wednesday 13

My brother, who’s been travelling around Europe for a couple of weeks, returns to our icy shores and tries to ring mom, who doesn’t answer, so he rings me to find out where she is.  No idea, mate.   

At 11.30pm, when I’m fast asleep in my warm bed, brother rings again - mom still not answering the phone and he’s worried.  So am I now.  I try mom’s number, no answer.  Ring my sister to see if mom’s there.  Not.  Okay, mom lives alone and was broken into a couple of months ago and has been feeling a bit ‘down’ lately, think we can shift up to ‘slight panic’ mode now.

Its dark and foggy as I haul semi-conscious carcass into the car at midnight.  Decide I don’t actually want to check on mom on my own - after all, I am a mere woman with no late night dress sense and bed-hair (yay, finally, I’m trendy!).  Ring Small Son, who’s at his girlfriend’s nearby.  “I’ve lost my mom,” I tell him, “Will you come with me to find her?”  He whines, “Oh mom!”  Okay, fine, forget it. 

Struggle to reverse car out of driveway in dark fog, finally ease into space in grove and thrust car into first gear.  Passenger door suddenly flies open!  Heart swells to fifteen times its normal size and immediately consider defensive potential of sunglasses on dashboard.  Small Son coils himself into car.  “What do you mean, you’ve lost your mom?” he grunts.

Drive to mom’s, a whole five minutes away (took me longer to get out of my driveway).  Pull up, hoping the front door isn’t open or anything horrific.  Its not.  Tap on window, whispering, “Mom?”  Voice from inside says, “Hang on a minute.”  So mom’s there!  Big relief.

Inside, three bed-haired grumpy people stare bleary eyed at each other in mom’s hallway.  “Brother rang, you didn’t answer,” I say.  “Oh look,” mom cries, “I switched the phone off and forgot to put it back on again.”

“Why did you switch your phone off?” I utter.

“I went shopping,” mom says, “I turn it off when I go out so [okay, wait for this] I don’t disturb the cat.”

This sinks into the still slumbering brain slowly, and then it lands, like a pebble in mud.  “The entire family is now wide awake at gone midnight because you didn’t want to disturb the cat?” I ask.  I suddenly have very clear image of ringing a furry neck.  “I’ll be down tomorrow,” I mutter on my way out, “With superglue for the off switch.” (And maybe a gift or two for the cat).

FORGET THIS!

THIS IS WHAT EVERY PARENT OF TEENAGERS NEEDS

Saturday 16

Partner and I drive to Merry Hell shopping centre, visit Waterstones bookshop, where I present an assistant with a list of three books on ‘coping with teenagers’.

“Which one do you want?” the assistant asks.

“Any,” I tell her (red-eyed and kind of limp), “All.”

She checks the first title, says they don’t have it, and hands me the list back.

“Try the second title,” I say, pushing the list back into her reluctant hand.

With a huff, she checks it, says they don’t have it, and hands me back the list.

“I tell you what,” I croak, thrusting the list at her (I am a mother on the edge, don't mess with me!), “Just for the hell of it, try the last one.”

The don’t have that either!  Go home, order books off Amazon, find another title on ebay and beg seller to let me have it straight away (which she kindly does … think she can sense the desperation!).

The Books:
Parents, Teens and Boundaries: How to Draw the Line:
Get Out of My Life: But First Take Me and Zoe into Town
Parent in Control: Restore Order in Your Home and Create a Loving Relationship with Your Adolescent:
The Terrible Teens: What Every Parent Needs to Know

Sunday 17

Ex arrives at 3.30pm.  I go through mass of Small Son’s paperwork with him and explain the situation in detail.  At 4pm we go to pick Small Son up from work (he works on Sundays).  His face when he sees us (mom and dad together, must be serious) is a picture of pure horror.  He gets into the car.  His dad tells him we’re kidnapping him - he makes no comment. 

We take him to a Really Quiet Pub (oddly, the same pub ex used to take me to when we were trying to sort out our problems - it was his idea of a good night out … ah, the memories!).  All sit down with a pint each, papers spread out on table.  I let ex do most of the talking as I’ve pretty much said everything, repeatedly, over the last few months (or is it years … I think its years!).  Small Son promises to pull himself together and sort stuff out.  His dad says he'll check to make sure he does.

I can’t describe the relief of Someone Else taking over for a change, and if Small Son is going to take notice of anyone its his dad. 

God, I hope.

Monday 18

After three weeks of sick leave (and a loss of almost a stone in weight), skinny Partner finally returns to Return To Work. 

Back to normal then - or as normal as it gets in my house.

Small Son supposed to be at there when I get home from work to sort some of his paperwork out, but he’s not.  I ring him, he says he’ll be round in a minute (he’s at his girlfriends).  Half an hour later, I ring again, and he says the same thing.  Half an hour after that I text his dad.  Receive text back saying, “He’s on his way round.”  Small Son arrives 45 seconds later. 

Wow, the power of dad!

Tuesday 19

Have lunch with another secretary.  Resisting the urge to consume copious amounts of alcohol, she tells me all about her husband (who’s terrible with money) and I tell her all about Small Son (equally terrible with money).  We both feel slightly better afterwards - destitute but better.

Wednesday 20

And now for something completely different (before I bore you into a coma with Small Son stuff … hey, I’m just warning you parents what can happen – if you’re considering having children, might I suggest a dog could be a better option!)

Mom coming into town to have lunch with me today.  I ask if sister is coming too, but she’s not (probably too scared after my wrath about her lateness last time.)  12.20, mom rings - apparently all the buses have stopped running into Birmingham city centre, there’s massive queues at the bus stop, but she’ll try and get here on time.  12.45, mom rings again, she’s given up, gone home, will try ‘lunching’ another time.

Have new FrontPage manual at work.  On the first page it reads: “Before starting FrontPage, make sure your computer is on.”  Duh. 

(Should have a manual for lunching with my family: “Before planning lunch, make sure (a) buses are running; (b) sister is wearing a watch; (c) sister knows how to tell the time on said watch and has a vague concept of time; (d) sister has petrol in car and some idea of where she’s going to park; and (e) sister aware of exactly how much time is required to get into Birmingham city centre - 10 mins from Halesowen just won’t hack it.”)

Thursday 21

Canteen at lunch.  There’s the ‘Good Assistant’ and the ‘Bad Assistant’.  Bad Assistant is a mean bugger - when he scrapes the filling onto the bread its so thin its almost transparent. 

‘Good Assistance’ ladles it on in wild abandonment.  Today - ham salad on baguette with mayonnaise.  She lashes on the mayo, squashes thick wedges of ham into the bread like she’s wrestling some Sumo, prises in slices of cucumber and tomato with tongue clamped between her teeth, then looks confused as to what to do with the iceberg lettuce.  She eventually tosses it on top like garnish and pushes her entire body weight down on it.  This is one heavy baguette!  When I get it back to the office and unwrap it, it explodes across my desk.

Definitely good value for money, but doubt Good Assistant will last long before the company realises its profits have taken a massive nose dive.

Saturday 23

Look at this!  Horrifying!

Sunday 24

Decided it was time to rally the troops and have some fun with my sons for a change.  After all, no point having all these giant sized men if they can’t help their little old mother out occasionally.  So invited them all to a stripping party, sent them proper invitations.

“Stripping party?” they all cried, “Yeah!” 

“I’ll supply the food, drinks, curry and video on night,” I told them, “You strip the wallpaper off my living room during the day.”

The enthusiasm waned a little, but Big Son and Middle Son are making the trip down from Yorkshire, and even Small Son said he’d pop round (yeah, okay, not actually living here any more then?)

House, brace yerself. 

Monday 25

Pay day!  And I actually had money left over from last month (a whole 52p, how’s that for accounting skills!).

I don’t know why I get so excited about pay day, its not as if anything tangible happens.  Salary goes in bank, I don’t touch it, it all goes away again without any interaction whatsoever.  Not like the old days when you got a little brown envelope with your name on it and inside was Real Money - these days its all cyber dosh, not the same at all.

Wednesday 27

On the bus into work this morning, I had a massive panic attack.  Not my normal paranoia about fainting, but a real heart-attack-oh-my-god-I’m-going-to-die event.  Scared the absolute shit out of me I can tell you.  Didn't even get off the bus, I just sat there thinking, "I'm going to die ... thank God I'm wearing trousers so at least I'll look dignified when I collapse across the dirty floor."

Came home, vegged big time (feeling pretty bloody grateful to still be alive).  Contemplated my life, the universe and all that. 

Later gave Small Son contact details for Youth Counselling and National Debtline.

Told him I loved him.

Told him to Get On With It.

Thursday 28

My tonsils have come out in sympathy with the stress levels and sit like soft tennis balls in the back of my throat.  Rang work and told them I wouldn’t be in – actually, wanted to say "I'm in the middle of a nervous breakdown at the moment, normal service will be resumed as soon as I've figured out what normal is."

Small Son got paid.  Some standing orders have kicked in and he paid some others with his debit card numbers, so there is light at the end of the tunnel (but its a bloody big tunnel, and its not actually my tunnel so I'd like to go home now please).

He came round for the small amount of salary he had left (since I confiscated his bank card – like you’ll never handle money again until you’re my age). 

My cousin died today.  Brain tumour.  He wasn't yet 40.  I contemplated life a bit more.

Friday 29 October

Tonsils now like beach balls.  I think the panic attack on the bus was my sanity's way of saying, 'Hey, I'm packing my bags, the tickets are booked, I'm outta here.’
 
Prodded relationship with partner last night, seems to be okay considering the stress we’ve been through lately.  Thankfully we’re pretty solid, if a little battle weary.  Resurrected sense of humour and stayed up late talking.

Saturday 30

The boys are back in town! The boys are back in town!  (The boys are back! The boys are back!).

They’re here!  Big Son and Middle Son.  They arrived last night like worn out refugees and we celebrated with one of my partner’s Super Curries.  Fabulous to see them, they’re such gorgeous men (I take full credit, of course).

Today the instructions to The Young Ones were simple: empty furniture out of living room and strip wallpaper.  Only took them four hours!  Celebrated with yet another curry (takeaway this time) and a horror film for Halloween (Gothika with Halle Belle … rubbish!).

My living room now looks like an abandoned council estate flat that’s had squatters.  To try and cheer it up a bit we scribbled all over the walls with marker pens, so now it looks like an abandoned council estate flat with graffiti.

Sunday 31

Big Son expressed a preference to go home because he missed his girlfriend (he’s dead gooey on the phone to her), so we drove him to the station.  Middle son expressed a preference for some retail therapy, so we went to the Bull Ring Shopping Centre, where he bought DVDs and we bought bargain basement videos.

May have to cut his allowance.

Armed with cake and various jars from my kitchen cupboard (“Are you eating enough?” I ask him, “You look a little thin.  Here, have these 15 jars of pasta sauce.”  “Great, like my bag isn’t heavy enough already, mom!”  Tsk, gratitude!), he caught the train back to Leeds.

Felt all sobby returning to my quiet, bereft-of-sons, council walled house