Why Mummy Swears

‘Kiki. With two Ks.’

‘Right. Kiki. This is the PTA. We only deal with fundraising for the school, not school policies. You want the Parent Council for that.’

‘Oh,’ said Kiki with two Ks (it’s hardly Anne with a bloody E, is it? Also, isn’t Kiki a parrot’s name?). ‘Well, I’m here now, so I might as well stay, as I’m interested to see what the PTA funds are used for. I’m sure there are better ways of spending the money – for example, the playground is very grey. It’s really hard to get a decent photo of the girls out there. If some money could be spent on some nice paving, maybe some plants, and obviously a mural wall is a MUST.’

‘Why?’ asked Lucy’s Mummy.

‘Because everyone loves a mural wall as an Instagram backdrop!’ cried Kiki. ‘Instagram is the future. Schools really need to get on board with this.’

Lucy’s Mummy turned puce at this, as Fiona Montague nudged her, and I distinctly heard her whisper, ‘Let it go. Not our circus, not our monkey anymore! Let’s wrap things up quickly and go to the pub. She’s Ellen’s problem now.’

Kiki ploughed on oblivious. ‘While we’re on the subject, why isn’t the school on Instagram? Maybe I could help with that. I’m actually a social media influencer, with over 300 followers. I’m @kikiloveandlife if anyone wants to follow me – it’s about children and lifestyle and travel. People tell me I’m an aspirational inspiration, which is humbling!’

The first icy realisation of what I may have done began to dawn on me.

The rest of the meeting mainly consisted of the outgoing committee handing over to us, the new, slightly daunted committee, with proceedings only minimally held up by Kiki interrupting to tell us her latest Instagram stats, and asking for another pause while she took more photos of her daughters colouring in and then suggested a group selfie, which everyone politely declined, and reminding us again that we all really should follow her, as a lot of people have told her she is inspirational.

The only saving grace was that Kiki didn’t actually seem interested in volunteering for any position within the PTA other than starting an Instagram page, which I am pretty sure the school will veto.

When I got home and ’fessed up to Simon about how I was not only on the PTA committee, but was in fact the new Chair, he looked at me in disbelief.

‘So what you are telling me is that Perfect Lucy Atkinson’s Perfect Mummy actually gave her resignation by publicly shouting “FUCK THIS SHIT” and that was the point at which you decided it would be a good idea to take on the role that had reduced her to that?’

‘Ummm, well, it was such a very awkward silence. Someone had to say something. I panicked! I hate silences.’

‘Usually you fill any perceived awkward silences by babbling hysterically about how otters have opposable thumbs, not by volunteering for what appears to be the most thankless task in the history of humanity.’

‘I did consider my otter soliloquy, but it didn’t really seem appropriate. And how bad can it be, when I have Sam and Katie helping me? And Cara, she seems perfectly nice, and normal. It will be fine, Simon, I don’t know what you are worrying about. We have already agreed that it would be a much better idea to hold our meetings in the pub – I bet that will get lots of people along!’

‘Hmmmm,’ said Simon doubtfully. ‘Well, I will try not to say “I told you so” when it all goes tits up.’

Friday, 30 September

I GOT THE JOB! I don’t know HOW, but I got the job. Gabrielle just said that Max had found me very ‘creative’ (Gabrielle didn’t sound totally convinced by this). Maybe being able to make up bullshit on the spot is a positive life skill now, instead of being frowned upon? And because I don’t have to hand in my notice anywhere else, they want me to start a week on Monday, which, oh fuck, is just over a week away.

Obviously I am now totally totally panicking about everything. Am I up to the job? Can I actually do it? How am I going to manage juggling being the Chair of the PTA with working full-time and everything else? Will my children now be emotionally stunted and traumatised for life? And most importantly, what if I can’t find the toilets in the new office? I spend a lot of time worrying about toilets; toilets are important to me. If I can’t find them it will be distressing. I still recall my first job, where everything was fine for the first six months because I knew where the toilets were, but then they moved me to another department, a department with no obvious toilets, where everyone else was male and I didn’t like to ask anyone where the ladies’ were, so I spent the next six months trailing back and forth to my old department so I could have a wee, until I had the bright idea of following another woman who worked on the same floor as me, and finding the toilets like that. It’s not just me who has toilet issues; Hannah once went so far as to turn down a job because she was worried the building was too big and she would never find the loos (I mean, there were other factors too, obviously, but the toilets were definitely a part of it). Also, they are a modern and innovative company, so what if they have gone all Ally McBeal and have unisex toilets? I don’t want unisex toilets, I don’t want to listen to Brian from Marketing grunting as he shits out last night’s biryani while I’m trying to change a tampon, and what if they talk about wanking while I’m trying to put my lip gloss on? Do men talk about wanking in the toilets? I have no idea. How would I possibly know what men talk about in the toilets, and that’s the way I like it! And if I can’t even wee while there are other women in the ladies, how on earth am I going to be able to ‘go’ if there are men in there? (Although I would at least be able to blame the farting on them, should I accidentally let one rip.)

I felt rather nostalgic for the familiar, comforting surroundings of the loos in my old office, the loos I knew the exact location of, where Brenda the cleaning lady would leave the cupboard with the spare loo rolls unlocked for me because she knew I got anxious if we were down to less than half a roll in the holder. You couldn’t do that in a unisex loo, with Brian and his biryanis. Everyone knows men would not respect such bog-roll privileges. But then I cheered up. I had got the Dream Job! In the face of everything, including the cock and balls on the wall, Simon’s general lack of enthusiasm, the wrong sort of coffee cup, the feral screaming children and the toast crumbs in my bra, I HAD GOT THE FUCKING JOB! Obviously I would need a smart new capsule work wardrobe. Hopefully they wouldn’t expect me to wear those stupid heels all the time, and maybe I will finally master how to wear the cropped trousers with funky boots without looking like a fanny.

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