Why Mummy Doesn’t Give a ****

The chicken house arrived yesterday, a rather lovely little wood affair with a built-in run, and roosts and nesting boxes and all sorts including special fox-proof wire apparently. I was a little alarmed at the ‘easy clean’ features, as I hadn’t really taken cleaning out chickens into account (I sort of assumed they’d just poop outside and it would be good for the grass or something, but it seems not). Anyway, never mind, I decided that maybe the children could clean out the chickens for me – such a wholesome outdoor activity. After all, the whole point of the chickens (apart from their Instagrammability) was because I’d read somewhere that looking after animals was very therapeutic for children after suffering a trauma such as their parents’ divorce. Having paid out so much to bloody Christina to no avail as well, I also reckoned chickens would be much cheaper than getting the children counselling, and I’d get some free eggs out of it too. In a fit of chicken enthusiasm I spent most of yesterday painting the chicken house an adorable duck egg blue so that it would be a worthy home for my Speckled Sussexes to chat to me in. I’d attempted to persuade Peter and Jane that this might be a lovely bonding activity for us to do together, but Jane curtly told me she was ‘busy’ and after ten minutes of Peter enthusiastically sloshing my beautiful duck egg blue paint all over the lawn, the garden bench, the apple tree and himself – everywhere in fact but on the chicken house, I suggested that maybe I’d just finish it myself.

When I went in to get a cup of tea there were giant duck egg blue footprints all through the house, which was particularly baffling as Peter had taken his shoes off at the back door. How had he got paint INSIDE his shoes? I told myself it didn’t matter, it would wash off, and anyway, I was very partial to a bit of duck egg blue (perhaps I shall also keep ducks, as part of my wholesome Country Image? I can see my Instagram feed now, all hens and ducks and trugs of beautiful vegetables, and me skipping about in a pair of fetching dungarees looking like Felicity Kendal in The Good Life. I just need to find a way to stop myself looking like a Soviet era mechanic when I put on dungarees).

When the chickens arrived, the children did shuffle outside to admire them. They were very beautiful chickens, and even Jane seemed enamoured of them. I’d told the children they could each name a chicken, and I would name the third. I’d harboured hopes of names of Shakespearean grandeur, or perhaps some classics from Greek mythology (when I suggested they could look to the Greek myths for inspiration, Jane sniggered and said, ‘What about Jason? Was that the sort of thing you had in mind, Mother?’ to which I pointed out that the chickens were girls and so Jason wasn’t appropriate – and also definitely not what I’d had in mind).

‘So, darlings,’ I said cheerily. ‘Have you decided what you’re going to call your chickens?’

‘Oh yes, Mum,’ they said, exchanging knowing looks. I should have anticipated that no good would come of the children colluding on anything.

‘I’m calling mine Oxo,’ announced Jane.

‘And mine’s Bisto,’ giggled Peter.

‘What? No! You can’t call them after stock cubes and gravy. How will that make them feel? They’ll constantly be worried we’re going to eat them.’

‘Mum, they’re chickens,’ said Peter. ‘I don’t think they really know about things like that.’

‘They’re chatty chickens,’ I insisted. ‘You don’t know what they know about. You’ll upset them.’

‘Well, you said we could call them whatever we wanted, and that’s what we’ve chosen,’ said Jane firmly. ‘What are you going to call yours, Mum?’

‘Oh fuck it,’ I said wearily. ‘I suppose if I can’t beat you, I’ll have to join you. I don’t want my chicken feeling different, so she’d better be Paxo.’

At least, I reflected, Jane had called me ‘Mum’ for once and not a sarcasm-laden ‘Mother’. Perhaps the chickens were already weaving their therapeutic magic and soon we’d all be sitting together playing board games and doing jigsaws in the evening and having a good old sing-song round the piano, and being a wholesome, normal and functional family.

From Judgy Dog’s reaction when I tentatively introduced him to the chickens, he wholeheartedly approved of the names and couldn’t wait to see the chickens live up to them. Fuck. My. Life.

Wednesday, 25 April

I was feeling like a perfect, clever domestic goddess, totally and utterly nailing juggling teenage parenting, single motherhood and a demanding career (it’s very good being important enough to be given your own office, because it makes timewasting on non-work-related things – like topping up ParentPay accounts – much easier. I’d feel bad about this, if I didn’t know for a fact that my old boss, Ed, whose job and office I was promoted into last year, as he’s gone to be Busy and Important at the head office in California, had always had a two-hour nap under his desk every afternoon, having insisted that he must not be disturbed, as that was when he made Important Calls. Therefore I feel that since I’m actually rather good at my job and efficient enough to get everything done with time left over, snatching the odd half-hour for life admin is perfectly OK. We’ll gloss over the time I spend browsing the Daily Mail website, though).

In a fit of said efficiency, I’d ordered a Sainsbury’s shop online as there’s less temptation to spend money on unnecessary items that catch my eye and look useful or delicious – the budget German supermarkets are all very well until you hit the middle aisles and their tempting arrays of randomness – and arranged to have it delivered after the children got in from school, leaving strict instructions that they were to have put it away by the time I got home. I felt slightly guilty about making my poor latch-key children also put the shopping away after a tough day at school, but then I reminded myself that a) the fridge stuff would all be warm by the time I finally got home and there was no one else to do it, and b) agonising over making your children put away the Arborio risotto rice and Parmesan was surely a first world problem if ever there was one.

I got in the door to be greeted by Judgy’s usual performance of ‘Hello, I love you, you are the centre of my world, come and sit down so I can sit on your knee and tell you how much I love you!’ for two minutes, before he remembered that I had in fact dared to leave him, and so he hated me and I must be punished, even though I knew he’d had a perfectly lovely day with the fabulous dog sitter, who picks him up in the morning and returns him in the evening and who had sent me a photo at lunchtime of Judgy lolling on her sofa, having thrown all the cushions on the floor (he does this at home as well). He does this every day, though, so I’m no longer distressed by it, as he forgives me as soon as there’s a sniff of food.

The house, which had been tidy when I left this morning, looked like a bomb had hit it. A trail of shoes, school bags and coats littered the hall. In the sitting room, plates and glasses festooned every surface, while Jane sprawled on the sofa, staring intently at her phone.

‘Hello, darling,’ I said loudly.

Jane slowly dragged her eyes up from her phone and grunted something.

‘Did the shopping come?’

‘Uh huh.’

‘And did you put it away?’

‘No, that’s not my job. That’s your job.’

‘I can’t do everything, Jane. I just … can’t. Please help me out here. Meet me halfway?’

‘If you didn’t want to do everything yourself, you should have stayed with Dad then, shouldn’t you?’ snapped Jane. ‘Then you’d have had someone to help!’

I gave up and went through to the kitchen. The shopping was all over the floor. Jane followed me through.

‘And you had it delivered in bags!’ she said accusingly. ‘I mean, don’t worry about us, Mother! It’s not like we want a planet to live on in the future or anything.’

‘Oh shit,’ I said. ‘I must’ve ticked the wrong box. I’ll reuse them or take them to be recycled, it’ll be fine.’

Jane snorted again.

Peter meanwhile was standing there disconsolately, surrounded by the shopping.

‘When’s dinner?’ he said. ‘I’m SO hungry, Mum, and there’s no food.’

‘Dinner will be about half an hour,’ I said. ‘Peter, there’s literally food all around you, because neither of you have bothered your arse to put the shopping away.’

‘I did put it away,’ protested Peter. ‘I put the fridge stuff away, and then I didn’t know where anything else went.’

I opened the fridge. He had indeed ‘put the fridge stuff away’, if you could call cramming everything in randomly ‘putting it away’. There was a block of Cheddar at the front with teeth marks in it.

‘Who did this?’ I demanded.

Peter shrugged. ‘I told you I was hungry,’ he said.

‘Right,’ I said furiously. ‘There will be no dinner until all this shopping is put away. ALL of it. Work out where it goes, it’s not rocket science. I, meanwhile, am going to have a glass of wine and FIVE MINUTES’ PEACE, while you BOTH put it away – do not even think about bleating about gender stereotypes or the FUCKING PATRIARCHY at me, Jane, and Peter, PUT IT AWAY AND DO NOT EAT IT. You can go fifteen minutes without eating something.’

I poured myself a large glass of wine and stomped out to talk to my chatty chickens, followed by Judgy Dog, who wasn’t going to let a little thing like being in a sulk with me mean I could be let out of his sight, especially not to betray him with the chickens. I also suspected him of harbouring hopes of getting into the chicken house and being a winner, winner with a chicken dinner. I’ve already had stern words with him about how I’d struggle to love him so much if he ate the Speckled Sussexes, even though so far they’ve not laid a single egg. I expect they’re still settling in.

The chickens looked at me balefully in response to my cheery greeting. So far they’ve proved distinctly unchatty. I can’t help but wonder if they’ve taken against me because of their names? They also refuse to look Instagrammable every time I try to take a picture of them. Instead, as soon as I get my phone out, they hunch into themselves and huddle pathetically and do an excellent impression of an RSPCA advert, despite their extremely pampered life. Luckily Jane does seem to like them, and even deigns to feed them, so there’s that. I’m starting to wonder if buying expensive chickens was a mistake, and I should have got some rescue battery hens, who might at least have been grateful for their new home and not looked at me quite so nastily. Maybe I should get some rescue hens too? I fear the Speckled Sussexes might bully them, though.

‘What do you think? Would you like some friends?’ I asked the chickens. They glared at me. Oxo gave a disgusted squawk. I assumed that was a no.

I gave up trying to converse with them and drank my wine, while reflecting that at least Peter tries to help, even if his attempts are more of a hindrance, while I fretted that perhaps his efforts are due to some misplaced idea that he has to be the man of the house, which will go down badly with Jane and her views on the patriarchy if he tries to tell her what to do. Jane has recently become very vocal on the subject of the Oppression of the Patriarchy, although as far as I can see, rather than trying to overthrow it and bring about an equal and fair society, she mostly uses it as an excuse not to lift a finger, and to tell me why I’m wrong about everything, because obviously I’ve no idea whatsoever what it’s like to live in a patriarchal society like she does.

My wine finished, I gave up trying to work out the tangled thought processes of my teenage children, shut the chickens in their house for the night (Judgy would never forgive me if I allowed a dastardly fox to enjoy his

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.