Frantic and Friedman

I looked sceptically at my husband. ‘Surely you don’t mean the Dean Friedman is playing here in the village tonight?’ I said. My husband nodded smiling. ‘What are you crazy? How in the hell can you say what you just said?’ I asked. My husband showed me the poster. It was true, it was there in black and white, but why hadn’t he told me before? He knew I was a big fan. ‘You could have told me a little earlier!’ I snapped, looking at the time. ‘Is that why you’re angry?’ he asked. ‘No I’m not angry.’ ‘Maybe a little?’ ‘Not even maybe, but how am I supposed to feel with all the things you don’t reveal?’ My husband sighed apologetically. ‘What about the baby?’ I said. ‘We’ll take the children with us’, he shrugged. I glanced over to the baby engrossed in one of those things that au pairs give babies to play with. I sighed. ‘Baby stop playing!’ I told him. The baby looked at me briefly then carried on. ‘Baby now stop it’, I said, and turned to my husband. ‘You should know better’, I said. He shrugged and said ‘I know this is hard to do, but there’s no one to look after him but me and you’. I gave in and picked the baby up and we went down to the village Green.

The concert was absolutely packed so I gave Tilly some money and sent her to the bar whilst my husband and I turfed some locals off their seats. The baby started crying. ‘Baby I’m sorry’, I whispered. ‘I was wrong, I have no alibis, I was acting like a fool and I apologise’. I looked down into his sweet little face. 'Do you still love me?' I said, softly and the little baby look he returned to me said 'yes I still love you'. I should never have come, I thought, but when the man himself came on stage and all those bitter-sweet satirical songs about life and love and politics and relationships came flooding back into my memory the baby’s crying seemed to fade away. ‘You know’, began Dean, ‘sometimes it’s tough being an American in the UK lately’, he continued, ‘and I blame all you goddamn bleeding heart lilly livered limey liberals! George W Bush should come over here and kick your goddamn limey democrat ass!’ Crikey, I thought, Dean Friedman’s a neo-con? Now I really needed that drink. I turned towards the bar only to see Tilly subsumed in a crowd of rough young men in black t-shirts. I knew I had to get in there. I would have to rescue my daughter or I’d never get a bloody drink. My husband seemed to have disappeared but Dean Friedman had a free lap, sitting at his keyboard just nearby. I handed him the baby. ‘I’ll be back in a minute’, I assured him. ‘Just carry on dear’. The great man looked slightly concerned. ‘I can’t hold your baby Ma'am!’ he said. ‘What if he’s sick on my new shirt? I bought it especially for this gig you know, I wanted to look really smart’. I studied the loud American floral number in question. I was not exactly looking my best either so I was in no position to say anything. ‘Well’, I reassured him, ‘you can thank your lucky stars that we're not as smart as we'd like to think we are’ and I dived into the throng to save my G&T from being crushed by the crowd.

If the real Dean Friedman is reading this, we loved your set at RL last night, thanks for coming up our way, hope to see you again, and please please don't sue...

breakfast epiphanys

‘Mummy’, began Tilly hesitantly at the other end of the line. ‘Yes dear’ I said. ‘You know those really tiny USB pen thingys?’ she continued. ‘You mean like the one that I wrote today’s blog post on before I went away and left with you children to put on the internet?’ I asked. ‘Erm, yes’, stammered Tilly. ‘What about them?’ I queried. ‘Do you think it would be a problem if the baby swallowed one mummy?’ she asked. I thought for a moment. ‘Well, I suppose if the lid was on then no files should be lost’ I reassured her. ‘I meant for the baby’, she said. ‘How would I know? Who do you think I am, Gina blaardy Ford!?’ I snapped, but then the full seriousness of the situation hit me. Oh Gawd, I thought, no blog for a whole week again. My agent was going to kill me. I thought quickly. ‘Tilly’ I said ‘There’s a list of emergency numbers by the phone’. There was a pause. ‘Oh yes, I see them’, said Tilly fearfully. She began reading down the list; ‘Interior designer…Fen shui consultant….Doctor….PC World…’ She was stopped by my interruption. ‘That’s the one dear. I have to go now because my pain au chocolate is getting cold. I’m counting on you girls to act responsibly now Tilly!’ and I hung up. I gazed out over the balcony and burdened with the demands of parenthood, shook the last drop of brandy into my coffee. My lyrical and insightful writings on the everyday life of an ordinary family may yet be recovered from this holiday, but I didn't know if I ever would be. Perhaps I needed to rethink my life, and at the very least start backing up on CD...

the kindness of strangers

We all stood on the kerb. I was going to have to put my thinking cap on for this one. Crossing the road had seemed so easy when we lived in London. Everyone drove so considerately there but The North was so full of downshifters racing to get to site meetings with their architects about their conversion projects that crossing the road, like so many other things in my new life up north, seemed so much more complicated than before. Suddenly a stranger approached. ‘Can I help you, pet?’ said the stranger. ‘You couldn’t take the baby could you?’ I said. ‘Aye, no problem, I’d be happy to help the bairn across the road’, said the stranger. ‘No, just take him!’ I said, thrusting the baby at the stranger. The stranger looked at me oddly, edged away and then quickly walked off. What was I to do now? I decided we should all try and cross a bit further down the road. A few minutes later we came across my friend the nurse. She would help us, I thought. ‘Hello’, I said. She looked up from some chap who was lying on the verge. ‘Oh’, she began, ‘it’s you’. I love living in a small community where people recognise me like that. ‘I need your help’, I said, ‘if you’re not busy’. She looked down at the man on the ground then up at me. 'Are you blind or something?' she asked, which of course I wasn't and she should have jolly well known that, being medically trained and everything. Suddenly I remembered my agent's instructions to learn and grow, to think of others. ‘What seems to be the problem here?’ I asked, quite pleased with my demonstration of character development. 'Is he unwell?' ‘He'll live but he needs a tourniquet’ said the nurse. 'Give me your scarf Rilly'. The man on the verge did look a state, his clothes all dishevelled and covered in yucky stuff, but I did think that french designers were maybe a bit of a leap sartorially at this juncture. 'It's Hermès' I said, 'sorry, but wouldn't he look a bit silly in my clothes whatever the label? What happened to him anyway?’ I asked. Think of others, I repeated to myself, think of others. 'Not sure’, she said ‘apparently he just muttered something about some mad woman then stepped out into the road’. She looked over to the huge 4x4 parked a few yards away. ‘But what about me?’ I said, 'I've got a manicure booked!' ‘Oh God, Rilly, don’t you ever think about anyone else?’ she said, inexplicably annoyed at something. ‘What are you, my f**king agent now?’ I snapped. Think of others, think of others said the voice in my head. I needed to think quickly. I looked at the jeep, it's bullbars splattered by the every imaginable bodily fluid of this poor chap at my feet. Show you care Rilly, said the voice, you can do it girl. I took a deep breath; ‘Oh my God! I exclaimed, ‘Now that’s going to take some valeting!’ Eureka!

all aboard the arc

The phone rang. ‘Hello’, I said. ‘Rilly’ said the voice, ‘it’s your agent’. ‘I’m sorry’, I replied, ‘I don’t know anyone of that name’, and hung up. The phone rang again. I picked it up. ‘Be serious Rilly, you don’t get paid for cheap gags.’ ‘You really do have the wrong number don’t you’, I said. ‘Rilly’ said the voice, before you hang up, I’ve just got two words for you’. ‘That’s a coincidence’ I said, ‘so have I’. ‘You first’ he said. ‘No, you first’, I replied. ‘No, you’ he argued. No you’, I remonstrated, then I thought perhaps I had gone too long without the company of anyone over , err, however old my daughter was. ‘OK Rilly, here goes’, he sighed, ‘narrative arc’. ‘What another coincidence!’ I said, slightly fibbing. ‘You need to change, Rilly’ said my agent. I looked down at my top. ‘It’s just a bit of sick’, I said. ‘Babies recognise their mother by smell you know, I saw it on a nature documentary, it's a bonding thing’. ‘I mean you must change, Rilly, character development, that’s what we need.’ ‘Change? How?’ I asked. ‘You have to stop being grumpy about The North’. ‘STOP BRING GRUMPY?!’ I shouted. The baby started crying. ‘Stop being grumpy?’ I whispered. ‘Can you hear that? I asked him, ‘I’m covered in mushy pea sick from a baby who gurgles in a northern accent and you tell me not to be grumpy!’ ‘But you have to learn and grow and change as a person from your experiences Rilly’. ‘I am not a novel, I am a free woman!’, I argued. ‘I am not a fictional character!’ ‘But wife in the north has a narrative arc, Rilly’, said my agent. ‘Yes, but she’d rather have a pantry!' I pointed out. ‘What’s in it for me anyway?' ‘Well, according to marketing,’ he began, 'royalties on another fifty thousand sales’.


I laughed as young Tilly skipped laughing through the buttercup filled meadow under the typically bright and warm northern spring sunshine. ‘I’m so happy mummy’, she laughed. I laughed too. ‘why are you happy Tilly, my love? Because it's always sunny?' I asked, smiling. ‘Because I love you mummy’, she said, with a beautiful childlike grin, and she put a daisy chain around my neck. ‘You look pretty mummy’, she chuckled and we both laughed. ‘Mummy?’ asked my lovely daughter. ‘Yes Tilly darling?’ ‘I want to live in a castle’ she said. ‘We already own half the village dear’, I explained, ‘What more do you want?’ ‘I want to live in a proper castle and be a princess’. ‘Oh gosh’, I said, ‘we’ll have to see what we can do about that dear’, I told her, wondering if my old chum the paper’s court correspondent could swing an invite from any newly single eligible bachelors of her aquaintance this summer. ‘Oh mummy, it’s starting to rain!’ said Tilly, tugging my sleeve, 'let’s go and sit in that old boat over there and pretend we’re in a storm!’ and so we ran, mother and daughter hand in hand, fleeing two by two to board The Narrative Ark and get out of the rain. I hoped we wouldn’t be aboard for forty days and forty nights though; I didn't know how long I could keep this up, the baby sick was starting to whiff a bit and a nagging recollection from my catholic upbringing told me The Ark had no bar onboard.

dear diary

06.00 Husband gets up to go to go back to London. I don’t notice because I made him sleep in the spare room last night so he didn’t get me up early.
06.15 Woken by nanny’s crying. She is homesick. She shouldn’t really have her clock radio set to Radio Gdansk Breakfast Show. It can’t help. It is good reception up here though. If not for Denmark in the way you could even see Poland from here.
06.19 Baby starts to cry.
06.20 Switch on Radio to drown out baby. The sound of Carolyn Quinn makes me feel homesick. I start to cry.
06.22 I bang on wall and shout to Nanny that children will be late for school. Pull pillow over head.
08.20 Hear door slam as children go to school.
09.30 Phone rings. It is my agent. Why have I hardly written anything this week? Why not do a diary type post to show how awfully busy I am because everyone thinks the nanny does everything. Put phone down, pull duvet over head.
09.45 Call in Natalia and tell her to make a list of everything I do today.
09.48 Gaze at Radio Times picture of Colin Firth as MrDarcy stuck on ceiling above bed.
10.00 Log onto Wife in the North. Consoled that someone else has as grim a life as me. Read comments onWifey's blog. Someone using a photo of Audrey Hepburn in their profile criticises another commenter for hiding behind anonymity. V. strange.
10.30 Think probably should get out of bed now. Just time for a quick bath before I go out to site meeting at cottage.
12.45 Get out of bath. Can’t find car keys.
12.46 Write blog post about losing car keys and make appointment with post traumatic stress disorder consultant. He can’t see me for three weeks due to sudden influx of downshifters putting strain on resources by losing keys, dealing with homesick nannies and arguing with builders about pantries.
12.57 Find car keys.
13.00 Get in car. Husband has filled it with petrol. Hurrah! Start engine.
13.01 Find favourite CD in glove box to cheer me up.
13.05 Car engine cuts out. Remember now that car runs on diesel. V. bad
13.06 Can’t get James Blunt out of my stereo, as well as out of my head, now ignition dead. Start to cry.
13.07 look in rear view mirror. ‘you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful it’s true’. Cry some more.
13.20 Get out of car. Realize I will have to walk all the rest of the way, sigh, start walking.
13.24 Arrive at cottage for meeting with architect.
13.30 Disappointed when architect says building noise hasn’t forced owners of remaining house in street to sell to us.
13.31 Grumpy local (is there another kind?) complains about housing shortage. I tell him my family occupies three houses in the village so how can he say there is a shortage.
14.00 Arrive back home just in time for health visitor to drop by. She is local so brings an interpretor.
14.01 Health visitor checks baby’s name for records. 'Willy Super', I tell her. 'No, I know your name Rilly', she says, 'what’s the baby’s name.?' I tell her she can jolly well run along and return when she can be more respectful. Health visitor goes red and falls off chair.
14.05 My agent rings. I need to do something to add some local atmosphere. He has booked riding lesson. He hangs up. Riding what? I ask myself.
14.30 Time for first drink according to new years resolution, as amended from no alcohol until 7pm on January 3rd and absolutely not a drop until 5.30pm on February 12th.
15.00 Send Natalia to off licence for fresh supplies
15.45 Children arrive back from school. I tell Natalia to tell them I have died.
15.48 Milly and Tilly start to cry.
15.50 Natalia comes upstairs. She starts to cry
15.51 I start to cry.
15.52 I have another drink.
15.55 Phone rings. I am expected at riding stables 10 am tomorrow. Voice from riding stables says he can't quite match my name with a face. I remind him who I am. Riding instructor starts to cry.

big breaths

I took a deep breath when the phone rang. I should have known it was going to be my agent. I would have been quite silly not to have known as I had to drive into town to take the call. ‘Rilly, darling..’ he began, ‘I’m here at the publishers, you’re on speaker dear’. This sounded very important. ‘I see Wife in the North has done breastfeeding on her blog, damn, she's good, and we think your blog needs more breasts in it, to give a more rounded picture, so to speak, so what do you think?’ I knew there was something, but I couldn't put my finger on it, then it came to me. ‘Just one snag', I said. 'Oh God, you're not pierced are you Rilly?!' exclaimed my agent. 'I haven’t got any nursing children’ I told him. ‘Hmm, that is a problem’, said my agent and another voice asked ‘Rilly, we really need breasts, this is Tim from marketing by the way, how quickly can you get a baby? What’s the lead time?’ As I tried to add nine months to the next time I could see myself having sex another voice came on the line. ‘Howdy Rilly, this is Hank in the New York office, listen, you really need to work with us on this one ma’am. In our polling, 64% of male college students and 97% of the soccer mom demographic answered yes to the question should Rilly Super get them out, as long she doesn’t do it at the Superbowl. Our American readers are counting on you Rill!’ I could see the point that London and New York were making, that such a personal and private mother-child intimate moment would naturally be expected to appear in the blog by my readers. Another voice, a woman, came on the line 'Konnichiwa, Rillysan, I am interpretor for Mr Nagashima in Tokyo office, Mr Nagashima ask can you write about your breasts being different sizes like Wife in North. Mr Nagashima say his wife very interested in this problem, In fact Mrs Nagashima have to wear padded kimono to match left with right and stop her walking round in circles.’ I'm not sure if they detected that my hesitancy was from a concern to keep my blog in the best possible taste. Tokyo came on the line again. ‘Mr Nagashima say, if no breast feeding in blog, readers not think it genuine account of family life but think probably all just made up to market book. Mr Nagashima have to go now, translation of latest wife in the north post in Japanese just arrived. Sayonara Rillysan’. New York came back on. ‘Gotta go too Rilly, gotta check the mock-up promotional Wife in the North barbeque apron. Be seein' ya!’ and he left me alone with my thoughts, my agent and the entire marketing department in London. ‘I’m not just making something up you know’ I warned them. ‘I’ll lose all credibility if Strife in the North isn’t totally truthful’ . There was a hushed murmering from the other end of the line ‘We know you’ll make the right decision Rilly darling’ said my agent and hung up. I didn’t think I could make up stories just to sell the book, just to keep people reading the blog. I would be deceiving people for whom total honesty was the very thing they most expected from me. This was just the story of an ordinary family, not Desperate Housewives meets Emmerdale. Suddenly as I examined my conscience, my deep ethical and moral contemplation was interrupted, and I could hear the baby crying…

downsizing damp

I wandered down to the cottage with Tilly today for a site meeting with the builders, an ancient ritual which all us brave restorers will have experienced. Sometimes I think it's taking longer to knock the place down than it took to build all those centuries ago. The walls may be coming down but the costs just keep going up. I got so exasperated last week I even let off steam to the district nurse when I saw she was in her office when I visited the surgery with Tilly one day. 'Oh!' I cried, 'Everything takes ages around here and sometimes I think it's just impossible to get anything done on your house for under a quarter of a million up here in the north'. She looked at me in what I could see was her shared annoyance at such high building costs and I knew she was thinking exactly the same thoughts as me. It was obviously a common problem. 'Hold this while I get the scissors' she said, handing me the umbilical cord. 'I mean, my God,' I said turning to Mrs Arkwright from number 14 down there on the delivery table 'You obviously can't even get a ceasarian around here, how bloody dark ages is that!?'

I had, however, resolved to remain calm this morning down at the cottage. In the kitchen our guide, our builder's new young assistant, reached up and placed his hand on the wall, shaking his head. I noticed how his muscles were so wirey you could certainly supply all the electricity to the new reproduction period swimming pool through them. Not only that, his thighs encased in those tight jeans were so thick and strong they could easily replace the oak beams that held up the authentic venacular wet room and sauna. He was as tall as the old yew we chopped down to build the double garage, his eyes were the colour of the blue mediterranean tiles in the third ensuite bathroom and his jaw was chiselled out of the very same ancient rock from which the cottage was built before we got started on it. Suddenly I felt a childs elbow in my side. 'Mummy!' nudged Tilly. 'Yes dear' emerged I from my day dream. Tilly raised her eyebrows at mummy's lack of attention. 'The man says you've got a damp patch'. Glaring at our builder and pulling Tilly in front of me I exclaimed indignantly 'Well actually, I said, I left my bicycle out in the rain, not that it's any concern of your's, mister!' and I took Tilly by the hand and we stormed home.