husbands in the south

Yesterday I was coming back from having lunch with some Labour Party chums in the local market town. I was feeling rather down in the dumps, I must say. Nobody understands what a struggle it is to have a husband who spends some of the week in his office a few hours away down the motorway you know, leaving me alone to look after the children and the nanny, and on top of that champagne at lunchtime always makes me a little maudlin so I really needed cheering up. Then I noticed one of my neighbours across the street. She’s a bit of a local but we always seem to get on quite well nevertheless so I went over for a chat to try and raise my spirits. I struck up a conversation and asked what had brought her into town. ‘My husband has a tour in Kandahar coming up Rilly’, she said, ‘so he’s shopping for new boots’. 'A tour?’ I replied, ‘That sounds rather fun. Kandahar; that’s near Harrogate isn’t it?’ I asked. She looked rather concerned and not, and in my view I'm afraid, about my rather more serious worries. I supposed she must have been wondering whether her husband would finish tiling the bathroom before he went away or something, but really, it’s just just me-me-me with some people, sigh.

the schlong good friday

It was lovely to see so many people from far and wide at the stables open day. Soon after we arrived I saw a couple of Londoners who were exchanging the traditional southern greeting: ‘What are you looking at?!’ said the first. ‘Are you talking to me you slag?!' replied the other. It’s so good to be reminded of home, I thought, as they beat each other to a pulp behind the manure pile. The warm memories that welled up inside me made me quite forget the cold north wind that whistled around my breeches. My daughter Tilly interupted my homesick reverie however. ‘Crikey, that’s enormous!’ she exclaimed, running over to a big horse in the corner of the yard, and she wasn’t pointing at his tail. ‘Like Fabio’, giggled Milly. ‘What kind of horse horse is he?’ Tilly asked the stable lass. ‘he’s a stud, my dear’, said the girl helpfully. My daughters giggled. ‘Like Fabio!’ ‘Does he run in races?’ asked Milly. ‘No’ said the girl, ‘his job is to be special friends with the ladies when they get a bit frisky’. My daughters looked at each other in feigned solemnity. ‘Not like Fabio then…’ they both said together, and started giggling again. I sighed.

‘Where is your father and his secretary anyway?’ I asked the children. ‘Fabio is over at that stall and Daddy has gone to look for some lunch’, said Milly. Suddenly I saw a familiar figure in the distance, Rupert? Could it really be him, taming that new young filly, breaking her spirit and making her bend to his will? No, It couldn’t be and he didn’t seem to notice me. I wandered over to see what Fabio was buying at the riding gear stall. ‘Have you got this in his size?’ he said, holding something up and pointing to my husband. The lady behind the stall looked slightly annoyed. ‘We don’t have that in men’s sizes dear’, she explained. ‘Ha!’ said Fabio, so you won’t sell this to me, Well!’, exclaimed Fabio with huff, ‘you are only refusing to sell me this because he is a not a woman!’ ‘No dear’, replied the lady, ‘because he is not a horse dear’. I was just going to ask Fabio if he should perhaps try Soho or the internet but then my husband appeared. ‘OK chaps, lunch is here!’ he cried. ‘You’d never have thought that new macrobiotic organic place in Islington would have opened a northern franchise, but look at this; carrots and straw; cutting edge cuisine guys! Rilly must really be having an influence around here!’

Finally, after a long day, I was at last lying in bed sharing that longed for peaceful moment with my much missed husband. ‘You couldn’t get me a glass of water could you dear?’ I asked him softly. ‘Oh’, he moaned, ‘it’s cold, Fabio, get Rilly a glass of water’. Fabio groaned. ‘You won’t even get your wife a glass of water? What a terrible husband you are sometimes!’ he said. ‘Shhhhush!’ I told them both, 'you’ll wake the baby’. ‘Mummy’, said Milly, ‘can Fabio fetch a hot water bottle if he’s going downstairs?’ ‘And for me too!’ said Tilly, ‘Milly’s feet are like ice! Why do we all have to sleep in the same bed anyway mummy?’ ‘Because it will sell more copies of my book in America dear’, I explained, exasperated at my daughters evident naivety in the US rural downshifting memoir market. Just then the baby began to cry, some doubtless unspeakable polish phrases began to emmanate from the au pair, and the peaceful bank holiday I’d hoped for seemed to disappear in a crash before my eyes. I just grabbed my Catherine Cooksons (and no, actually that isn’t cockney slang) and fled downstairs to my laptop, and my book, and…but what was this, a message on my voicemail. ‘Air Hellair Rilly, Rupert here, don’t think I didn’t see you earlier, what! I just thought…’ I put the phone down, No, I couldn’t. ‘Mummy the baby’s been sick!’ cried Tilly down the stairs. I looked at the clock; 2 AM, I shouted back up the stairs: ‘Milly, Tilly, get dressed darlings, riding lessons this morning!’

cleaning up

My agent rang me last week. I hadn’t heard from him for ages. He told me he’s been too busy promoting my daughter's book about growing up neglected by a mother writing a book about how much she cares about her children . ‘I’m worried Rilly’, he told me. ‘People think you’re too posh. You need to do something common’. I wish I hadn't asked him what he had in mind. ‘Why don’t you write about cleaning toilets? The readers will love it, think you’re one of them’. I’m not sure my agent even reads my blog sometimes. ‘I support the Labour Party’, I told him, ‘what do you think I am, bloody working class or something? Do you think Harriet Harman cleans toilets?’ I put to him. ‘Look Rilly, Wife in The North did it when her agent told her to. Why do I just get the stroppy clients, huh?’ I asked him if I couldn't just make something up. He said readers would be able to tell it wasn’t true because they were so used to my gritty social realism. ‘But this house has got four toilets!’ I said. My agent had bigger plans. ‘The village hall!?’ I cried, but then remembered the village hall only had two, so I quit while I was ahead.

‘Have you been caught speeding again Rilly love?’ asked the lady who has the village hall keys. ‘I haven't been sent by a judge this time, I just want to help the community’. I said. ‘Are you unwell pet?’ she asked. ‘Just let me in at four, and can you lend me some of those rubber gloves that poor people wear please’, I told her. Well, I got to the village hall and just had to keep remembering that my agent had assured me of royalties on five thousand extra sales if there was a good toilet cleaning story in the book as I went into the gents. Oh God. Nobody has suffered for literature this much since Seigfried Sassoon’s agent sent him to the Somme. Phone for sex said the graffiti. Oh well, I thought, I suppose this is all for research. I took out my phone and dialled. ‘Hello’ said the voice. ‘Fabio?’ I replied. ‘Mrs Super?!’ said Fabio. ‘Is, erm, my husband there?’ There was a pause. ‘He is tied up at the moment’, came the reply. My husband works so hard when he’s down in London, the poor darling, sigh. I hung up, finished buffing up the durex machine and then my mop and I headed for more familiar and friendly territory in the ladies.

Elizabeth's relationship with Darcy indicates Austen's rejection of the patriarchy of the Regency period someone had written on the wall. I disagree, rather although romantic love and long term commitment are quite distinct Darcy leads us to believe that the one leads to the other thus leaving women trapped in relationships that can never be fulfilled someone else had scrawled below. I sighed. If only men know what women talked about in the ladies. As I began dusting off the chicklit vending machine I paused. I reached in my pocket and found a pound coin. Pushing it into the slot I pushed a random button on the machine and a book fell into the tray at the bottom. ‘Hmmm’, I thought, bending over my bucket to pick it up, Pride and Prejudice. I sighed, as I leaned on my mop, but with a ribbed chocolate flavoured cover. Now why didn’t I think of that? I peeked out of the door to see if there was anyone around, leaned my mop against the wall, slipped the lock on the cubicle, put the seat down on the loo, and settled down to my book. My agent (men, huh) would have to wait, sigh.

the long and windy road

I do love the children but they've really been getting under my feet lately. I wouldn't mind but they haven’t done anything entertaining for the blog for ages either. The final straw came when Tilly asked to be paid twenty thousand pounds a year as a researcher on Strife in the North. Although this blog’s meticulous politician-like pursuit of factual accuracy could certainly justify that amount I was a little nervous of putting her on the payroll and declaring my commercial reliance on the children to the authorities. ‘Can’t you take them out somewhere dear?’ I asked my husband, exasperated, by way of encouraging him to spend a little quality time with his daughters. My husband looked a little blank. ‘How about taking them sledging?’ I suggested. My husband doesn’t spend much time in our village. I could see he needed a prompt. ‘You’re wandering where there’s a good tobogganing hill.’ I offered. My husband nodded. I pointed to the news about the A66 being closed then went back to my typing. That big hill up at Bowes would make a lovely sledging run and my husband would bring my children back safely because he was an expert in outdoor survival, having watched amost all of Touching the Void on DVD at our friends house before feinting, from the thin air he claimed, because our friend's living room is upstairs.

Some time later the door opened loudly and I heard children’s voices in the hall downstairs then thudding footsteps on the stairs. Tilly burst in. ‘Hello dear’, I said, ‘did you have a good day?’ Tilly explained disappointedly that when they got there nearly all the snow had been cleared ready to open the road. ‘You should have come earlier’, a man in a high vis jacket had told them , seeing the toboggan as he had brushed the snow from the windows of abandoned vehicles to peer inside for anyone they might have missed the day before. ‘That’s the first time anyone must have said that to your daddy’, I muttered. ‘Mummy’, began Tilly, ‘Yes dear?’ I smiled ‘Milly said that last night in the blizzard the survivors ate the people who died of hypothermia’. I sighed. ‘Well dear’, I explained, ‘northerners are used to frozen food’. Tilly looked uncertainly reassured. She hadn't really trusted my judgement on culinary matters after the incident in the cafe when I'd told the waitress I only wanted fried bread with my breakfast if it was focaccia. ‘They couldn’t afford organic even if they could grow anything up here darling’. Tilly nodded. ‘And anyway’, I continued , ‘I’m certain there are no cannibals this side of the welcome to Cumbria’ sign’. I remembered my neighbour telling me about the ingredients of Cumberland sausage and although I couldn't recite it line by line it definitely included lost ramblers. Apparently reading all those Beatrix Potter books has put them completely off eating animals over there. My neighbour even told of how Renée Zellweger had a close shave on her first day of shooting Miss Potter , so close that she was left with a false left leg. Although physically she ended up only being wooden below the knee doctors were tragically unable to save her acting.

‘Mummy’, said Tilly. ‘Yes, what is it dear?’ Tilly looked a little pale. ‘You know you usually only see one crow tugging at an animal corpse on the road.’ ‘Yes dear’, listened I, sympathetically. ‘Well today we saw a whole crowd of them because the road was closed’ I smiled lovingly. My daughter continued; ‘And you know you hardly ever see more than one journalist around here’ . I nodded. ‘Well today we saw two TV trucks and daddy nearly ran over a cameraman who was dashing over the road to film a smashed up car from the night before before it was towed away’ I sighed. ‘Mummy’, said Tilly, sheepishly, ‘I don’t want to be journalist like you anymore, I want to write made up stories instead’. I gave my daughter a big hug. Although it looked as if, with nobody to hand on to, when I retired it could be the end of the road for Strife in the North, at least I’d saved twenty grand. I poured a glass of wine and switched on the radio.

new year's lay

It was New Year's Day . My husband appeared in the doorway of the lounge. ‘I say’, he said, ‘awfully quiet around here’. ‘The children have gone to Basil and Coriander’s house’, I explained. My husband thought for a moment. ‘Well’, he began, ‘this year I’m going to pay more attention to some important things I’ve been neglecting rather terribly in the past’. I looked up. He stretched out his arms. ‘Yes, I need to give some parts of this old body a bit more exercise than they've been getting of late’. I raised my eyebrows and moved to get up. ‘You stay there darling’, he told me, ever so authoritatively. ‘I just need to pop upstairs, get out of these things, you know…’ and he disappeared. Of course I knew what was coming. I quickly undressed, arranged myself in a seductive pose across the chaise longue, and awaited my man...

The door opened. 'Oh gosh darling’ said my husband, observing my classical repose ‘you really have acclimatised while I've been away haven't you !’ I looked up at my husband. ‘Darling’ I said softly, ‘has anyone ever told you how sexy you are in those running shoes?’ He smiled. ‘Yes, actually, well, just Fabio’, he replied, ‘but then he’s my secretary so I suppose he doesn’t really count, sigh’. I gave a come hither shrug of my goosebumped shoulders. ‘Anyway, just off for a once around the village, blow the cobwebs away, you know!' ‘What about my bloody cobwebs?’ I thought, but said ‘you won’t get lost will you dear?’ He smiled nervously. 'Oh, err, what’s our house number again?' I told him.‘And the errr…’ I told him the name of our street. ‘And just in case I should stray outside the houses…’ I told him the name of the village. ‘Don’t worry’, I assured him, 'if you end up at the wrong house at least you’ll know when you don’t recognise the children!’. He laughed. ‘Oh yes’, he said, peering at a photo on the mantlepiece. ‘Of course, who could forget the children?’ . ‘That’s your nephew’, I corrected. ‘You have daughters’. He blushed. ‘Ha ha’ he said, ‘well, you can’t tell them apart at that age can you!’ ‘That’s his graduation photo darling’. ‘Oh, well,’ he said, turning to leave, ‘if I’m not back by dark call out those big strapping chaps from the fell rescue team for me!’ although of course he really didn’t need to tell me that. As the door slammed behind him I was already dialling their number.

coming or going

My sleepy eyes opened reluctantly to be greeted by the early morning sun glimmering dim crimson above the bare frosty treetops rising through the billowing mist that rolled down the cold lazy river. ‘Oh for crying out loud will you shut those fucking curtains Tilly!’ I shouted lovingly at my daughter. ‘But Mummy, you said we could go Christmas shopping today’, sighed my darling girl. ‘We can’t go out’, I told her, ‘Daddy isn’t here to scrape the ice off the windscreen.’ ‘Oooh Mummy!’ sighed Tilly, and stormed off. I sighed too. I knew that the time to decide whether we were going to stay up north or go back to London was approaching as fast as I was losing the feeling in my toes that Tilly has left poking out from the duvet.

I remembered my children’s little faces when I told them we were leaving London. I should remember, it had taken long enough to get them to show an expression that would sound suitably poignantly innocent yet charmingly humorous when I descibed it in my book. My father had been more encouraging. I think he thought that by taking civilisation to The North I was finally following in the footsteps of his career in the Colonial Service. I remembered telling my best friend. ‘There is no life outside the M25!’ she had sobbed. I remembered telling the other reporters at the Sunday Times I was going to the north. ‘Where?' they had asked, perplexed. I took them into the next office where there was a national map of Britain on the wall but it only went as far north as the village where princess Diana was buried. Well, I suppose it is called Northamptonshire, sigh. There had been some good memories of course. I fondly remembered the Aga dressing ceremony held to celebrate the last local moving out of my street, winning the injunction against the silver band practising during Location Location, and then there were the locals of course.

I had grown rather attached to the local northern people I had studied for my book, almost as attached as I had become to the Umba Lumbas of Upper Borneo with whom I stayed in my authentic barn conversion at the very heart of their community while I wrote my first travel book Strife in the Wilderness: three months without Radio 4. I had found that these quaint charming northerners with their curious ways had rather grown on me. They have told me how much they love Strife in the North too, well, at least I think that's what they were saying, it's hard to tell sometimes, sigh. I felt I had really lived alongside these people in their daily lives, shared their struggles, understood their worries, borne their burden, and so had my nanny, cleaner, personal trainer, feng shui consultant and life coach. I knew that Strife in the North could be an even bigger money spinner, I mean genuinely heartfelt account of northern life, than the Umba Lumbas book so although I am comforted that my sister blogger whose heartfelt sincerity so inspires me will soon have to make the same choice I know it won't make it any easier when the time comes to have to ask my husband, are we going back home, darling, please, you gotta let me know...

from here to identity

I’m most awfully sorry for being so terribly terribly tardy in keeping this blog up to date. I must confess that I’ve been really rather concerned about identity theft lately and now that these child benefit discs have gone missing the whole business has caused me some great deal of worry. Can you imagine if those discs fell into the wrong hands and all the intimate details of my family life and all that terribly personal information about my children suddenly appeared on the internet and I didn’t even get any blog traffic or book royalties out it?! My neighbour is even more worried. He claims child benefit for his six children so I can see why he might be a little concerned although as the youngest is twenty five I really don’t know what consequences could occur that alarm him quite so much. I just hope that it’s so grim up north that nobody would even pretend to be me. I struggle to write the truth about my life and not have people think it’s all made up so I’m sure that nobody who was really only pretending could bring in the aga, the au pair, the big house and rich husband but yet manage to convey how awfully grim it is up north at all convincingly. Anyway, must dash as I have to send Natalia with a suitcase full of used notes and a false moustache to a secluded layby off the A19 to meet the chap from the Labour Party who collects my husband's donations. It's just good to see those chaps from the party are taking some measures to avoid computers and therefore anything underhand occurring, sigh. Back soon I hope, and thanks for bearing with me. Tootleoo chaps..

alonement

As I stood on the steps by the fountain a feeling of utter loneliness washed over me like the Atlantic over Kate Winslett's life raft. It was September. The children had gone off to wherever it is they go off to at this time of year and soon my husband would leave me too. I lit a cigarette as a figure appeared at the French windows with a suitcase.

‘What are you doing out here Rilly’ asked my husband
‘Oh, just imagining I was Keira Knightly’
‘Well, you certainly could be her in the right light darling, oh, no, hang on, you just slightly raised your right eyebrow, damn, that’s just too much like acting to be Keira’
‘Are you leaving me then darling? Must you go to London, Must you?
‘Yes darling, I must’
‘Yes, I suppose you must. At least we’ll always have our last night together watching Atonement’

'Yes, even if it was spoiled by all those Redcar people talking during the film about how much the film crew improved the sea front when they turned it into Dunkirk'

'Yes, sigh'
‘And to think they said it couldn’t be filmed’
‘Yes, who would have thought Allo Allo would work as a feature film’.
‘I say, isn’t it actually an Ian Mcewan novel darling?’
‘Oh, yes, of course. It’s about time someone did a send up of one of his books. He really does go on doesn't he?’
‘I don’t think it was meant to be a parody darling’
‘You mean all those daft misunderstandings and hammy accents were meant to be serious?’
‘Yes dear’
‘Gosh, well, that explains why the fallen madonna with the big boobies wasn't in it but if that’s how Hollywood treats highbrow literature these days then I really must be careful when I sell the film rights to Strife in the North.'
‘Strife in the what, darling?
‘Oh, nothing darling’
‘well, I must be going’
‘Yes, you must be going, goodbye darling'

'Goodbye darling'

With that he disappeared into the car and the sound of the tyres on the gravel drive faded into the distance. I didn’t know when I would see him again. How much older would I be when next I was with him? One thing I had learnt from Atonement, at least if I kept the same hair cut then no matter how much I had aged at least he'd still know it was me. The night grew cool. I should go in. I thought once more how terrible it was to pretend that something was true when it was all really just made up and went inside.

grief encounter

‘Well,’ said my husband as we emerged blinking from the dark cinema into the late afternoon sunshine. ‘It was lovely to get away from work for a couple of hours’. It had been a lovely surprise when my husband had unexpectedly announced an illicit weekday afternoon trip to the pictures, although sadly his secretary Fabio joining us did have the effect that we couldn’t entirely leave my beloved’s trade at the cinema door. It had been a nice way to spend a couple of hours, an old movie, some popcorn, my husband and his secretary sitting just a few rows in front of me. ‘Interesting choice of film’, My husband said to Fabio, ‘The CGI steam trains were terribly unrealistic but I liked the bit where they sneak off to the pictures to watch an overblown romantic flick when they’re in one themselves that we’ve all sneaked off to see’. Fabio smiled. ‘The director’s cut is better’, he told my husband, ‘Trevor Howard leaves the station tea rooms at the end and gets on a space ship instead of the train back to his wife’. ‘Oh, Men!’ I sighed.

Sometimes I've felt as if I were just a made up character as well, living my life in black and white. Although of course, that being the case, the ending must have already been written when in reality most of the time it seemed more as if someone was merely making all this up as they went along. I just hoped I was a character in some great literary work and not in some stupid blog that only seems to get updated once a week lately. ‘I think those were real steam trains darling’, I said, as the famous dramatic climax of Celia Johnson’s hair falling slightly over her eyes resonated in my imagination. ‘It was made in 1945 you know’, I explained. ‘Oh crikey’, said my husband, ‘and it’s still not out on DVD yet dear?’ he laughed. ‘Probably’ I said ‘Not quite the same though.’ I sighed. My husband shrugged. ‘Of course it’s allegorical you know', I said, ‘all this stuff about them not being free to be together because of the social conventions of the time.’ My husband looked puzzled. ‘ Noël Coward being gay and everything’, I elaborated. ‘Noël Coward was gay?’ he queried. ‘Are you quite sure dear?’ It was almost as if he was teasing me but I knew he would never do that. ‘I’m a woman dear’ I began. ‘We girls can tell gay man a mile off you know’, I said. My husband and Fabio exchanged glances so I could see they were keen to get back to work now.

As we walked across the multiplex car park a gust of wind blew up the dust from the ground. ‘Oh, darling!’ I cried. My husband turned round. ‘I think I have some grit in my eye!’ I said, winking vociferously. ‘Oh dear.’ he began, then hesitated ‘Oh, I get it’, he smiled knowingly, ‘Ok, you win dear, I’ll drive’, and he continued on towards the car with Fabio. After a moment I shrugged my shoulders and as I watched to two men walk away across the tarmac, I thought I really should have been writing SITN that afternoon but my agent had been very quiet lately and nobody reads blogs in august anyway. Anyway, I'd detected that some people had found me too critical of the North on occasion, which was unfair because it is grim up north, and what I really needed was for my friend to come up from London and then she could moan about northerners and I could report what she said and I wouldn’t get the blame. Suddenly, my phone rang. It couldn’t be! ‘Air, hellair!’ said the voice, ‘Rilly, is that you darling? Its your old chum from London who really hates it up north speaking’, the voice continued. ‘Coming up to visit you dear, put the kettle on and see you in a few days, what!’. My husband turned around and look back towards me. ‘We’re going to the pub!’ he shouted, so I took off my shoes and sped after after them. As I got into the car I sighed. My friend was on the motorway on her way, my husband was here with me in the car, and yet strangely I couldn't escape the feeling, and I couldn't escape the song in my head, that I was all by myself...

dimming of the day

The weekend arrived. My husband called to inform me he had to spend a few more days in the South of France with his secretary Fabio, the Belfast sink that was delivered yesterday turned out to be a protestant, I had forgotten to post friday's blog entry and the interiew therein described which I had done for the lovely lady from DollyMix had, I feared for a brief while, been left on the editor's cutting room floor. This weekend marks three months since I reached out into the interweb and although I thought nobody would read this blog it turns out that in cyberspace, someone can hear you scream. I read somewhere that there are over seventy blogs on the internet and this one has the loveliest readers of all of them so thankyou, everyone that visits. I hope you all have a super weekend and when you are out enjoying the sunshine try not to think of me sobbing uncontrollably over a sodden keyboard, lamenting all of my lost dreams, alone in the north as the rain beats mercilessly on the window, beating out the sombre drawing to a close of another dark and lonely day, no, you mustn’t think about that. If there's one thing I'll never do it'll be to exaggerate my own struggles in a desperate attempt to elicit sympathy, no way José.

the belles, the belles

It was by a curious coincidence that following the wistful remembrances of youth described by M&M, who has the misfortune to live even further north than me, the poor girl, my own childhood memories were pricked by the news of a new St Trinians film. I did feel a pang of regret that I was not asked to act as educational consultant on the production but if my agent tells me that wife in the north got the job because she was The Times education correspondent then that would be but another arrow in my broken heart, sigh. I did just want to dispell the rumour right now that the downshifting blogger's friend, Tom Watson is to star in the new movie as Billy Bunter. Thomas is a lovely young man and I won't have that kind of thing put about, thank you very much. I rang my husband to see if perhaps a rare trip to the cinema could be on the agenda but he was in a meeting so I told his assistant Fabio, who answered the phone, to pass on the message to my husband but to remind my beloved that I hoped he didn’t expect me to sit and watch him drool over a bondgirl for two hours. Fabio, however, the darling that he is, reassured me that it was Rupert Everett as the headmistress that was the performance to which he and my husband were really looking forward. Fabio is so very thoughtful and immediately upon sensing my unease reassured me that he was absolutely certain that my husband would come up and watch the film with me when it eventually arrived in The North because it would have been so many months by then since he had watched the premiere in London, for which he and Fabio had VIP tickets. Fabio then advised me that I should hang up. He and my husband were on business in Cannes, he explained, and stressed business, and they had both forgotten to bring the adaptors for their phone chargers. I put the phone down, took off my straw boater and school tie and sighed. I would find something else to re-engage my husband's amorous interest. I looked at my watch. I was late for my german class.

resignation, resignation, resignation

I picked up the local paper. A large photograph of a proud smiling young local man in military uniform looked out from the front page. I sighed. Yet again somebody else’s bad news had pushed my bad news from the headlines. My agent was going to be furious. I used the newspaper to mop up some baby sick. Just then the phone rang. ‘Rilly, darling!’ said a man’s voice. ‘Who is this?’ I demanded. ‘It’s me dear!’ said the mysterious stranger. ‘You remember, 1997, you, me, the vicar?’ ‘Tony? I thought we weren’t going to mention that night again, and anyway, haven’t you got something else on today?' Then I remembered that was the year I got married and sighed. ‘I’ve got a big surprise for our wedding anniversary!’ my husband told me, excitedly. ‘I’ll pick you up in an hour’. I yawned. He only ever got that excited when he had managed to get Barbara Streisand tickets. What could he possibly have in mind?

I should have known. We stood in the drizzle. Trimdon Labour Club on a wet thursday lunchtime. The great orator, up north for his final oration, but we were out in the cold. 'It’s not that I’m ungrateful’ I said ‘but didn’t you think to get tickets dear?’ I asked my husband. ‘Yes, but the chap from the party I gave the money to was arrested by Scotland Yard five minutes after I left. That kind of thing’s a bit hit and miss at the moment. If anyone tries to sell you a raffle ticket today, just say you haven’t got any change. It’s too risky’. ‘Remind me, why are we here again?’ I asked. ‘Tony Blair is part of our history!’ he exclaimed ‘You’ll be part of my flippin' history if we don’t get in the warm soon!’ I told him. ‘Oh look, I can see some people I know, I’ll see what I can sort out’ he said and he shuffled off with an ‘air hellair’ here and a ‘good to see you old chap’ there until he faded from earshot and from sight.

‘Mummy, why do you like Tony Blair?’ asked Tilly, tugging on my sleeve. ‘Because Tony Blair likes people that work hard dear’. ‘Like Natalia you mean, Mummy?’ ‘Mummy works hard as well dear.’ Tilly looked at me blankly. 'Mummy?' I looked down at her inquisitive expression. 'have you ever met the prime minister?' 'You'll have to buy my memoirs dear', I replied. ‘Mummy?’ 'Yes Tilly?’ ‘Who was that man that Daddy was talking to?’ 'That was Peter Mandelson dear.’ ‘And why did Daddy put his hands in his pockets?’ ‘I think he was just trying to look working class dear.' ‘Mummy?' ‘Yes Tilly, dear?’ 'Who are those men dressed all over in orange and shouting at Tony Blair?’ ‘They are very bad men Tilly.’ ‘Are they terrorists Mummy?’ ‘No, dear, I don't think so, they must be Liberal Democrats’. ‘Mummy, one of those bad men said Tony Blair drops bombs on children. Tony Blair's not going to drop a bomb on me and Milly is he, Mummy?’ 'No dear, he only does that to bad foreign children, but maybe we’ll move a little closer to Wife in the North and Tom Watson over there just to be on the safe side.' ‘Mummy? ‘Yes Tilly, what is it now?' ‘Why are you wearing a red rose?’ ‘Because if I buy a rose it offsets the carbon emissions from Tony Blair’s private jet from London, dear’. ‘Mummy, I need a wee’. ‘Oh, I can’t take you now Tilly, I’ll miss the speech, go and ask one of the men in orange jumpsuits to take you.’

‘When is Tony going to make his big speech?' I asked the lady next to me. ‘It was over an hour ago pet’, she said. ‘We’re just waiting for the raffle to be drawn’. I looked down at my glass of champagne. The bubbles had gone but the raindrops falling on the surface made it appear not quite completely flat and the cold damp northern wind had kept it cool. I looked up and a single raindrop fell on my face and ran down my cheek like a tear, like having a real emotion.

the long bad thursday

I don't talk about politics as you know because I always find that whenever I take an interest in anything other than myself I have to go and lay down in a darkened room for several days to recover but last Thursday were the local elections and my agent told me to show that my very expensive education hadn't been totally wasted so I thought a little bit of politics would be just the ticket to show I still had my finger on the pulse. I didn’t know who to vote for so I studied the newspapers and the different party leaflets to see who was the most good looking. I decided I wanted to vote for Ségolène Royal because she was lovely but someone told me you had to be French to vote for her, and a socialist. When the book royalties come rolling in then I will be a socialist too, and I will be able to move to the south of France, so maybe next time, Ségolène. In the end I voted for the Green Party. I don’t know what their policies are but they had the candidate with the healthiest diet judging by the election poster. Nobody ever regreted voting for a vegetarian.

Well, the electricity has been restored to the village after the weekend, even if several days with my husband hasn’t restored it to my marriage, sigh. My husband doesn't like politics either. He's always had trouble with his elections. I was so depressed already by only Thursday afternoon in fact that I went to see the priest. I’m not terribly religious but there aren’t many people in the village who’ll talk to me. I wedged a chair against the door on his side of the confessional before I went in, just in case. ‘Father, forgive me, it has been several weeks since my last confession', I confessed. 'Don’t worry my child’, said Father Patrick. 'I’ve been reading your blog so there was no need for you to come to confession. I know everything already’. There was a pause. 'In fact, your blog saves half the village the bother of coming to see me too. Is there anything else my child?' he asked. ‘I was late returning The Da Vinci Code DVD to the video shop, Father’ . ‘Ah, so that was you was it? They said it hadn’t come back yet when I tried to borrow it. Is there anything else to declare?’ ‘Well, I told my neighbour I was going to call her a terrible mother on my blog, although I was provoked Father.’ ‘Whatever did she say to you Rilly?’ he asked. ‘She said I should visit the Angel of the North.' I replied. ‘That’s not so bad is it? He suggested. ‘She said I should go and stand next to it to prove that there really was nothing else in the North East bigger than my self-pity’. 'Well, I can give you a penance or I’ll let you off if you get me Wife in the North's autograph’ said the priest. I sighed. 'And light a votive candle on your way out'. 'Oh Jesus, I came here to get away from elections!' I sighed my most exasperated sigh, and with that I left, pushing an entire pew against the confessional door on my way out. The lady who was sitting on the pew mumbled something but I told her she should jolly well stop complaining and stop thinking just about herself for once.

rainy days and mondays

I pulled open the curtains and looked out of the window. Outside it was sunny and Friday, but in my heart it was raining and Monday because my husband was staying in London at the weekend working. He has it so easy in London, he doesn't understand how grim it is up north. A small bird came and perched on a bush in the garden and I thought, hmm, that’ll make a nice little anecdote for the blog because it shows how sensitive I am and it’s also a metaphor for my life, because I am a lonely little bird shivering in the cool night air, my cockney sparrow feathers ruffled by the north wind. I wondered if the little bird had come to our house to await my husband's arrival from London and was going to be as disappointed as I was, knowing that when I opened these curtains tomorrow I'd still just see The North outside and the sheer awfulness of it all wouldn't be blissfully blocked out by my beloved's range rover parked outside. I went to the stereo and put on my favourite CD. I love The Carpenters, not only because they come from the seventies just like my descriptions of The North and my writing style, but because any pop group with a building related name does it for me. I sighed. I couldn't be on my own all weekend. If I couldn't have my husband I would have to make do with a local for company. In desperation I picked up the phone and turned to one of the names in my list of other mothers from the school, just the other side of the road and yet in another world. Trembling, I began to dial the number. I didn't have to dial the code and I would hear the neighbour's phone ringing across the street but I knew I would still need to punch in that magic London 020 to feel I was about to phone home. Perhaps one day this would be my home, sigh, oh wouldn't it be loverley...

not a good friday

Oh Gosh Rilly, what’s happened?’ asked my neighbour yesterday, sensing my alarm. I could hardly bring myself to recount the trauma that had befallen me. ‘I’ve..I've..I've lost the carkeys.’ The words stumbled from my trembling lips. ‘Oh, don't worry Rilly, it could happen to anyone, just ask young Tilly to look for them, they’ll turn up in no time’, she suggested. ‘Just one small snag’, I said, ‘Tilly’s in the car, and I fear she’ll be in there all weekend.’ 'But haven’t you a spare?’ asked my neighbour. ‘Well of course, I have Milly so it’s not a complete loss’. ‘I meant a spare key dear, not a spare daughter’. ‘Oh, I see’, I said, ‘afraid not, and the thing is, it’s such an expensive top of the range car you see, much nicer than anything you could afford, that you can’t just get a new key cut, you have to get someone over from Sweden to sort it out’. ‘Oh gosh’, she said, and as I reflected that perhaps that last bit of information had undermined the effect of the sympathy seeking vulnerability I was trying to convey she continued ‘and how is your husband taking it?’ 'Terribly, as you can imagine’, I said, ‘All his Judy Garland CDs are in the car, I don’t think he can make it through the weekend without them, and if Tilly plays them all while she’s locked in there then the battery will be as flat as pancake by Tuesday. I'm going to get absolutely crucified if he misses his appointment with the interior designer next week because of this.’ ‘Oh golly, poor you’, said my neighbour. 'At least you picked the right weekend for it, ha ha, however are you going to sleep tonight?’ ‘Don’t worry’, I reassured her, ‘The car’s got really good soundproofing so Tilly’s shouting and banging on the windows all night shouldn’t keep us awake.’ 'Thank heavens for small mercies’, she said. ‘See you in church Sunday then Rilly, hmm, I suppose you'll be needing a lift...’

gregorian calender girls

This morning the ecclesiastical calendar calculator website confirmed my suspicions that this weekend is actually Easter. Damn, I’m sure this means I should have collected Milly and Tilly from school by now this week. I shall have to send Natalia round to see what has happened to them. Easter is quite a major occasion in our village. The vicar, recognizing more than anyone the importance of this festival in a small community organizes an easter egg hunt in the village and enlists the help of the verger and local W.I. to ensure it’s smooth running. Things can get quite competitive amongst these ladies, especially on the baking side of things. I was asked to help when a representative from the organising committee came round and noticed the aga. ‘Oh, you’ve got an aga dear, that’s marvelous’, she said ‘You must help us with the baking!’ ‘You mean you can cook stuff in these as well?’ I replied. ‘Crikey!’ I did my best of course, but village life being what it is the only observation I received on my efforts was ‘we’re going to need considerably bigger hot cross buns’. Anyway, my husband will soon arrive from London and with him to myself at least some of the weekend and several days' production from Green and Blacks entire orgasmic chocolate factory in the pantry, I very much hope, given the abundance of bunnies abroad in the village, that there will be at least one rabbit which doesn’t need to see the light of day this weekend, sigh. Should anyone out there run out of men or chocolate before Tuesday, I jolly well wish them good vibrations this weekend. See you soon, hug...

running on reminiscence

I only had to look at the expression on my husband's face to know that the little pointers on all the dials had dropped below the red and were heading rapidly for zero. I’d like to say this was the first time this had happened. He did actually say he was sure that this was the first time it had happened, but we both knew it wasn’t. running on empty once more, the story of our lives. Out of juice again, how could I forgive him, all he'd had to do was point the damned thing in the right direction and fire away, how hard could it be? I sighed as we coasted to a halt. There weren’t many tasks I expected of my husband but he couldn’t even manage his few male responsibilities nowadays. There was an awkward silence as we both sat looking out of the window. He leaned over and turned on the radio and the cricket commentary filled the gulf between us. 'Freddie's out' he said, as someone whose name ended in 'off' traipesed sullenly from the field of play. 'You don't say?' I muttered. ‘Hmmm, oh well’, he reflected further, ‘I think perhaps a little stroll on my part might be called for too’. I didn’t even turn to him to give my reply. ‘Yes, I think that might be a good idea’ I said, ‘and while you’re up you can go and check the bloody car’s got petrol in it as well before I go out to collect the children.’ I pulled the bed clothes over my head and listened to his footsteps grow quieter as they went down the stairs and out into the garage, just as the memories of our first kiss became feinter as they sailed away towards the distant sunset on the misty horizon of my rememberance, sigh

Grimm up north

Having detected just a hint of criticism in some recent comments on this blog, although it'll probably just be me being oversensitive again, which is a weakness I have, I thought about how I could make myself more lovable and I have therefore followed in the footsteps of another blogger who I read from time to time and started learning German. This will hopefully endear me to some of the locals whose consumption of budweiser shows a predelectation for all things german. The other reason for doing this of course is that the way things have been with my husband lately this might help break the ice a little. After all, you know what they say, German is the loving tongue. Bob Dylan didn't know what he was talking about by the way, in fact neither did anyone who listened to him without a lyrics sheet in front of them. He didn't even have a blog, for goodness sake. I was sitting at the kitchen table doing my homework in between adding some more photographs of the aga to my new Herr Flickr account which I had started up to complement Strafe, I mean Strife, in the north when Tilly came in from school ever so upset. I could see she had been in the wars again ‘Mummy, all the other children keep calling you the the fallen Madonna with the big boobies! She cried, referring to the the effects of the new baby on certain of my vital statistics. My new found teutonic confidence instantly came to the fore and I leapt to my feet. ‘For you Tilly, ze var is over’ I reassured her, and leaving my German homework texts on the table I took Tilly by the hand and marched her back to the school. I resolved there and then that if the headmistress so much as thought about telling me to listen very carefully I shall say zis only once , then I would deport, I mean remove, Tilly from that school straight away. I won't have people making tired and obvious jokes in doubtful taste about my efforts to learn german! I didn’t know if I could educate Tilly at home but at least she would have more living space and I knew that I had months of bed time stories lined up from my german literature studies. Yes, it’s Brothers Grimm up north you know, seufzt…

hell's bells

Sunday morning and, back in the north, I sit in bed, missing my husband who has returned to London. We passed, like ships in the night, exchanging a wistful glance across the central reservation of the A1, he on his way back to London’s fair city, I on my lonely return into exile. I am banish-ed, there is no life without Islington’s walls. From the village church comes the bells' toll, do they toll for me? I hope not, they’ve got no bloody business tolling on a Sunday morning when people are trying to have a lay in. Church bells, like other people's children, should be seen lovingly described in the pages of Joanna Trollope novels but not heard. I should go and storm into the church and give them a piece of my mind, but I don’t want to cause a scene, at least not a scene from the end of the The Graduate anyway . The pen is mightier than the sword, or rather my new Aga laptop is mightier than the sword and uses more metal in the construction too. Some people sniff that a laptop that requires your nanny to help you carry it and which runs on burning woodchips and ramblers' trousers collected from barbed wire fences is nothing but a status symbol and something from PC World is just as practical for writing to the environmental health officer about noise from people doing things that you don’t do and at inconvenient times. They’re just jealous because they haven’t got a car with adequate suspension to transport it. They're absolutely essential when you live in the country and everyone has them you know. It looks like that letter means my Sunday is spoken for. It’s a good thing I don’t do anything on Monday to Saturday or that would really be a bother. Oh, for the peace and tranquility of home, but wait, the bells have ceased, now a glooming peace this morning with it brings, and a chance to work on more subtle shakespearean allusions for the blog. A woman's work is never done, sigh...

time out

I’m afraid the dischord this week with the daughter that I don’t have for the purposes of this blog because she won’t sign the release form has left me rather drained so I’m going to take some time out with my Time Out and go home for a couple of days to have some me-time, see a movie released in the last three years, have a drinkable latte, prise my agent away from the office for lunch whilst wife in the north is away, and just get away from it all in general. I’ve left the children with my husband and Natalia and have written out some phonetic polish phrases in case of emergency such as ‘Mummy’s been gone two days now, can we have tea yet Natalia?’, ‘Nanny, put that man down, I think the house is on fire!’ and 'No Natalia, I think you must have misunderstood the man from the camera club who works at the garage when he told you he was a top Hollywood supermodel agent’. I know women out there will understand, I’m not deserting my husband, in fact I don’t think I can put it any better than in this old favourite of mine which has a sentiment I think we could all learn from. It could be me on that verandah in fact, the porch is just like the one we had in London. I used to have a dress like that in London too. I used to know all those words off by heart when we lived in London, I used to bel... sigh. I’ll be back at the weekend so please stand by your Rilly and I'll see you soon.