Gill Sims

Why Mummy Doesn’t Give a ****


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these things. In reality, it’s a constant drain of money. No sooner have you topped up their accounts than they’re unaccountably empty again. It’s very depressing!

      Sunday, 22 April

      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).

      ‘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.

      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.

      The house, which had been tidy when I left this morning,