It's 7.15 on Saturday morning, and we're just about to set off for the point to point. We are all, in our own ways, celebrating our forthcoming encounter with all things equine. Leo is wearing his favourite tracksuit, pre-splattered with mud and grass from his last football session; Beth, who has been deprived of horse companionship for the past three weeks, is beaming and excited; Deborah is complaining and I am wearing my Hermes scarf. It features bicycles rather than snaffles - who realised that Hermes featured any mode of transport that didn't have four legs and reins? - but that's what you must expect when, like me, you buy Hermes second hand at the local Oxfam, rather than direct, as it were, from the horse's mouth.
We pack a picnic. It features two day old cold sausages; god-knows-how-old ham from a packet at the back of the fridge and some old Easter eggs that somehow escaped Leo's attentions. Martha Stewart - where were you when we needed you?
Deborah and Leo have their first fight before we leave the house, over who will sit where and there's a two-hour drive ahead of us.
I love family life.......
More later
Friday, 4 May 2007
Sub-texts
I am beginning to wonder if we're fictional characters in somebody else's blog. If we're real, we're definitely headed for a chapter in a prize-winning book called something like, "Disfunctional familes - maternal ineptitude as a contributory factor."
At lunchtime I get a text from Beth about her now very definitely ex-best friend. "She's doing it again, ruining my life by spreading rumours, god i hate her. I'm not going to school on Monday, i can't, i'm doing everything i can not to run out of this place. I can't do this." My knee jerk reaction is to rush to the school and scoop her up in my arms, murmuring, 'My baby' as I stroke her hair and splifficate those responsible for her troubles.
Then I realise that, what with her latest growth spurt and my shrinkage rate, that's going to be a physical impossibility, so I remove the keys from the ignition, go back indoors and take another, closer look at her text.
Beth, dearly though I love her, knows what makes me tick. Anyone capable of threatening self-harm when denied what she regards as her inalienable right to play Sims 2 into the small hours on a school night is going to go a long way, and hopefully in the opposite direction to The Priory.
That text is suspiciously well crafted, with every comma placed just so. Punctuation is an early casualty in any emergency communication. Hmmmm. It may not be normal to give your child's crisis a rating based on use of grammar and syntax, but it works for me.
I call Beth. "I'm in the computer room," she hisses, sounding subdued but - hurrah! -not tearful. "I can't talk." "Are you sitting next to someone nice?" I ask. "I'm on my own because nobody wants to sit next to me," she sniffs. As this is a lunchtime club and she's one of the few in her year who loves IT, she's usually the only one here - so that's not strictly true.
I tell Francis what's happening. Given his lack of involvement with Leo I expect him to listen, comment sympathetically, and then leave me to deal with it. "I could go in to the school and sort it out," he says. I gape at him. "Let me know if you want me to make an appointment," he says. I'm still gaping when he leaves to go and do some research for his next job interview.
I collect Leo first and tell him that Beth sounded upset about Becky. "But Beth spends the whole time being horrible to Becky," he says, then looks appalled at having given his sister away. "Don't tell her I said so," he mutters, as Beth, looking cheerful and damp, gets into the car. "What happened?" I ask. "Oh, we had a water fight," says Beth. "Is there anything to eat?"
At lunchtime I get a text from Beth about her now very definitely ex-best friend. "She's doing it again, ruining my life by spreading rumours, god i hate her. I'm not going to school on Monday, i can't, i'm doing everything i can not to run out of this place. I can't do this." My knee jerk reaction is to rush to the school and scoop her up in my arms, murmuring, 'My baby' as I stroke her hair and splifficate those responsible for her troubles.
Then I realise that, what with her latest growth spurt and my shrinkage rate, that's going to be a physical impossibility, so I remove the keys from the ignition, go back indoors and take another, closer look at her text.
Beth, dearly though I love her, knows what makes me tick. Anyone capable of threatening self-harm when denied what she regards as her inalienable right to play Sims 2 into the small hours on a school night is going to go a long way, and hopefully in the opposite direction to The Priory.
That text is suspiciously well crafted, with every comma placed just so. Punctuation is an early casualty in any emergency communication. Hmmmm. It may not be normal to give your child's crisis a rating based on use of grammar and syntax, but it works for me.
I call Beth. "I'm in the computer room," she hisses, sounding subdued but - hurrah! -not tearful. "I can't talk." "Are you sitting next to someone nice?" I ask. "I'm on my own because nobody wants to sit next to me," she sniffs. As this is a lunchtime club and she's one of the few in her year who loves IT, she's usually the only one here - so that's not strictly true.
I tell Francis what's happening. Given his lack of involvement with Leo I expect him to listen, comment sympathetically, and then leave me to deal with it. "I could go in to the school and sort it out," he says. I gape at him. "Let me know if you want me to make an appointment," he says. I'm still gaping when he leaves to go and do some research for his next job interview.
I collect Leo first and tell him that Beth sounded upset about Becky. "But Beth spends the whole time being horrible to Becky," he says, then looks appalled at having given his sister away. "Don't tell her I said so," he mutters, as Beth, looking cheerful and damp, gets into the car. "What happened?" I ask. "Oh, we had a water fight," says Beth. "Is there anything to eat?"
Thursday, 3 May 2007
Social death
I'm researching ADHD like somebody revising for an exam, studying everything from trials where academics administer bumper doses of fish oil to troubled children to see if it makes them behave better or just grow fins, to first person accounts where parents either rave about Ritalin, or rant about its side effects.
But hundreds of thousands of words later, only one sentence hits home. It's not flowery. It says nothing that's particularly new. It's just one bald statement among many - a casual side observation in a list of symptoms: "Children with ADHD will not have many friends and certainly won't get invited to parties," it says.
It makes me cry, because it's true. And because it makes me realise that I am as guilty of self-deception as the next parent. When whole-class parties stopped at around the age of seven, Leo simply ceased to get invitations. Once, he came home in tears because a former best friend told him he'd invited everyone else 'except you,' and I did something I'd always vowed I'd never do and called the other mother to see if this was true. Her squirming embarrassment on the other end of the phone told me everything I needed to know, but I couldn't bring myself to ask why.
Leo's not totally friendless. I share a once a week pick up from the school sports field with another mother, so the boys do their homework and then play together alternately at our house, or hers. And there's another boy, Dave, who lives round the corner and is Leo's best mate. He's also a bully, so cordially loathed by every other child in the area that Leo is the only one who'll talk to him.
I don't like him much, but with such a limited choice, beggars can't be choosers. Then, today, a silver lining suddenly appears. For all that Leo fusses, and screams and has tantrums, and flies into rages with his little sister, he can see how things are. "Dave bullies me," remarks Deborah, as we're on the way home. To my surprise, Leo confirms this. "I heard him," he says. "I told him he wasn't to do it, or he couldn't come round." Deborah nods in vigorous agreement and I come over misty-eyed all over again, which is both unusual and inconvenient, as I'm trying to negotiate an awkward right turn into a busy one way system at the time. "Mum," shrieks Beth, "Mind the lorry!" The driver mouths a stream of silent abuse through the closed windows, but I don't care. In fact, I feel pretty good, something that lasts all of one minute and forty seconds until Deborah starts to demand food, water, her choice of cd and ends up slumped down on her booster seat, rhythmically kicking the back of my seat to give extra emphasis to her demands.
But hundreds of thousands of words later, only one sentence hits home. It's not flowery. It says nothing that's particularly new. It's just one bald statement among many - a casual side observation in a list of symptoms: "Children with ADHD will not have many friends and certainly won't get invited to parties," it says.
It makes me cry, because it's true. And because it makes me realise that I am as guilty of self-deception as the next parent. When whole-class parties stopped at around the age of seven, Leo simply ceased to get invitations. Once, he came home in tears because a former best friend told him he'd invited everyone else 'except you,' and I did something I'd always vowed I'd never do and called the other mother to see if this was true. Her squirming embarrassment on the other end of the phone told me everything I needed to know, but I couldn't bring myself to ask why.
Leo's not totally friendless. I share a once a week pick up from the school sports field with another mother, so the boys do their homework and then play together alternately at our house, or hers. And there's another boy, Dave, who lives round the corner and is Leo's best mate. He's also a bully, so cordially loathed by every other child in the area that Leo is the only one who'll talk to him.
I don't like him much, but with such a limited choice, beggars can't be choosers. Then, today, a silver lining suddenly appears. For all that Leo fusses, and screams and has tantrums, and flies into rages with his little sister, he can see how things are. "Dave bullies me," remarks Deborah, as we're on the way home. To my surprise, Leo confirms this. "I heard him," he says. "I told him he wasn't to do it, or he couldn't come round." Deborah nods in vigorous agreement and I come over misty-eyed all over again, which is both unusual and inconvenient, as I'm trying to negotiate an awkward right turn into a busy one way system at the time. "Mum," shrieks Beth, "Mind the lorry!" The driver mouths a stream of silent abuse through the closed windows, but I don't care. In fact, I feel pretty good, something that lasts all of one minute and forty seconds until Deborah starts to demand food, water, her choice of cd and ends up slumped down on her booster seat, rhythmically kicking the back of my seat to give extra emphasis to her demands.
A fistful of thistles
It's breakfast time, and Francis is checking his e-mails. "Well, I've had my first rejection," he says, in the tone of voice of someone who knew all along the worst was coming, and now has the evidence to prove him right. We're at a tipping point. Any further bad news will plunge him straight into deepest Eyeore territory, and it will take more than a handful of thistles to lure him out again.
Sometimes I suspect his pessimistic attitude is protective colouring. Faced with a crisis, he likes to spend time thinking things through, whereas I view contemplation as akin to torpor and inaction as one step up from a persistent vegetative state, and react by sparking off ideas in all directions like a misguided firecracker, opting for action and plenty of it. Doing something, anything, is infinitely better than nothing, as long as it produces a temporary adrenalin buzz that quietens the panic that otherwise threatens to engulf me. And then I wonder why Leo has behavioural problems.
Beth, meanwhile, has started her day by washing out the dog's food bowl in our sink with our washing up brush. Diet, say some hyperactivity experts, can be linked to behaviour, but I've yet to come across anyone who tips encrusted Winalot as a miracle cure. No wonder we've had to treat all the children for threadworm again.
Later, when Francis calls between interviews, I ask him whether he's had time to pay in his final cheque yet. Casually, he says that he hasn't got it yet. My husband now has no job and no money.
It turns out that his ex-employers won't release the cheque until he's got a solicitor to check through the terms and conditions letter that goes with it, and he hasn't got round to sorting this out. "Do you have a solicitor?" he asks me. Unless they were doling them out at Tesco's with the special offer Tempranillo, the answer is almost certainly a 'no'.
I'm fairly sure that at the back of Francis' mind there lingers the notion of an avuncular family lawyer, kindly, astute, and secretly devoted to us all. I blame it all on Ian Fleming. If Francis hadn't become infatuated with the lifestyle portrayed in the James Bond films, particularly 'Goldfinger,' he'd never have matured with such unrealistic expectations, if matured is the right word.
Unfortunately, the nearest we get to retaining a solicitor is the legal hotline that comes free with our contents insurance, a grown up version of the plastic toy in the cornflakes packet. But to sort out a local lawyer who is more than delighted to read the four-paragraph letter and charge the thick end of £150 for the privilege is but the work of a couple of minutes. And if they, and Francis, want a closer family connection, we can always consider adoption.
When the children get home from school, Leo spots Francis's car. "Dad's back," he says, sounding surprised. "Yes," I say. "He's working from home." "Why?" I pause. "It's just the way things have panned out." "Does he want to?" persists Leo. But we're at the front door. In the time it takes me to open it, he's pushed past me, flung his blazer and bag on the floor, and disappeared upstairs. Perhaps he feels he's got as much information as he can cope with for the moment.
Beth, meanwhile, has been presented with a Torchwood DVD by two schoolfriends. I'm really touched, and tell one of the mothers so. "Well, they were doing three for two," she explains. I can't fault her for honesty - though in this instance, I rather wish I could. And it could be worse. At least she doesn't lower her voice and add, "What with things the way they are, we thought she might be a bit short of pocket money...."
Coincidentally, I hear from two old college friends. One is married to the CEO of a huge conglomerate, whose salary is so vast that his payrises make the national press; the other to a head honcho in the Arts, whose work is that rare thing, a hit with the masses and also hugely popular with the cultural elite. Consquently, their presence is requested by everyone from Royalty to Hollywood.
Would I swap places with either of them? While a medium sized lottery win would come in extremely useful at the moment, the answer has to be no. With success comes a requirement to dress up your personality as well as your wardrobe. I don't want to go out disguised as a different character, able to slip into my comfortable, slightly shabby but true persona only when I get home again.
And, when I ask Vicky what she thinks, she has some pithy, but useful advice. "Don't worry," she texts me. "At least u have me, neither rich, nor famous, just a c*** really."
Sometimes I suspect his pessimistic attitude is protective colouring. Faced with a crisis, he likes to spend time thinking things through, whereas I view contemplation as akin to torpor and inaction as one step up from a persistent vegetative state, and react by sparking off ideas in all directions like a misguided firecracker, opting for action and plenty of it. Doing something, anything, is infinitely better than nothing, as long as it produces a temporary adrenalin buzz that quietens the panic that otherwise threatens to engulf me. And then I wonder why Leo has behavioural problems.
Beth, meanwhile, has started her day by washing out the dog's food bowl in our sink with our washing up brush. Diet, say some hyperactivity experts, can be linked to behaviour, but I've yet to come across anyone who tips encrusted Winalot as a miracle cure. No wonder we've had to treat all the children for threadworm again.
Later, when Francis calls between interviews, I ask him whether he's had time to pay in his final cheque yet. Casually, he says that he hasn't got it yet. My husband now has no job and no money.
It turns out that his ex-employers won't release the cheque until he's got a solicitor to check through the terms and conditions letter that goes with it, and he hasn't got round to sorting this out. "Do you have a solicitor?" he asks me. Unless they were doling them out at Tesco's with the special offer Tempranillo, the answer is almost certainly a 'no'.
I'm fairly sure that at the back of Francis' mind there lingers the notion of an avuncular family lawyer, kindly, astute, and secretly devoted to us all. I blame it all on Ian Fleming. If Francis hadn't become infatuated with the lifestyle portrayed in the James Bond films, particularly 'Goldfinger,' he'd never have matured with such unrealistic expectations, if matured is the right word.
Unfortunately, the nearest we get to retaining a solicitor is the legal hotline that comes free with our contents insurance, a grown up version of the plastic toy in the cornflakes packet. But to sort out a local lawyer who is more than delighted to read the four-paragraph letter and charge the thick end of £150 for the privilege is but the work of a couple of minutes. And if they, and Francis, want a closer family connection, we can always consider adoption.
When the children get home from school, Leo spots Francis's car. "Dad's back," he says, sounding surprised. "Yes," I say. "He's working from home." "Why?" I pause. "It's just the way things have panned out." "Does he want to?" persists Leo. But we're at the front door. In the time it takes me to open it, he's pushed past me, flung his blazer and bag on the floor, and disappeared upstairs. Perhaps he feels he's got as much information as he can cope with for the moment.
Beth, meanwhile, has been presented with a Torchwood DVD by two schoolfriends. I'm really touched, and tell one of the mothers so. "Well, they were doing three for two," she explains. I can't fault her for honesty - though in this instance, I rather wish I could. And it could be worse. At least she doesn't lower her voice and add, "What with things the way they are, we thought she might be a bit short of pocket money...."
Coincidentally, I hear from two old college friends. One is married to the CEO of a huge conglomerate, whose salary is so vast that his payrises make the national press; the other to a head honcho in the Arts, whose work is that rare thing, a hit with the masses and also hugely popular with the cultural elite. Consquently, their presence is requested by everyone from Royalty to Hollywood.
Would I swap places with either of them? While a medium sized lottery win would come in extremely useful at the moment, the answer has to be no. With success comes a requirement to dress up your personality as well as your wardrobe. I don't want to go out disguised as a different character, able to slip into my comfortable, slightly shabby but true persona only when I get home again.
And, when I ask Vicky what she thinks, she has some pithy, but useful advice. "Don't worry," she texts me. "At least u have me, neither rich, nor famous, just a c*** really."
Wednesday, 2 May 2007
Community behaviour/private lessons
It's not until one of the hard-luck boys selling dusters door to door from a zip up bag backs slowly away from me down the path, not even attempting his sales pitch, that I realise my attitude of carefree insouciance may not be all it's cracked up to be. Even the spammers have given up. The normal flood of life-enhancing, special offer medicine slows to a trickle, then dries up completely. The makers clearly feel there's no drug on the market, legal or not, that can help me.
Procrastination isn't helping. I've put it off since Monday, but today I pluck up the courage to call the community behaviour clinic and make an appointment for Leo. I am so grateful that the receptionist doesn't hiss 'I know you're a rubbish mother,' down the line that I greet each of her perfectly normal comments as to parking arrangements and opening times with totally inappropriate levels of gratitude and, once, a braying whinny of thanks, which takes both of us by surprise. I can almost hear the click of the keyboard as underlinings and exclamation marks are added to the family background section of Leo's case notes.
We won't be seen for almost a month. My immediate reaction is to spend the next four weeks coaching Leo in how to be a normal child. But this reminds me of the parents who, according to our opthamologist, see short sight as a major character failing and refuse to let their children wear glasses, even when their vision is so poor that they struggle to pick out the cars when they're crossing the road.
I call Alice. The forecast for Bank Holiday weekend starts well but gets progressively worse. Unless we plan to set up the tents on Mount Ararat or equip them with oars and an outboard motor, we're going to get very wet. Plan B is a day trip to a point to point on Saturday. It will be expensive, but banning all fun will make Francis feel guilty and probably isn't the best way of keeping up his spirits, especially as he's just gone for the first of his four interviews. It therefore counts as an investment.
In the meantime, the school I teach at offers me more work, this time giving piano lessons to beginners. I know I should jump at it. My current job as a class music teacher is relatively anonymous - it's a rare parent who really wants to hear exactly how I approach the vexed question of unpitched versus pitched percussion. The thought of switching to one to one teaching and being interrogated by parents as to why little Isolde didn't get distinction in Grade 1 when everyone says how intensely musical she is, makes my stomach sink slowly to my knees, to be greeted cheerily by the pelvic floor muscles which arrived some time ago. Once my breasts join them, there'll be quite a party down there.
Then Francis calls on the way back from his interview. While I listen to him, Deborah, Beth and Leo, sensitive little souls that they are, respectively mop and mow, demand that I vet a pot of strawberry jam for salmonella, and kick a football repeatedly and loudly against the sitting room windows - from the inside.
"How did it go?" I ask, lightly, as if a new job were a mere bauble on the already shining crown of our existence. "Oh, it's not a place to work in," he replies airily, and somewhat confusingly. But it's not all bad news. The company hasn't the funds to hire him because it can't get any of the big supermarkets to stock its products. If things don't improve, the owner is thinking of selling up. But if Francis can talk to some of the buyers and help shift some stock, and he thinks he probably can, the owner has promised him a good slug of commission. It's not definite. There's nothing in writing. And promises can mean nothing. But if it were to work out, the benefits - morale boosting and financial, could be considerable. And perhaps, just perhaps, I could avoid taking on those extra piano lessons.
I look and feel more relaxed. At least, that's what I think, until Beth comes up as I'm ruminating in kitchen. "Mum, why are you baring your teeth like that?" she asks. My impromptu Dracula impersonation is bad enough - charades were never my thing - but what's worse is that I had no idea I was doing it. "So, now you're so stressed you do it without thinking?" says Beth. "Great."
Procrastination isn't helping. I've put it off since Monday, but today I pluck up the courage to call the community behaviour clinic and make an appointment for Leo. I am so grateful that the receptionist doesn't hiss 'I know you're a rubbish mother,' down the line that I greet each of her perfectly normal comments as to parking arrangements and opening times with totally inappropriate levels of gratitude and, once, a braying whinny of thanks, which takes both of us by surprise. I can almost hear the click of the keyboard as underlinings and exclamation marks are added to the family background section of Leo's case notes.
We won't be seen for almost a month. My immediate reaction is to spend the next four weeks coaching Leo in how to be a normal child. But this reminds me of the parents who, according to our opthamologist, see short sight as a major character failing and refuse to let their children wear glasses, even when their vision is so poor that they struggle to pick out the cars when they're crossing the road.
I call Alice. The forecast for Bank Holiday weekend starts well but gets progressively worse. Unless we plan to set up the tents on Mount Ararat or equip them with oars and an outboard motor, we're going to get very wet. Plan B is a day trip to a point to point on Saturday. It will be expensive, but banning all fun will make Francis feel guilty and probably isn't the best way of keeping up his spirits, especially as he's just gone for the first of his four interviews. It therefore counts as an investment.
In the meantime, the school I teach at offers me more work, this time giving piano lessons to beginners. I know I should jump at it. My current job as a class music teacher is relatively anonymous - it's a rare parent who really wants to hear exactly how I approach the vexed question of unpitched versus pitched percussion. The thought of switching to one to one teaching and being interrogated by parents as to why little Isolde didn't get distinction in Grade 1 when everyone says how intensely musical she is, makes my stomach sink slowly to my knees, to be greeted cheerily by the pelvic floor muscles which arrived some time ago. Once my breasts join them, there'll be quite a party down there.
Then Francis calls on the way back from his interview. While I listen to him, Deborah, Beth and Leo, sensitive little souls that they are, respectively mop and mow, demand that I vet a pot of strawberry jam for salmonella, and kick a football repeatedly and loudly against the sitting room windows - from the inside.
"How did it go?" I ask, lightly, as if a new job were a mere bauble on the already shining crown of our existence. "Oh, it's not a place to work in," he replies airily, and somewhat confusingly. But it's not all bad news. The company hasn't the funds to hire him because it can't get any of the big supermarkets to stock its products. If things don't improve, the owner is thinking of selling up. But if Francis can talk to some of the buyers and help shift some stock, and he thinks he probably can, the owner has promised him a good slug of commission. It's not definite. There's nothing in writing. And promises can mean nothing. But if it were to work out, the benefits - morale boosting and financial, could be considerable. And perhaps, just perhaps, I could avoid taking on those extra piano lessons.
I look and feel more relaxed. At least, that's what I think, until Beth comes up as I'm ruminating in kitchen. "Mum, why are you baring your teeth like that?" she asks. My impromptu Dracula impersonation is bad enough - charades were never my thing - but what's worse is that I had no idea I was doing it. "So, now you're so stressed you do it without thinking?" says Beth. "Great."
Tuesday, 1 May 2007
Take me to the bagging area
Francis and I had got into the habit of e-mailing important dates to each other, partly because we're a modern family finding our way in the fast and furious world of modern communications, but mainly because I forgot to buy a 2007 calendar. Admittedly, my dates were more of the 'worm dog' and 'think up lie to avoid coffee morning' variety as opposed to Francis' ones, which sparkled with hotel names and flight numbers.
Tonight, Francis sends me the latest version, which is now a lot shorter, and a note saying, "Not much left for me on this now - go out when you like...."
I celebrate my new-found freedom with a late-night trip to Tesco, where the man next to me in fruit and veg starts talking to the Braeburns. 'Not so loud,' he keeps hissing. I assume he's a paranoid schizophrenic. Then I spot his tiny earbud and and realise he's simply on the phone.
At this time of night, it's not easy to distinguish dyed in the wool crazies from up to the minute technophiles, especially when the dress code - stubble, mad stare, slightly grimy clothes - is the same for both. I'm so relieved not to be taken hostage and forced to wear an explosives-filled belt (so unflattering - when will they come up with a range that includes stomach control panels?) that I attempt a chatty exchange with the nice recorded lady at the do it yourself till, who urges me repeatedly to put everything in the bagging area. I've had worse advice. And at least it makes a change from packing up my troubles in my old kit bag, I suppose.
Tonight, Francis sends me the latest version, which is now a lot shorter, and a note saying, "Not much left for me on this now - go out when you like...."
I celebrate my new-found freedom with a late-night trip to Tesco, where the man next to me in fruit and veg starts talking to the Braeburns. 'Not so loud,' he keeps hissing. I assume he's a paranoid schizophrenic. Then I spot his tiny earbud and and realise he's simply on the phone.
At this time of night, it's not easy to distinguish dyed in the wool crazies from up to the minute technophiles, especially when the dress code - stubble, mad stare, slightly grimy clothes - is the same for both. I'm so relieved not to be taken hostage and forced to wear an explosives-filled belt (so unflattering - when will they come up with a range that includes stomach control panels?) that I attempt a chatty exchange with the nice recorded lady at the do it yourself till, who urges me repeatedly to put everything in the bagging area. I've had worse advice. And at least it makes a change from packing up my troubles in my old kit bag, I suppose.
Core values
The house is now littered with cards saying 'Goodbye'. All, for some unfathomable reason, feature cuddly hedgehogs. Leo ignores the lot, even the great big one in the hall, which is adorned with a particularly unpleasant baby-faced version wearing little blue trousers and a cynical leer and waving a big farewell banner.
Francis' final present was an unremarkable leather document folder. He drops in on to the kitchen table, where it spends several hours getting acquainted with a couple of old sausages, at one point taking a quick dip into the tomato ketchup, until he is able to muster sufficient enthusiasm to open it.
When he does, though, it's worth it. His team has filled it with momentos of his time at the office, like one of those memory boxes you put together for the children when Granny snuffs it. There are jelly babies, breath freshener, business cards, and a leaflet listing his company's core values which are "... about recognising and respecting each other's views as a team." I add, "Except yours, Francis," in big bold letters as a joke, then, remembering Francis' reaction to Vicky's card, panic, and hide the leaflet in the recycling bin.
Of our immediate issues, the first is knowing how to refer to Francis' predicament. It's a bit like describing a relationship whose status is as yet indeterminate. Up till now we were safe with that marvellous little linking word 'just'. He'd just been made redundant. He was just about to leave. The relationship equivalent would be 'newly single'. It kept a tenuous little connection between Francis and work. Now I need to work out what to put in its place. I suppose there's 'gardening leave', but I always take it to be a euphemism for 'so damn useless we'll pay for him not to come into the office.'
I try 'between jobs'. Its hopeful vagueness reeks of desperation. After all, you don't advertise for the love of your life by saying you're between partners.
The next problem is one of respect. With Francis at home all the time, it will be all too easy to eat away at his remaining status by treating him as a glorified errand Dad, especially when my teaching job does mean I struggle with the school run. I make a vow not to ask for too much help. Not having a job is bad enough. Being asked to take up the slack when your partner does is worse.
Francis' final present was an unremarkable leather document folder. He drops in on to the kitchen table, where it spends several hours getting acquainted with a couple of old sausages, at one point taking a quick dip into the tomato ketchup, until he is able to muster sufficient enthusiasm to open it.
When he does, though, it's worth it. His team has filled it with momentos of his time at the office, like one of those memory boxes you put together for the children when Granny snuffs it. There are jelly babies, breath freshener, business cards, and a leaflet listing his company's core values which are "... about recognising and respecting each other's views as a team." I add, "Except yours, Francis," in big bold letters as a joke, then, remembering Francis' reaction to Vicky's card, panic, and hide the leaflet in the recycling bin.
Of our immediate issues, the first is knowing how to refer to Francis' predicament. It's a bit like describing a relationship whose status is as yet indeterminate. Up till now we were safe with that marvellous little linking word 'just'. He'd just been made redundant. He was just about to leave. The relationship equivalent would be 'newly single'. It kept a tenuous little connection between Francis and work. Now I need to work out what to put in its place. I suppose there's 'gardening leave', but I always take it to be a euphemism for 'so damn useless we'll pay for him not to come into the office.'
I try 'between jobs'. Its hopeful vagueness reeks of desperation. After all, you don't advertise for the love of your life by saying you're between partners.
The next problem is one of respect. With Francis at home all the time, it will be all too easy to eat away at his remaining status by treating him as a glorified errand Dad, especially when my teaching job does mean I struggle with the school run. I make a vow not to ask for too much help. Not having a job is bad enough. Being asked to take up the slack when your partner does is worse.
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