Retail therapy

The timing of Francis' redundancy - Leo's birthday - wasn't ideal. Our rendition of 'Happy Birthday to you' wouldn't have sounded out of place by a graveside. Forty eight hours later, it was 'Take your daughter to work day.' Fortunately, it was something that passed Francis, Beth and Deborah by completely, and just as well. 'Take your daughter to your official redundancy meeting day' or 'Let your daughter fill our your jobseeker's allowance form day,' just hasn't got the same ring to it.

But it could all have been worse. We were just about to have a new kitchen. And yes, of course ours is perfectly adequate, and plenty of people have far, far worse things to cope with, and why am I moaning? Because I can, I suppose. And because I was dreaming of something better than the mean-minded, top opening unit door that puts a huge amount of effort into undoing all its screws in the night so that by morning, no matter how tight you've fastened them the day before, they've worked themselves just loose enough for the door to fall on your head when you reach up for the porridge oats. Better than the panelled ceilings whose pine strips hang down like playground seesaws, and much, much better than the lino the faded yellow of old dogs' teeth. And the rotting back door. And the wonky gutters whose reluctance to part with rainwater means surprise showers days after the storm has been, gone, and been replaced by drought warnings and hose pipe bans.

So I cancel the kitchen which is easy, because it merely entails not phoning the plumber, builder and electrician who all work on an inertia principle, requiring a minimum of ten calls before they can build up the necessary momentum just to call you back.

But inside, I'm crying, though in a positive way, naturally. So when old Colin next door tells us that our chimney is 'in trouble' - though why it can't pay for therapy like everyone else round here - the less than tactful words are out of my mouth like particles in an accelerator. "The sooner you find a job....." I begin. "What do you think I'm doing?" demands, Francis, reasonably. "Do you think I'm sitting on my a*** doing nothing?" "Well, no." "And you can take that tone out of your voice," he adds. "What tone?" I say, knowing just what tone, but not caring to acknowledge ownership of it.

Five minutes later there's a stark choice between an escalating screaming match or a dignified temporary exit. I pick up the car keys. "Come and say goodbye to Mummy," says Francis. "She's leaving." "I'm just doing a bit of shopping," I say, hastily."I was just going, anyway."

Only one organisation can help me now. I head straight for the nearest branch of John Lewis where I hover over assorted electronic desirables, and after three assistants have asked me, in caring tones, if I'm all right, and I have reassured them that, yes, I am fine, thank you, I go home again. "Where's the shopping?" asks Francis. "Oh," I say, "They didn't have what I wanted. I'll go back later."



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