The secret diary of a single mum

Sheesh.

Getting a teenager and a college GCSE course in the same room together is a lot trickier than I had previously anticipated.

I appear to have been mistakenly labouring under the impression that you simply located the college, put your name down and the following Monday turned up ready to get your head down and your learning, on.

Wrongly, as it turns out, I believed that GCSEs came in a relatively standard array of subjects such as Maths, English and Physics and that if you joined the group late, well you just had to work harder.

Nah-Uh, a simple frigging O’Level is totally out of the question.

Not only did I discover today that the closing date for applications to our local college was back in January (so that would be a ‘no’ then?), but that, even if The Teenager and I had managed to get our act together and show up on time for once, the variety of course options that he would have had to compare and contrast would have sent him into one of those coma like trances that he slips into every time I give him the choice between baked or mashed potatoes.

There are NVQs, apprenticeships, fast-track courses, slow-track courses, options A through D that combine with levels one through six in a mix ‘n’ match blended type dealy, not to mention the GCSEs that have names like ‘Human Physiology’ (is that like Biology and that?)

Clearly the people who design these courses have a rather hazy and idealistic vision of what, precisely it is, that your run-of-the-mill teenage boy is capable of doing with, and more importantly in; his head.

The reason, I tearfully attempted to explain to the (as ever) terrifying voice on the end of the phone, that we are even having this conversation, is that my particular little handful misread his timetable in his last year of upper school and somehow became convinced that he was on the ‘Distract-The-Teacher-By-Telling-Yo-Mumma-Jokes-Course.’

Unfortunately, but quite understandably, when he came to sit his exams there was a distinct lack of ‘She-So-Fat-She-On-Both-Sides-Of-The-Family’ answers required and so, shockingly enough, he failed.

All of them.

Hoping this information would give the admin bird some idea what we were up against here, I tried to persuade her to just agree to take him off my hands to do, well, anything really, but she stubbornly refused to fudge the rules and so, since she was clearly unresponsive to either bribery or blackmail (I wouldn’t really have hidden in the back-seat of her car until she’d driven out of the car-park tonight, whereupon my reflection would have loomed out of the darkness and into her rear-view mirror) I agreed to write a pleading letter to the head of year, and she agreed to send me a prospectus.

Apparently it’s too big and complicated to come by Royal Mail, so it’ll be arriving in it’s own Parcelforce van.

So here I am, smack in the middle of a big puddle of poo.

And as usual, I’m wearing flip-flops.

Pimmsely is, according to the rather slick little itinerary that arrived through the door yesterday, organising a ‘Gala Weekend of Events’ to celebrate the length of time that that really old woman has cunningly evaded capture in her round-and-round the castle game of ‘Get-Stuffed-I’m-Not-Giving-It-To-Charles-Crown-Hide-And-Seek.’

Royal aides have been pursuing her for many years now but, alas, just when they think they’ve finally pinned down her location she disappears through a door cunningly disguised as a bookcase, that leads to a tunnel, the other end of which has a Range Rover parked in it.

As she disappears off to another royal residence, waving and giving one fingered gestures through the rear window, all Charlie and his panting staff are left with is a vague hint of octogenarian laughter floating in the air, along with a whiff of terrified Corgi fart.

Anyway, back in Pimmsley, they’re planning to celebrate her many years on the run and, in a style befitting the rather fugitive undertones of the occasion, are apparently, planning on bringing out the big guns.

Let me run you through the programme of events.

Friday 1st June, 7.30pm: A Pimmsley Command Performance (A variety show celebrating Pimmsley talent)

1. “Hiding the Cabbages” – A talk by members of the Pimmsley Boy Scouts on pulling off the perfect allotment slash shed burglary.
2. “Aiming Whilst Moving” – An informative discussion on the ideal speed for executing a successful High-Street-drive-by-shooting.
3. “Car-Art Can be Fun” – Current trends in the lesser known genre of proper mashing up the paint-work on some poor sods car with the front door key your Mum gave you.
4. “Slow Response Times Are Our Friend” – A member of the Parish Council will randomly break the noses of several members of the audience whilst Brownies undertake a pick-pocketing experiment to demonstrate precisely how many successful crimes can cheerfully and successfully be undertaken in the time it takes the boys-in-blue to travel the ten miles from main Police Station to village.

Sunday 3rd June, 11.30am: Special Service of Thanksgiving.

Many of our young folk have been arrested this year (hence the need for the informative lectures already mentioned), thankfully they have all been returned to us.

Also, we are very thankful that our thriving woods-based network of drug dealers has yet to be infiltrated or compromised.

Monday 4th June, 2.00pm: Town Crier Leads procession of Floats Along High Street.

A merry procession of colourful floats celebrating ‘Village Villiany Through The Ages.’ Notorious black-market alcohol smugglers, record holding bar-brawl champions and members of the illustrious ‘Going-To-The-Nags-Head-In-The-Next-Village-Over-Getting-Totally-Buttered-And-Not-Once-Ending-Up-In-A-Ditch-On-The-Way-Home Club will be represented.

Monday 4th June, 4.00pm: Hunt The Snitch

Torch bearing locals and their slathering hounds will gather on the village green for this timeless old favourite which deals with any villager who has, throughout the preceding year, felt the need to visit the village Sub-Police Station.

Evidential CCTV footage is gathered from the cottage opposite on a daily basis to prevent a repeat of the 2004 hiccup where an innocent passer-by happened to dawdle suspiciously outside the building in a manner that suggested he was intending to attempt entry.

The truth of his activities did not come to light, sadly, until some hours after that years ‘Snitch-Hunt’ when his rather vexed wife pointed out that he’d merely been pinning a ‘Has Anyone Seen Tiddles’ leaflet to the village noticeboard.

In an effort to make amends, the Parish Council placed the parts of his corpse that the drunken locals were actually able to wrestle from their dogs mouths and kennels, into the revered village crypt which is usually reserved for the coffins of the Notorious Village Villains.

A plaque was also added to the Wall-Of-Fame in the village hall.

His widow and family were obviously suitably delighted since, in general, it is only plaques proudly bearing the names of inhabitants of Pimmsley that have actually made it on to BBC1′s Crimewatch that are displayed there.

Monday 4th June, 8pm: Hog Roast & Bar-B-Que

Tuesday 5th June: A fresh set of missing cat, dog and children posters appear on Village noticeboard.

Needless to say, the Teenager and his mates will be attending.

I was lying in bed last night when I realised that my backside was sore.

I lay there, wracking my brain, trying to recollect whether I, inadvertently, might have lifted something heavy in an irresponsibly bum-unfriendly way.

Err, well that would be a no, the heaviest thing I generally lift is the kettle.

Had I accidentally been belted in the back by an extremely heavy safe door or fallen down a ludicrously huge flight of stairs recently?

Nothing.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling in the dark, blinking back panic as I wondered if sore bum-cheeks were one of those things they’ve made a television advert about lately, like the three-week cough or the difficulty in doing a number-two-poo, because in all the ads, the culprit is generally (sshhh, can’t say it too loud in case it hears me…) cancer.

Then it dawned on me, I have a sneaking suspicion that I might know what the problem is.

My Day-Job means, that unlike times past, I’m never actually off my arse these days.

I get up in the morning, admittedly vertical for a couple of minutes there while the kettle boils, then I sit down and watch Breakfast for ten minutes or so while Annabelle sings and I drink my coffee,  lip-read what the Breakfast team are saying, and try to drown out aforementioned singing.

I get dressed; again a fleeting couple of minutes there where I’m upright, then I revert to form and sit back down to do my make-up (and that).

Walk to the car (upright), drive to work (arse-based), walk from the car to the office (upright), sit down at my desk (you, I’m sure are getting the picture).

In the evenings the process is reversed, with the obvious substitution of my sofa for my desk-chair.

As a result, not only is my bum becoming more Jennifer-Lopez-ish, it’s also apparently, getting muscle fatigue.

This seems, to me at least, yet another good reason why Day-Jobs are bad news. Not only are they time-consuming, inflexible and responsible for taking a huge wedge out of your right to daytime TV viewing, they are, in addition and quite frighteningly, bad for your arse.

I have no idea how to respond to the needs of my backside.

Even if I managed to squeeze fifteen minutes of exercise into my hectic schedule of sitting on my rump all day, it still wouldn’t answer the problem of the vast volume of time that day-to-day life forces me to spend, well, on it.

I desperately need a solution before all this ‘Xtreme-Bum-Parking’ has irreparable consequences for my (even if I do say so myself) rather cute little tushi.

Having a Day-Job; good(ish) for your bank balance, (very) bad for your figure.

Is it all worth it.

You really have to wonder?

I woke up this morning and for no apparent reason, suddenly realised that I hate everything.

Not only do I hate everything, I hate everyone.

Which is weird because when I went to bed last night after Eastenders, I was, to the best of my recollection, feeling fairly easy-going on both counts.

But today, well today is a whole ‘nother ball of wax, as anybody who foolishly got within a three metre radius of my desk will probably, (albeit nervously and well out of my earshot) confirm.

Without even opening my mouth, my stony, dead-eyed glare seemed to imply that something untoward might befall any intruders (work-mates, whatever) who quizzed me too deeply.

“Do I look like I stole your frigging report off the printer Liz? Come a bit closer where I can actually reach you and ask me that again,”

My look seemed to say.

Conversely, about two-o-clock I had to go and sit in the toilet for twenty-five minutes, sobbing, because once again, somebody had taken my black permanent marker pen and forgotten to put it back in my middle drawer.

The cheerful little cheepy-cheep birds were getting on my tits, and don’t even get me started on those little white fluff-puffs that kept aggressively hurling themselves into my car window on the way home.

What is that bloody stuff?

Then I got all upset because, after all, birds are dead cute, especially the ickle-baby ones.

What sort of crabby old bee-atch could hate baby birds?

Uh-Oh, there go the tears again.

Temper. Tears. Temper. Tears.

When I finally slammed my way into the house (a man had driven a little bit too closely behind me on the way home), my children (and the dog) took one look at me, looked at each other, and presumably in some unspoken ‘Freeloader’ language communicated to one another that ‘Leg-It’ was the best short-term method of ensuring survival of their species.

But I wanted a hhhuuuuuggggg.

Sniffle. Sniffle.

What’s the matter with me?

Oooh.

I wonder if we’ve got any chocolate……………

The Pointless-Cretin strikes again.

We have an arrangement, him and I, that I’ll try not to screw Annabelle up for the majority of the time, and he’ll try not to screw her up every other Saturday.

So yesterday (due to Bank Holiday rescheduling) was his day to step up to the plate.

Unbeknownst to me however, he was unable to ‘work’ because he, most recently, had her for two Saturdays running due to the Jessie-J concert one week, and the next week because of her birthday, which fell on the 20th.

On that basis, he explained to her yesterday morning, he was in fact going to be taking this weekend off to get his chill on.

I did try to call him back to squeakily protest, but his line kept cutting out.

The Teenager retrieved the phone from the hedge at the bottom of the garden after my fifteenth attempt to get through, and pointed out that perhaps Pointless-Cretin was in an area with bad reception.

So, to summarise, on one hand he’s now taking days off in lieu, but on the up side, there’s a real and distinct possibility that he might actually be stuck in a tunnel.

Fingers crossed.

Elsewhere, and on another part of the farm, I seem to have been struck down with a nasty case of the ‘Oh-Shits.’

Predominantly bought on by the fact that, in an unintended and completely unforeseen turn of events, people are actually reading the 2010/2011 diary that I laughingly put on Amazon as a bit of a dare-slash-bet with my good pal, Work-Friend-Simon.

I’ll take that ‘Oh shit, people are actually reading it’ and raise you one ‘Oh shit, who have I insulted in it.’

Uh-Oh.

If you are one of the many, many people out there who are heartily wishing they could go back in time and stop my parents ever meeting, please take comfort in the fact that I have learned my lesson, am contrite and never again shall my pen become a sword of sarcastic, piss-ripping-chuckles.

On that note, I shall leave you with the woman who has gone straight in at number one on my ‘Does-She-Know-We-Can-Hear-Her’ top ten of ‘choke-tastic-what-will-she-say-next,’ spotlight-hungry, crayzeeeees.

Nadine Dories.

Long may she keep saying stuff.

Tonight I’m having a bit of a par-tay.

Well, when I say party, I’m using the term loosely because when I ecstatically crashed through the door at five-twenty-five loaded down with balloons, streamers, ‘pretend-they’re-out-but-they’re-not-candles’, a cake and a genuine bottle of Asti Spumante my guest-list claimed it had made other plans.

Annabelle suddenly remembered she’d agreed to go and do maths homework with a friend from school, I didn’t quite catch who it was she was off to study algebra with on a Friday night, but it sounded very much like she’d said ‘Someoneanyone’ to me.

As the door slammed behind her, I cheerfully turned to face the Teenager who was loitering at the bottom of the stairs in his pyjama bottoms, looking nervous.

Two and a half minutes later, as I unpacked my wares I heard the back gate slam.

Cross the Teenager off the list.

I shall, on that basis, have to celebrate the ‘Good Luck in Your New Home David & Sam’ party on my own (well, the dog’s here but he keeps wetting himself every time I let off a Party-Popper so I’ve had to lock him in the kitchen).

The shambles that the Conservatives have made of running things in the last couple of years just beggars belief and, whilst you could be forgiven for thinking that sleaze, back-handers and dodgy-dealings were merely a ‘blip’ during the 1979/1997 Tory-fying-dream-sequence, it is brutally apparent now that hiding all the good stuff (so they can play with it by themselves ) is actually deeply embedded in their manifesto.

To be fair it is embedded pretty deeply and since (unlike Dave and Nick) few of us did ‘The Deciphering of Masonic Codes’ at our version of Waterloo Road, I suppose that, on this occasion, the electorate can be forgiven for handing the reins of power to a pair of (how did Nadine Dories put it?) ‘arrogant posh boys’ whose time would have been better spent playing Bridge, Polo or Pin-The-Tail-On-The-Donkey or something.

Anything really.

I personally am completely delighted (Did I mention that I’m wearing a red paper party hat?).

With any luck at all, the ignorance that Messrs. Cameron and Clegg have cheerfully demonstrated up until now will survive the indignity of this resounding loss intact.

Hopefully they will continue to piss the entire country off on a daily basis.

That way, come the next election there can only be one result.

LABOUR.

Get in!

Bit of a red-letter day for me.

The Secret Diary of a Single Mum is now available as an e-book for the Kindle, iPad or iPhone on Amazon.

If an interested party were to type the name into Amazon, they’d be able to either review it (positively of course) or even, purchase it to take on holiday this year.

Just saying.