Wished, for a fleeting second, they were lemurs.
1 p.m. Suddenly had urge to check my Twitter followers and pulled iPhone out to take a look.
1.01 p.m. ‘Mummeee! Mabel’s stuck in the tree!’
Looked up in alarm. How had they got up there in thirty seconds when they’d just been hanging upside down? Mabel was now way up, clinging to the tree trunk like not so much a lemur as a koala, but slithering alarmingly.
‘Hang on, I’m coming.’
I took off my parka and hoisted myself awkwardly into the tree, positioning myself under Mabel and putting a firm hand under her bottom, wishing I hadn’t come in quite such low-rise jeans, and high-rise thong.
‘Mummy, I can’t get down either,’ said Billy who was crouched, wobbling, on a branch to my right like an unsteady bird.
‘Um,’ I said. ‘Hang on.’
I leaned my full weight against the tree, placing one foot on a slightly higher branch to lift me towards Billy and putting my hand on Billy’s bottom, whilst keeping the other hand under Mabel’s bottom, simultaneously feeling the low-rise jeans descending lower over my own bottom. ‘Calm and poised! Just hold on tight and . . .’
None of us could move. What was I going to do? Were we going to be frozen against the tree for ever, like a trio of lizards?
‘Everything all right up there?’
‘Is Mr Wolkda,’ said Mabel.
I peered awkwardly down over my shoulder.
It was indeed Mr Wallaker, running, in sweatpants and a grey T-shirt, looking like he was on an assault course.
‘Everything all right?’ he said again, stopping suddenly below us. He was oddly ripped for a schoolteacher, but staring in his usual annoying, judgemental way.
‘Yes, no, everything’s great!’ I trilled. ‘Just, um, climbing a tree!’
‘Yes, I see that.’
Great, I thought. Now he’ll tell everyone at school I’m a completely irresponsible mother letting the children climb trees. Jeans were now slipping below my bottom-cleavage, my black lacy thong on full display.
‘Right. Good. Well. I’ll be off then. Bye!’
‘Bye!’ I called gaily over my shoulder, then reconsidered. ‘Um . . . Mr Wallaker?’
‘Yeeees?’
‘Could you just . . .?’
‘Billy,’ said Mr Wallaker, ‘let go of your mum, hold onto the branch, and sit down on it.’
I released my frozen arm from Billy and put it round Mabel’s back.
‘There you go. Now. Look at me. When I count to three, I want you to do what I say.’
‘OK!’ said Billy cheerfully.
‘One . . . two . . . and . . . jump!’
I leaned back and nearly screamed as Billy jumped out of the tree. What was Mr Wallaker doing?
‘Aaaaaaand . . . roll!’
Billy landed, did a strange military-style roll and stood up, beaming.
‘Now, Mrs Darcy, if you’ll forgive me . . .’ Mr Wallaker hoisted himself into the lower branches. ‘I’m going to take hold of . . .’ Me? My thong? ‘. . . Mabel,’ he said, reaching his arms past me to put his big hands round Mabel’s plump little form. ‘And you wriggle out and jump down.’
Trying to ignore the exasperating frisson brought on by the scent and closeness of Mr Wallaker, I did what he said and jumped down, trying to pull up the jeans. He took Mabel in one strong scoop of his arm, leaned her on his shoulder and placed her on the grass.
‘I thaid Fuckoon,’ said Mabel, looking at him gravely.
‘I nearly said that, too,’ said Mr Wallaker. ‘But we’re all all right now, aren’t we?’
‘Will you play football with me?’ said Billy.
‘Got to get home, I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘to er . . . the family. Now try to avoid the upper branches.’
He started running off again, pumping his arms up and down with palms extended. Who did he think he was?
Suddenly found self shouting after him: ‘Mr Wallaker?’
He turned. Did not know what had intended to say. Mind whirring frantically, I shouted, ‘Thank you.’ Then added, for no reason whatsoever, ‘Will you follow me on Twitter?’
‘Absolutely not,’ he said dismissively, then started running off again.
Humph. Grumpy bastard. Even if he did get us down from the tree.
A NEEDLE IN A TWITTERSTACK
Saturday 5 January 2013 (continued)
Twitter followers 652, Twitter followers I might fancy 1.
4 p.m. Whole Mr Wallaker tree/‘back to the wife and kids’ thing has left self feeling abnormal, and that everyone else is spending Saturday afternoon in nuclear family, while Dad plays ping-pong with the lad, and Mum shops and does mani-pedis with her immaculately dressed little girl. Ooh, doorbell!
9 p.m. Was Rebecca! Had lovely evening sitting at her kitchen table while kids ran around. Was still feeling a bit abnormal, as Rebecca has a husband, or at least a ‘partner’ as they are not married. He is tall, handsome, though frequently a bit wrecked-looking and always dressed in black, and a musician. Told Rebecca about the everyone-else-in-nuclear-families-paranoia at which she snorted.
‘Nuclear families? I never see Jake from one month to the next. He’s always off on some gig or tour, and when he appears it’s frequently like having some kind of teenage stoner in the house.’
Then we all came back to our house, and watched Britain’s Got Talent while I cooked (i.e. microwaved popcorn) and now the children are asleep. Billy and Finn are over the road, and Mabel and Oleander are here.
Sunday 6 January 2013
Twitter followers 649 (feel like tweeting disappeared followers saying, ‘Why? Why?’).
8 p.m. Another good day with Rebecca and the kids. Another good evening with me, Mabel and Billy on my bed watching the Britain’s Got Talent results while I checked Twitter on my iPhone, tweeting my followers (649) with piercing aperçus on the ongoing programme: e.g.
8.15 p.m. Ooh. Have got response to my apercu from someone called @_Roxster!
‘Mummy,’ said Billy.
‘Mmmm?’ I said vaguely.
‘Why are you smiling like that?’
DO NOT TWEET WHEN DRUNK
Thursday 10 January 2013
Twitter followers 652, Twitter followers who came back 1, new Twitter followers 2, alcohol units (do not want to even think about it. But – quavering voice – don’t I deserve a little happiness?).
9.30 p.m. Chloe staying over again after her night out with Graham in Camden. Is nice sitting down at the end of the day and updating myself with current affairs and Twitter with a well-earned glass or two of white wine.
10 p.m. Woah. Fantastic story: ‘Beef Lasagne 100% Horse’.
10.25 p.m. Hee hee. Just tweeted.
Sure will be retweeted and bring more followers like spambot tweet!
Maybe will have another glass of wine. I mean, Chloe is here, so is fine.
Love that the tone of my Twitter feed is so loving and friendly. Not like some, where everyone is slagging each other off. Really, is like going back to the days of Robin Hood with all these little fiefdoms and oh . . .
10.30 p.m. Everyone is slagging me off. And my tweet.
Really need another glass of wine now.
10.45 p.m. Right, am going to tweet back to @sunny or whatever she’s called ’erself and tick her off. So people aren’t allowed to make up their own jokes any more?
11 p.m.
11.01 p.m.
11.07 p.
m.
11.08 p.m.
11.15 p.m.
11.16 p.m.
11.30 p.m.
TWUNKEN AFTERMATH
Friday 11 January 2013
Twitter followers lost 551, Twitter followers remaining 101, number of words of screenplay written 0.
6.35 a.m. Will just check my Twi— Gaaah! Just remembered twunking incoherent drunken rant last night, slagging off birds for no reason to hundreds of complete strangers. Oh God. Have clouting hangover and have got to do school run. Oh, is OK because Chloe is doing school run. Am going back to sleep.
10 a.m. Look, this can be salvaged, like any other PR disaster. With exception, possibly, of current Lance Armstrong PR disaster.
10.15 a.m. Right. The Leaves in His Hair. Must get on.
11.15 a.m. Actually, maybe I could have a career in PR! Oh, shit, is 11.15, must get on with screenplay. First, though, clearly I quickly need to make a full and frank Twitter apology to my few remaining followers.
11.16 a.m.
11.45 a.m. Maybe will just throw in quote from Dalai Lama for good measure:
9.15 p.m. Right. Children are asleep. Am going to get back on Twitter.
9.16 p.m. OMG. Tweet from @_Roxster! Yesss! At least Roxster has not left in disgust.
9.17 p.m. Oh God. Everyone is ridiculing me and retweeting my drunken birds tweet. Must try and do damage control.
He’s funny. And pic is handsome. And young-looking. I wonder who he is?
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Cheeky young whippersnapper.
Roxster just retweeted me from one of his followers: adding:
10 p.m. Waxing? France? Suddenly have lurching fear that Roxster is not a cute younger man who finds me entertaining, but gay, and is drawn to me and Talitha as tragic ironic ruined drag acts, like Lily Savage.
10.05 p.m. Just called Talitha to get her opinion.
‘Roxster? That rings a bell. Is he one of my followers?’
‘He’s MY follower!’ I said indignantly, then conceded, ‘Though he may have jumped across from you.’
‘He’s adorable. Roxster. Roxby someone. I had a man on the show who was plugging designer food-recycling caddies and Roxby came with him. He works for some green eco-charity. Nice young chap. Very handsome. Go for it!’
10.15 p.m.
SCREENWRITER
Monday 14 January 2013
Twitter followers 793 (am #Twunken heroine), tweets 17, disastrous social occasions agreed to 1 (or maybe 3 all in one), words of screenplay written 0.
10 a.m. Right, must get down to work!
10.05 a.m. Maybe will just check news.
10.15 a.m. Oooh. Really like Michelle Obama’s new haircut with fringe, or ‘bangs’, as they are known. Maybe I should get fringe or bangs? Also, of course, delighted by Obama’s second term of presidency.
10.20 a.m. Really has started to seem as if nice people are in charge: Obama, that new Archbishop of Canterbury who had a proper job before and speaks out against the banks being greedy, and William and Kate. Right, work. Ooh, phone!
11 a.m. Was Talitha. ‘Darling! Have you finished your screenplay?’
‘Yes!’ I said. ‘Well, sort of.’ The truth is, what with the whole Leatherjacketman thing, and the dating study thing, and then the Twitter thing, The Leaves in His Hair seems to have rather gone to seed. Oh, though, can leaves go to seed? Maybe if sycamores?
‘Bridget? Are you still there? Is it in some sort of shape?’
‘Yes!’ I lied.
‘Well, send it to me. Sergei’s doing some “dealings” in the film business and I think I can use it to get you an agent.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, very touched.
‘Send it today?’
‘Um. Yes! Just give me a couple of days?’
‘OK,’ she said. ‘But get on with it, OK? Between tweets to toy boys? Remember, we do not let Twitter become an obsession.’
11.15 a.m. Right. Is absolutely imperative not to tweet today, but finish screenplay. Have just got to do the ending. Oh, and the middle bit. And sort out the start. Maybe will just look quickly at Twitter to see if @_Roxster has tweeted again. Gaah! Telephone.
‘Oh, hello, darling’ – my mum. ‘I’m just ringing about the Cruise Slideshow Event and Hard-Hats-Offing a week on Saturday. It was super doing the Christmas-After-Christmas at Chats and I thought . . .’
Tried to resist the temptation to immediately tweet hilariously about the Mum/Cruise Event conversation whilst being in the middle of it. Of course Mum would never be on Twitter.
‘Bridget?’
‘Yes, Mum,’ I said, trying to drag myself away from Twitter.
‘Oh! So you ARE going to come?’
‘Um,’ I said. ‘Can you just run through it again?’
She sighed. ‘It’s the Hard-Hats-Offing f
or the completion of the new Gatehouse Lodges! All the St Oswald’s establishments do them when they’ve finished a new build. We all wear hard hats, and then just toss them in the air!’
‘When is it again?’
‘A week on Saturday. You will come, darling, because Mavis is having Julie and Michael and all the grandchildren.’
‘So I can bring the kids?’
There was a slight pause. ‘Yes, of course, darling, that’s the whole idea but . . .’
‘But what?’
‘Nothing, nothing, darling. You’ll make sure Mabel wears the dress I sent?’
I sighed. No matter how many cool shorts-tights-and-biker-boots outfits from H&M kids, or sticky-outy party dresses from Mum I try to coax Mabel into, Mabel has her own ideas about what she wants to wear: usually some sort of Hamish-meets-Disney look involving a glittery T-shirt, leggings and an ankle-length tiered skirt. Feel am from totally Other Generation, which doesn’t understand the look of the young people.
‘Bridget!’ said Mum, understandably, perhaps, exasperated. ‘You must come, darling, it doesn’t matter how badly they behave.’
‘They don’t behave badly!’
‘Well, the other grandchildren are older because of you having them so late in life, and of course when you’re on your own with them it’s harder to—’
‘I’m not sure I can make Saturday week.’
‘Everyone else will have their grandchildren there and it’s terribly hard for me being on my own.’
‘OK. Now, Mum, I’ve got to go.’
‘Did I tell you about the trouble we’ve been having . . .?’ she started to gabble, as she always does when I say I have to go. ‘We’ve got one of these men going into all the bedrooms. Kenneth Garside? He keeps getting into bed with all the women.’
‘Do you like Kenneth Garside, Mum?’ I said innocently.
‘Oh, don’t be silly, darling. You don’t want a man when you get to my age. They just want looking after.’
It’s an interesting thing, the ages at which men and women want each other more than the other does: