People who know me will know I err on the cautious side. I don’t take risks, I even use hand signals when driving the dodgems. I’m a worrier. I put it down to my imagination but I think it may run in the family.

When we moved to Australia, the husband, who had lived in London for many years, became all outdoorsy and brave. I’d fallen in love with the indoors man who nursed his pint (or should I say pints) and watched back-to-back movies with the curtains closed on sunny days. I hadn’t changed. But I became his project. The ‘let’s make Jules face her fears’ project.

I’d always felt a bit embarrassed by my fears to tell you the truth. I could be coaxed onto fairground rides as long as I was completely oblivious to how dangerous or scary they were. I had to be shuffled on with speed. The husband nearly wet his pants in Chessington World of Adventure whilst on the big swinging boat. I asked him what was the least scary place to sit and he said ‘up the back’. Every time the boat swung my arse lifted from the seat and with nano-seconds to spare it rolled back the other way. The girl in front of me had been terrified too but on seeing my white anxiety-filled face and hearing my screams, forgot about her own fears and laughed herself silly at mine.

Back to the husband’s project. Step one: take wife horse riding.

There is a history here. Me and horses don’t go back a long way. I mean we go back a long way but we don’t get on. As a child I didn’t even particularly like cantering around and clicking my tongue. I didn’t go through a pony stage. When I was 10 we moved to Newmarket (England). Strange. There were almost as many horses on the roads as cars. Every stable exercised their horses, not just cantering on the downs, but crossing streets and heading up avenues. There were special areas where the horses could be walked. Wide pavements with fence-like barriers dividing the horses and making sure pedestrians were under no allusions as to who was boss here.

They weren’t little ponies either but thumping great race horses, walking majestically down sidewalks, occasionally tossing their heads with pride.

When I was 13 my dad decided it would be character building for me to get a paper-round. Looking back I think that the paper shop owner laughed himself silly at this one. I was the youngest, the skinniest and I lived furthest from the paper shop. Unaccustomed to manual labour, I was given the round that was the furthest from the paper shop – but in the other direction. For those who know the area, I lived at the other end of Crockford Park. My paper round started on the other side of Bury Road and continued to a small estate almost parallel with St Felix Middle School. As you can tell, I still feel sorry for my skinny arse.

Where the boys (I was the only girl) didn’t even need a bicycle as they pushed a Daily Mirror here, a copy of The Sun in the next house. Rows of terraces hungry for their morning news. Not me. The most I had in any area was 3 paper-drops then back on my bike for another mile. I struggled with The Guardian, Horse and Hounds, The Observer. Big, weighty papers with gravitas. There were stables here and there and this was where those uppity horses all lived. They were everywhere. I didn’t wear a cap but if I had I would have doffed it. Not so much through respect but fear.

One day a magnificent beast and I rounded a corner together, from opposite directions. I came unsuspectingly, almost whistling, from one direction whilst Red Rum popped up from behind a couple of cottages, a small man on its back. The horse reared up in front of me. It was like looking into the jaws of hell. I must have blacked out for a moment as the rider brought the horse under control. I can still see it in my mind. Shortly afterwards I chucked in the paper round.

Back to the husband’s project. We went horse-riding in the countryside. The husband is an accomplished horseman so I sent him off, waving happily. He’d be bored with me. And hadn’t they given me a slow, fat horse. And wasn’t I surrounded by other newbie’s and an experienced instructor. They lost me fairly early on in the piece. I was alone with a huge beast I didn’t have the faintest idea how to handle. After about another 20 minutes, as I sobbed pathetically, the horse decided it was time to go home. I couldn’t get off the bloody thing as it was too high and I was too timid to deal with it. I mean, I didn’t have any sugar lumps or carrots. I felt like a small child who’d got lost at the fair. Everything had meant to be lovely but it had all gone terribly wrong.

It was the last time I went horse-riding. Even better than that: it was the end of “Project: Let’s Scare Jules to Death”.

How do you know when you’re middle aged? When ‘I Hope I Die Before I Get Old’ no longer appeals. Or the gap between being too old to rock ‘n’ roll and too young to die is patently obvious. Rap makes me want to curl up with my hands over my ears but a blast of Elvis Costello or The Jam has me jumping round the room like I have moths in my undies. I always know when to stop. Just before it seems like a good idea to try the pogo again.

I believe that my generation is the one that didn’t take to rap. Do I hear you protest? Probably not. Build up of wax. I was there at its conception, when the lyrics were truly horrible and the tunes as clever as advertising jingles.

Napping. That’s an advantage. I can fall asleep after my morning cuppa and not feel embarrassed. It’s the natural eking out of sleep privileges. It takes me ages to go off to sleep at night so I make it up by increments during the day. It’s not that far away from when trying to make up for late nights twenty years ago, I used to lean against the toilet wall in the office bogs and doze until I heard someone scream my name.

I don’t go out as often as I used do. At least not under cover of darkness. And do you know what? I don’t care. I love staying in and watching endless British crime dramas, comedy panel shows and dramas with people my age in them. I’m still cutting edge. I am. I don’t watch ‘Mid Summer Night Murders’ or lifestyle shows.

I am no longer as conscious of my looks. But it is a bit sad knowing that I used to have it, oh yes, in spades, and I have no proof of that any more. Unless I carry around photos from twenty years ago proclaiming, ‘really. It is me.’ At least my hair is in the same style and not grey yet. Most of my friends that I haven’t seen for years still think I’m blonde as all the photos I put up on facebook are decades old or under good lighting. You can’t always depend on that light. A friend and I took a photo of ourselves on her phone last week before she returned to the UK for good. She sent it to me and asked me to put it up on facebook. Well, I couldn’t. I looked so old and scary. I keep checking it again, trying to reassure myself. It doesn’t get any better with looking.

We only have mirrors in the house where not to have them could cause an accident. I sometimes check myself in the rearview mirror in the car. Not while I’m driving. Obviously. The person I see looks okay. A bit sunken around the eyes, but quite becoming at a distance. I forget that I’m shortsighted. I just assume that I’m in soft-focus permanently.

On reflection; some good things. Some bad things. I probably give myself more treats than I should. Years of denying myself ice cream then discovering that the local gelato place does a cracking fig and mascarpone doesn’t help. And quite frankly who wants to spend any more time at the gym. I’ll never get those years back or the money spent on leotards.

And how do I feel inside? I feel magnificent. I have a confidence my younger self never had. I don’t mind looking a tit or that my teeth look funny when I laugh. I love to start sentences with “I’m sorry… I don’t want to upset you/I respect your weird uptight views on parenting, really I do but/I’d rather eat my own earwax than eat any more of your homemade gluten-free biscuits.” Stuff comes out of my mouth unsolicited. It’s great.

Another good thing is quiz lunches. Once a week the husband and I do a quiz from one of the weekend papers, over our post-lunch coffee. And I actually get a buzz out it. I mean I’m not doing crosswords or brain teasers, it’s not like we’re sad or anything. We like it. At least I do. Who’d have thought things would have come to this. I remember some of the things I used to do in my lunch hour. I won’t go into that here. Not the place. At least there’s no chance of pulling a muscle with world affairs.

Middle-aged? Who am I kidding? Only if I live to be 96. I do find I dress up more as I age. I won’t wear shorts any more and I love frilly Op-Shop blouses. Pencil skirts and beautiful dresses. I refuse to wear white or pastels. Maybe if I do live to 96 I’ll be swanning around in evening wear before breakfast. Purple with ruffles. Putting on an accent, and wearing a hat at a jaunty angle. I look forward to it.

When I first started writing ten years ago I envisaged I’d write something serious. A novel. When I say first started writing I don’t include those ghost stories from my teens or the angst laden lyrics that died in a carrier bag without a tune to hang on to.

I wasn’t thinking of short stories either. Except as a stepping stone.

So, with only a couple of short stories under my belt I stared to write a book about an Australian woman leaving the city with her small son, and moving into a small seaside community with all its strange and wonderful inhabitants. It would be a love story. She would find a secret diary in a nook of her rental house from a woman who had lived there before, who, like herself was looking for love. Sea changes were in vogue at the time. I wrote my first sex scene. But I lost momentum and had no idea where I was heading. Except for more sex which I wrote quite badly.

The next attempt began as a short story set in America about a woman walking her dog in the snow who comes across a dead body. Bloody story just wouldn’t end. The more I wrote, the more questions needed answering. It’s still out there – unsolved – but you can be sure there was a conspiracy between the sheriff, the local doctor and the judge. It didn’t help that I had never been to America. Save for that half an hour in Bangor, Maine airport in the early nineties.

A few years later I started a story about a bohemian young woman who made a tree-change, running away her past. She made her own herbal tea and had tisane hair. I was going to call each chapter after the colours of the rainbow. My kids had just started at a Steiner school so you can see my influences. Unfortunately I got thoroughly sick of my heroine’s perfection. I wanted to cut her hair off with blunt scissors which was ironic as that was what her mother had done to her as a child. Great. I was turning into the evil, witch mother in the story I was writing. I walked away.

Meanwhile I wrote tens of short stories and fell in love with the art. I also started writing an honest account of raising two small children and coping with the diagnosis of a mental illness. This one is true. Plenty of inspiration and endless material.

Along with a writing buddy of mine, eighteen months ago we joined the NaNoWrMo competition. The National Novel Writing Month competition. This is a well known writing completion where your only competition is yourself. We signed up to write 1647 words a day for 30 days. At the end of the month we had a rough manuscript of around 50,000 words. The competition usually takes place in November but we took up the mantel in January. In Australia January is August in Europe and the USA. Its holiday month. No one works, they’re all out there sampling the beaches and the local cuisine. The kids are off school. Not ideal. It felt like ants crawled beneath my skin until I wrote my allotted words each day. Then I could enjoy the holiday. Or a nap, whatever worked. But I did it. I’m very anal about instructions but not very good with vague deadlines set by myself. This scenario worked for me.

I had finally written a novel length manuscript. I didn’t have to worry about being distracted or hating my main character. It was tough but there it was. Tucked away in my drawer, or rather on my hard drive (with a copy!), for all eternity. I immediately forgot about it.

It sat there for over a year until I decided to dust it off and enter it into a novel writing competition. I have been tightening and editing and all those ing-things. It’s all there but I can change it. If the protagonist pisses me off I can just have her killed, or at least give her cystitis.

Oh the power of the writer. It makes me giddy with joy. Sorry this has been all about me but after all I am the heroine of my own life. I can make a difference just by changing my mind. That makes me smile.

It’s been a while since I put my hand up for anything. Ill health and an ex-military friend who wisely told me to never volunteer for anything helped shape that decision. It took me years to take her advice but that’s where I’ve been. All tucked up and warm and not involved. For a few years at least. But I wasn’t always that way.

At work I was usually the girl to put her hand up for arranging socials and reunions. I was on the board for our school reunion, class of 81. It was horrible. People hung around in the same clutches. My now ex but then current man did exactly the same he had done at school. Ignored me and lurked with a mate eyeing up a girl called Wendy.

Years later when I had my first baby my place became a club house for the mothers group. My doors were always open but my snacks were a little repetitive. Cheese and pineapple on sticks. Anything involving chocolate. I could manage some of the requirements but not others. I’m the same now. I have signature dishes and favourite salads I trot out with minimum effort. There’s really no need to reinvent the wheel.

I’ve woman-ned cupcake stalls at school fetes. Arranged fund raising activities for class camp funds. Calendar making, soup kitchens, that sort of thing. I sewed over fifty gnomes for a new parents welcome morning tea. In fact I couldn’t stop. I just kept sewing them. I held a knitting group at my house and made the same bread every week. I ran the second hand book store at the school festival. My own personal version of dying and going to heaven.

Then my health overwhelmed me and I retired to the country to write and watch foreign films. And there I’ve been ever since. No reading groups at the school. No teaching kids to knit beanies any more. But life goes in cycles and the next one is looming.

Next year son no.1 is going on his first rugby tour to New Zealand. I know. Scary hey? A fair amount of fund raising goes into that trip. Would I be one of the parents going round with the meat tray on a Friday night? Or a bouncer at the local teenage disco? Filling water bottles, setting up stands for sporting events. Maybe not.

I put my hand up for the coordinator of these voluntary events. Yes, me. Who hasn’t worked in an office since there was a 19 in the year. Whose list of undeleted emails sit there for long enough to claim squatters rights. I’m messing with the big boys now! With the husband at my back. I’m a little overwhelmed at the details involved in this task but I will do my best and remember the Brownies motto: Lend a Hand.

And of course if anyone needs a gnome for company or a knitted bag for their rugby boots, I’m their girl.

PS I apologise in advance to any rugby parents who I confuse in the process of trying to make things easier for them. To be honest I’m more Bubble than Miss Moneypenny.

“Please come to the show, darling! Cyn is taking Fee.”
Her mother’s voice pleaded. A noise that would clash with any other. The disappointment in her pale perfectly bred eyes. That vertical line of miscomprehension. Her father looking at her as if she were an alien. The look. One of those lightening quick looks between her parents, whenever they were all together. The Belrose triangle.
Sibella wondered again if she had been adopted. If only. Maybe swapped at birth as some kind of experiment. Less White Australia Policy more Cultural Australia Policy. Perhaps sixteen years ago Mummy had found the most delightful working class couple who couldn’t afford to give their child anything much, so good old Jocasta and Miles had taken the little scrap on. Changed its name from Kylie to Sibella and hey presto! You could almost smell the North Shore on her.
But the experiment had failed. The posh school, the pony club, music lessons and the ballet. No effect whatsoever and here she was in a box at the threatre, lightly snoring to the latest opera band. Every now and then she came round to hear her father tapping his feet and mother rattling her jewelry, just ever so slightly out of tune.
When she looked at Mummy and Daddy she saw strangers, people who couldn’t possibly be related to her. They saw in her a stubbornness, a refusal to see things their way; the right way. After all they had done for her. Not having more children and giving her a posh name.
Sibella wanted to be a nurse. She wanted to help people. She had done her first aid course at school and was hoping for good grades in the sciences.
“But it’s just so dull, darling.” Her mother’s bottom lip protruded in a pout. That looked cute, 30 years ago.
“Couldn’t you come up with something a little more glam? Oh, I know! What about one of those overseas aid thingies? You know, like the princes do. You never know you might meet one.” Jocasta’s smile, straight out of the glossies. As her voice trailed off, her head filled with scenes from a Royal Wedding and choosing an outfit to outshine Princess Michael of Kent.
Sibella slunk off to her room to lie on her bed which was covered in the latest print from Liberty’s. Her mother had the entire house re-interior designed every other year. Her new music system sat there, already neglected and gathering dust. Bought for her by her father, hoping for a child who played loud music and kicked against the system. It had been excruciating for Sibella when he’d gone through his old punk cd’s (updated from the original vinyl) and tried to show her how to pogo.
Both her parents seemed to be in armed combat against middle age. Neither of them wore nearly enough clothes. And tomorrow, oh God! They were holding a pool party. Which meant about 50 middle-aged people squeezing into the latest swim wear designed for persons a couple of decades younger, plus a whole array of boring teenagers trying to look cool and asking Sibella if she had any grass. Of course she had grass – well her parents did. Every weekend they tried to get her to share a joint with them. She usually used the slamming the bedroom door method of refusal and stayed there until breakfast. What was the matter with them? Parents weren’t supposed to supply illegal substances.
Sunday started with Sibella going in search of food only to find Jocasta in her yoga gear tying herself in knots.
“You should try this, darling. Shane has done marvels for my pelvic floor”
Her mother nodded her head in the direction of the television where a Californian yoga guru was putting his leg behind one ear. It didn’t look the same when Jocasta tried to do it. All those lumpy bits showing under canary yellow lycra. Sibella shuddered and made her way to their hi-tech kitchen where she collided with her father back from his jog, sweating profusely and wearing very small white shorts.
“Don’t forget the pool party, darling. Your mother and I have been working out so we don’t embarrass you.” Miles gave Sibella a not-so-gentle shove.
Now there’s a thought. Sibella couldn’t think of a time when they hadn’t embarrassed her but gave a weak smile in appreciation of their efforts and went to look for bacon.
“Sibella, darling. Don’t forget we’re having a vegetarian, low-fat, low-carb, no-dairy week. So no bacon sandwiches for you my little piglet. I’ll do you a wheatgrass juice if you fancy it.” Her mother’s smile was radiant despite her contorted body.
Sibella groaned and decided on a walk to the nearest bakery. She needed carbs if she was ever going to get through the day. She walked straight past the shiny metallic kitchen and headed for the back door and north towards the smell of freshly baked bread.
Sibella bought a bagel from the Sunshine Bakery which was painted bright yellow and faced the park. She recognised a boy from school behind the counter.
“Yo! It’s Sybil isn’t it?” Anwell smiled at her which made him look simple rather than charming as he had hoped.
“Sibella, but don’t worry about it.”
They both stood there, staring at each other. Sibella expectantly and Anwell completely forgetting what came next.
“My bagel?” Sibella prompted him.
“Oh, yeah. Hey, you don’t fancy hanging out after I get off? No, wait, I have this thing to go to with my folks. Not that I have to go – I could, like, shake them off.”
Anwell leaned casually on the side and jumped in pain as he was burned by the hot counter. He grinned at Sibella again. The more Anwell tried to be cool, the more of an idiot he looked.
“No drama. My parents are holding a party this arvo anyway. They’ll be furious if I’m not there.” Sibella wanted to make sure nothing got out of hand too. Jocasta and Miles couldn’t be relied upon not to get everyone skinny dipping. Sibella shivered.
“See ya, then.” Anwell reluctantly waved. Sibella would have smiled except for the bagel jammed between her lips. She held up a hand and headed for the park where she found an empty bench and sat to finish her bagel. She had a packet of Minty’s in her pocket saved for desert. However, she had barely finished her bagel when her mobile rang the theme to Star Wars.
“Sibella! I don’t know what to do! Help me! Why aren’t you here?”
“Mum? Slow down. Take a deep breath. What’s the matter?”
A woman sat down on the bench next to her. Sibella noticed that she was dressed entirely in pink. She refocused reluctantly on her mother’s high pitched wails of distress.
“Oh my God! It’s an absolute disaster! Your fathers locked himself in the bathroom as he always does at the first sign of trouble. And I’m left alone trying to…”
Her mother’s ranting turned to tears which Sibella sat out. There was nothing else to do when Jocasta got like this. It could be a real disaster like Grandma going into hospital or it could be a broken nail or a coffee stain on a favourite dress. You never knew. Her mother’s world was fraught with potential catastrophe. Sibella waited and her eyes met those of the pink woman.
“Is everything okay?” Pink woman’s voice was soft and calm, the polar opposite of her mother’s hysterical screams. Sibella nodded and smiled.
“Darling. I’m okay”. She could hear her mother panting, possibly while breathing into a brown paper bag. Jocasta was prone to panic attacks as other people were to sneezing.
“Can you talk now, Mum?”
“Yes. Darling. I think so. The Yummy Sushi Company has gone into liquidation.”
Jocasta paused for effect.
“Well, that’s okay isn’t it? You’ll just have to travel further for your uncooked fish.”
“No, you silly girl. They were supposed to be doing the catering for the pool party!”
“Oh.”
“Is that all you can say? Our future depends on this – the Cartwright’s are very judgmental and don’t forgive cock-ups. I’ll be the laughing stock. Probably be kicked off the Women’s Tennis Guild. Could you see if David Jones cater?” Sibella could hear Jocasta’s manicured nails clicking worriedly on the receiver.
“They won’t at this short notice. DJ’s don’t have tonnes of raw fish just on the off-chance. Couldn’t you do the catering? I’m happy to pick up the shopping. Just tell me what you need.”
“Do my own catering? How twee.” Sibella heard her mother’s breath struggling down the airways.
“Leave it to me, Mum.” Sibella foolishly interjected in a bid to stop another outburst. Now why did she say that? She didn’t know any caterers. She clicked her mobile shut. sucked out of her.
“Can’t be that bad? Can it?” Pink woman again, looking concerned, her hand on Sibella’s arm.
“Yes, it can. Mum’s caterer has let her down for the party this afternoon. She’s having hysterics and I’ve volunteered to sort the food issue. As if I haven’t enough to face with actually having to attend the party. It’s a nightmare!” Sibella covered her face with her hands, the irony of sounding like her mother didn’t escape her.
“Maybe I can help?” The woman smiled kindly. Sibella wondered if she had a sushi trolley hidden behind her just in case of such emergences but decided she probably hadn’t.
“I don’t think so. Mum’s going to be unbearable. And with all those people coming.” It was hopeless. The thought of a socially expelled Jocasta was too much for her to bear. Weeks and weeks of panic attacks and crying fits.
“You see, my son runs a fish shop. I’m sure he could rustle up a fish and chip supper easily enough. And he could do with the business. Him and his wife have just had another baby. What do you think?” She was blonde with a heavily powdered face.
“What? About the baby?” Sibella repeated dumbly.
“No. A fish and chip supper. I know it’s not quite North Shore but there’s nothing worse than hungry posh people. Unless you pretend that the food has been donated to the Third World. My name is Caroline.” She held out her hand. Sibella shook it whilst thoughts ran like racing cars through her mind. Fish and chips. It was a risk. Jocasta would be furious, all those carbs not to mention the fat. She didn’t think the Third World idea would cut it but the bulimics wouldn’t have a problem with chips and fish in batter.
“Sounds like a great idea, Caroline. My name is Sibella.”
Caroline smiled. “Oh, course it is.” Her heavily rouged cheeks jostled for position as she smiled even broader.
Caroline called her son who ran his fish shop in a working class suburb Sibella had never heard of and it was all arranged. Sibella would go home and break the news to Jocasta while Caroline and her son, Reg Junior, would arrive at three with the fifty fish and chip suppers.
When Sibella arrived home her mother was a picture of charm and grace. Obviously those yoga sessions with Shane were paying off. She floated around putting out a few bowls of gluten-free nibbles on side tables, wearing a floaty sea-green kaftan over her swimsuit. Miles had come out from his hiding place and was proudly strutting around wearing Speedos and half a bottle of expensive aftershave.
“Well, have you managed to sort it out, clever girl?” Jocasta beamed at her only child.
“Er, yes. I have but it’s only…”
“Oh, good!” Jocasta looked at her watch. “Shouldn’t you be getting changed, darling?”
“Well, I though I’d wear this. I don’t really fancy a swim. The pool will be too crowded. Anyway, Mum, I wanted to talk to you about the…”
Her mother looked down at Sibella’s cut-off denims and grubby t-shirt. “Absolutely not, young lady. I’ve laid out a swim suit and kaftan on your bed. It matches mine. Mother and daughter combo’s are all the rage this season.”
There was no way that was going to happen and Sibella was saved by a buzz at the security gates, heralding the first guests. Jocasta disappeared immediately.
“Alright, kitten?”
Sibella took in the aging lothario who was her father and marched off to hide in the kitchen. She would make the Pimm’s cocktail herself. Dad always added a bottle of vodka to the mixture and targeted a sad housewife for his affections. Honestly, he was out there dressed like an actor from a 70s porn film, all he was missing was the oversized moustache.
She managed to remain in the kitchen for another half an hour, chopping fruit and mixing jugs of Pimm’s.
“That’s a girl, pumpkin.” Her father appeared. “The white wine’s going down like the Titanic. This’ll do very nicely.” He took the tray from the breakfast bar. “Come on outside. The kids look pretty cool. You might snag yourself a snag.” Miles disappeared smirking at his own joke.
Reluctantly Sibella followed her near-naked father outside where the full colour spectrum of swim wear was being worn on faces that were slipping. Boob jobs abounded but the expense accounts didn’t seem to have been able to buy faces to match. At least they were leaving something for the next generation, all that silicone clogging up the landfill.
“So when’s the food arriving, darling? What have you arranged? Smoked salmon and caviar blinnis? Pigs in blankets, mung bean salad and scallops?” Her mother had dispensed with the kaftan but hadn’t noticed that Sibella was yet to change.
“Oh, that reminds me. I’d better give the caterers a call. Check they know their way here.” She slipped away from her mother’s anticipatory grin, rather like a friendly shark, and went to phone Caroline. Even the business card she had given Sibella was pink. Caroline Smith, Hairstylist. Discounts for oldies.
At that moment an overweight, ruddy faced looking man appeared, carrying umpteen parcels wrapped up in paper.
“Fifty fish and chip suppers at your disposal, Maam. The lady over there said this was your do.”
“I’m sorry? Who are you?” Jocasta’s face fell four feet and she turned to Sibella. “Darling? What is this? Surely you didn’t arrange this carb and fat-fest?”
“Mum, listen. There was no way I could arrange anything at short notice and I met a nice lady in the park who told me her son had a fish shop.”
Just then, from behind Reg Junior, appeared Caroline, resplendent in a pink swimsuit with matching kaftan, hands full with the remaining paper-wrapped parcels, her face still made up and beaming with pleasure.
“How nice to meet you, Mrs Barrymore. May I call you, Jocasta?”
Sibella’s mother looked in horror at this working class woman, holding what appeared to be the remainder of the fish and chip supper, and wearing an identical swimsuit/kaftan combo to herself in a hideous shade of pink.
“Oh, Jocasta! What a fabulous idea! A fish and chip supper. How retro! Retro is so this season!” Cynthia Cartwright put an arm tinkling with gold bracelets around Jocasta.
“And what a darling man you have there. Put them on the table.” She swept her other arm towards the outdoor setting, flashing her gold tooth at a startled Reg Junior.
“Oh, how brave! What a simple darling idea.”
“Just what we need after all that Pimm’s, eh?”
Caroline handed out the fish and chip parcels, whilst Reg Junior showed anyone who was interested photos of his new baby.
At the back of queue for fish, looking awkward and out of place, was Anwell. Sibella went over to him.
“Hi! So this was the thing you had to attend?”
“Yes. Hi, Sybil. Hey, you haven’t any grass have you?” Anwell whispered nervously.
“No. I hate it when people smoke grass. It makes them so boring.” Sibella was just about to turn on her heels when Anwell placed a hand on her arm.
“Oh, good. I only said that to appear cool but the truth is I’m allergic.” Sibella couldn’t help but laugh.
“Fancy a swim once you’re eaten?” Sibella wondered what the attraction was with Anwell Gupta. He was so gauche. But it was unlikely he would wear speedos or very small white shorts. And for now, that was enough.

I knew it was him as soon as I heard the screams. But not with my ears, it was my heart that heard him first. Son No2 broke his wrist in two places playing rugby. He had the ball in his right hand when he was tackled, he pushed out his left arm hoping to break his fall but ended up breaking a couple of other things into the bargain.

Strangely I was talking to our team manager moments before. I have known her for a couple of seasons but have never asked what she did for a living. “I run the orthopedic ward at the local hospital.” That’ll come in handy next week when my child gets his second plaster.

As soon as I heard his cries I panicked. I am not good with my children in a crisis. Years ago, when I was Son No2’s age I suggested I might like to be a nurse when I grow up. My mum stopped laughing around the mid 90’s.

I did remember a rule told to me weeks before. ‘No mums on the pitch when a child is injured’. I accepted this as I was prone to screaming when my children are hurt which can be distracting. Anyway I left the mercy dash to the officials, my husband (a line judge at the time, so kind of official), my other son and my sister-in-law. New to the area, she didn’t know the rules. At least she’s a nurse.

Once my son was propped up in his dad’s arms on the wall, waiting for the ambulance, the other rugby mums formed another wall in front of me, a human shield. Preventing me from seeing my son’s misshaped arm. I am forever grateful. The husband nearly fainted when he saw it. We waited for the ambulance with a nervous boy-man medical assistant. He was an injury virgin and twittered around trying to work out forms. Bless.

Our team manager, the orthopedic team manger woman, kept talking about green whistles in the ambulance and how our boy needed one. I assumed it was a giant lolly to take his mind off things. I wasn’t far wrong. It did take his mind off things. Now full of drugs he relaxed, the creases drawn on his face by pain smudged away. In the ambulance he requested a purple cast, when the time came. His favourite colour.

At the hospital they struggled to manage his pain, especially after he was man-handled for the x-ray. He screamed in pain for what seemed hours. The husband sent me away one time as it was upsetting me so much. I could hear his cries down the corridor as I made my way to the waiting room. Not being able to make it better for him was hard.

My brave boy was operated on and spent the night in hospital. There was another boy in the bed opposite who had broken his wrist in two places and had surgery too. His name was William. Luckily neither boy needed pins or plates.

We took our hero home the next day, trying to assuage his disappointment. He had three sporting events he had qualified for that week. All had to be cancelled. And of course it’s the end of his rugby season.

I kept him home for the week where we watched far too much British comedy. And I read to him. A book about a dragon rider and his dragon, a present from a friend (the book not the dragon). I picked the story up where I had left it a few days before. Oddly the hero had broken his wrist too. But by climbing a rocky outcrop covered in moss to reach his dragon. Maybe rugby is a modern day version of dragons and riders. The ball the dragon’s egg. His rugby pads chain mail. And the goal posts, well they’re just goal posts really. Who am I kidding?

By the end of the week I had to go into our little town for meat and Son No2 came with me. I got talking, as I always do, with our butcher who’s very into sport. His son plays for a local league team. I told him what had happened and he said one of his son’s teammates had broken his wrist too. In two places as well. Turns out it was William, my son’s hospital chum.

Coincidence? I think not. Or perhaps my life is so small now, with so few players that themes keep cropping up. Between the bone-rugby-woman, Eragon and William it’s like dots joining up connecting us. A bit like those dot-to-dot books from our youth, that turned a dotty mess into a recognisable shape. Not sure what the shape is though. Maybe it’s a big smiley face and the message that we’re being looked after. I quite like the sound of that.

This week I went through a range of emotions my body is not used to. I live in the middle layers, happy and sad as my journey takes me but safe from extreme highs and lows. Every now and again something happens that tips the scales.

When a friend screams at me unexpectedly. My cinema girls going to see the film I really wanted to see. Without me. Anything to do with my children and their disappointment. Not getting picked for the team, being left out of a sleepover (them, not me).

Yesterday a lovely lady I know, a fellow writer and one of the few people who came to see me in hospital, won a big prize. The news came with a free ticket to the roller coaster for me.

First up I screamed the house down with joy. Honestly, not one negative emotion ran through me. Euphoria, ecstasy and pride. Woo hoo!

About an hour later envy started to kick in. I didn’t really notice it until I decided on a red wine or two. To celebrate. Or something. I picked up a green coloured wine glass when normally I drink from midnight blue. The green glass caught the lamplight as I poured my drink, the colour of blood, from the bottle. Was I channeling Snow White’s Step Mother? Cruella Deville perhaps? I drank while a vicious cackle caught in my throat. I would spike an apple, pay a woodcutter to take her to the depths of the forest. March on her house with an army of other forgotten writers.

Nah. I just watched the telly and tried to work out what the hell was going on inside me. I always support my friends. I love it when they do well, go on European holidays. I do, really. I don’t really do competitive. It’s not my thing. Yet everywhere I looked all I could see was green.

The first light of a new day. Was I still consumed in a soup of jealousy? Had I turned bitter and twisted during the night? Well no. I hadn’t. I wasn’t turning hoops and singing while I made my breakfast either. But the seething had passed and I could love my friend and her wonderful victory again. A bit.

The new day instead brought forth feelings of deep disappointment. In myself. I had worked hard for a decade and had earned rewards along the way but nothing this big had poked its head around my front door.

I performed chores I would have normally ignored as if they were a penance for my lack. Then I remembered a recent conversation with another friend, a seasoned writer. Her writing buddy had been shortlisted for a very big fiction award. She told me how awful she had felt, howling at the moon with the unfairness of it all. “Then I said, for goodness pull yourself together girl. This isn’t about you.”

That’s right. And this isn’t about me. Wow. The relief. I can feel my negative emotions dissolving like aspirin. I’ve dealt with and made sense of it the only way I know how. By writing about it.

I’m off the celebrate my friend’s victory by eating cake.

This week I won Open Short Story of the 2013 Sunshine Coast Literary Competition for my story Space for Chaos

“What do you think?” I moved the frame a little each way until it fell in the middle. He stood there with all his limbs where they should be. Straight legs holding his torso, hands hanging loosely by his sides. If he liked it he would answer now, before his body gave him away.
My heart danced shyly as he shifted his weight and lifted his right hand to his chin. Stroking its smoothness. He shaved everyday, even if he wasn’t going out. He was a very clean man, he smelt like a lemon grove in the Grecian sun. When we met I had liked this about him. I didn’t have to ask, as with others, that he shower before we had sex. I liked the smell of soap on his skin, fabric conditioner on his clothes. He didn’t leave a mess behind him. No toast sweat on the countertops or short dark hairs round the basin.
I’m not usually one for paintings. I don’t understand them. Still lives or country scenes, why not take a photograph? Abstract and modern paintings show uncertainty to me. As if the artist doesn’t know what they are about, leaving it for the viewer to work out. I prefer photographs, we have them scattered around the room. Mostly of him and me. On walking holidays in the West Country, one his sister took at a pub garden in June. We’re smiling but I remember we were plagued by wasps. They hung around the sweet scent of shandies. Before I met Neil I bought all these photo frames that I liked the look of. Shiny chrome, some with flower tendrils engraved in them. I was young and lived alone. In a flat two streets back from the seafront. I didn’t have anything to put in them, no photos from the children’s home and my only relly, Auntie Joan, was as ugly as she was mean. I kept the promotional family shots they came with. I didn’t mean to, I put them out on the sideboard, on the shelving unit I bought from Homebase. The models in these pictures are very good looking. Sometimes I imagined that they were my family. When Gloria from work gave me a lift home and I invited her in for a cuppa I pretended they were family.
“Oh yes. This is our Geoff. He’s doing so well. He’s taking exams to be paramedic. And that’s Amy. His daughter, my niece. Three next birthday.” She stopped giving me lifts after that.
Neil and I pooled our resources, as he’s so fond of saying, and were able to stump up the deposit for a house on the outskirts of town. When the smell of family barbecues and the stench of car exhausts from the bypass abate I can still catch a whiff of the sea. It smells of salt, ozone and, I fancy, malt vinegar. Soggy chips in a bag. The old chip shop on the corner of Mile Road is shut now. When people want fish and chips these days they want it on a plate, with a glass of sav blanc on the side. I shouldn’t moan about the middle classes, I guess me and Neil are among them. Except I don’t have a taste for the finer things. I expect that’s why I want reassurance on the print I bought from the shop next to Primart, where the solicitors used to be.
I don’t trust my judgement, on paintings and colours. Clothes I wear or home decoration. In the children’s home the walls where painted white or psych ward turquoise. A perfect mix of pale blue to calm us, stop us slashing our wrists, and a green, which was about all the nature we got. Except for that patch of scrabbly lawn out the back. When it was mowed the older boys used to grab great handfuls of grass clippings and shove them roughly down the back of the younger kids’ jumpers. Played havoc with my hay fever. If I try I can still smell freshly mown grass but not in a good way.
I had walked past the shop on my way to the bus stop. I was early so I hung about, window shopping. I don’t like to impulse buy, I have a rule. Never buy straight off, leave it three days, then go back to the shop and have another look. If I still like it, whether it is a new skirt or a pair of shoes or a bathroom cabinet to put my birth control cap in, I talk to Neil about it. Last week I didn’t do any of those things.
The frame caught my eye first. It was a deep midnight blue with sparkles. Sounds awful and I know it’s really naff to choose a print by its frame but it looked sexy next to the plain wooden frames, cheap gilt ones and flimsy black plastic. It wasn’t an art shop, more a shop of pretty pictures to match interior decoration. Colourful. I have simple tastes. Glittery frames are not simple though.
I know I am skirting around the issue. All this talk of frames when you don’t even know the artwork I picked. The artwork I couldn’t resist, that I broke my impulse purchasing rules for. That’s me though, all frame, no feature.
My mother named me Marlene, before she died moments after my birth, unnoticed by the mid-wife. Auntie Joan insisted I keep the name. It’s a stage actress name, a bawdy nightclub singer in dark jazz clubs. Androgynous, small breasts. My face is pale and without beauty. I have clean, even teeth and short wispy hair. I don’t wear make-up and appear younger than I am.
There were blokes before Neil. Blokes he doesn’t know about. I may not be the kind of girl men lose their heads over but I have my charms. At the firm where I work, I used to sit on reception, before I was promoted. I found if I brushed the hands of a man I wanted to sleep with or swept the ends of my hair near his face, so he could smell the exotic tea I rinsed it in, extraordinary things would happen to ordinary me. An intense look from my green eyes and the rest went in a blur. Backs of cars, street doorways, once in a public garden. I’m not the sort of girl you pay for a hotel room for. I know that. These men who came and went were not clean. They smelt of sex and sweat, felt moist and rough.
I have never told Neil about these encounters, not to save him the hurt. I didn’t want him to know about my past, to share it. A girl like me has to save her special moments, not squander them. They’re mine to take out at will, memories waving over me, bringing secrets alive again.
My friend Sarah from the home was special in a different way. She made chains of wild grass to wear in our hair. “We’re princesses now, Marlene.”
And later when Sarah had been fostered by a scruffy, smiling couple from the next county, I found love in awkward places. Ioannes, Greek for John, in the multi-storey car park near the big supermarket on the main road. He swiped the back seat of his car to clear soft toys and Lego. I still ended up with one piece, the head of R2D2, embedded in the skin of my buttock.
Peter from accounts who I saw when his clever wife was away on business. He had messy hair and a tidy house. Books on tables, possessions placed on surfaces in a way that suggested balance and care. Except for glasses and cups. He put them down on the very edge of surfaces, a lip overhanging the edge. He’d push me roughly against the kitchen cupboards and all the time I would be watching and waiting for his half filled wine glass or coffee mug to fall violently to the floor.
The morning before I found the print, at breakfast, Neil and I sipped organic orange juice and nibbled on rye toast with sesame seeds.
“Can you pick up my dry cleaning, Marley?” I pulled a face. “Sorry love. I can’t get away until six.”
It’s not the dry cleaning that bothers me. It’s calling me Marley but he knows this. It’s a dog’s name. I used to think about changing it. I bought a baby names book. “Don’t panic, Neil. It’s for me, not a baby.”
“What’s wrong with Marlene? I’ve never met another Marlene. You’re unique.”
I winced. “I’d be unique without a stripper’s name.”
I thumbed that book for months, all sorts of weird names. Place names; like Chelsea, Paris and India. Herbs and spices; Paprika, Saffron and Coriander. It made me snigger and I thought that maybe Marlene wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe it was just for me that it conjured up a dodgy bint on a small stage, surrounded by men in raincoats. Or a man in drag, sweating under hair extensions, blowing smoke rings from his large, fleshy mouth. But I did still long to be a Ruth or a Helen. Perhaps a Joanne. Maybe I would get lost with a nice, unremarkable name. Sink back into the fluffy rug at home and disappear from view. Neil would come home, late from the office as always, and search the house. Never find me. What if I couldn’t find Neil? If he left and I had no proof that he’d ever been here. Except for photographs, as happy as the promotional shots. And a dent in the arm of the sofa where he laid his head watching the telly, which would disappear overnight. He would leave, I was sure, if he found out what I was really like.
It was a large print, although the frame wasn’t heavy. Still I needed to fetch the car and find a parking space outside the shop. I paid the man at the counter and went to pick up the car. “Never thought I’d get rid of this.”
He stacked it against the wall behind the counter. I could see that it had sat in the shop, gathering dust, for months. Usually I would be put off, if someone else hadn’t bought it already then it wasn’t fashionable or particularly good. But I could see through the dust on the frame to the sparkles beneath and the subject intrigued me. I was sure it wasn’t classy but in all its confusion I could see myself.
I had stood in front of it, not seeing what became obvious later. A beautiful woman dressed in black, her hair unruly against a background of fire red and orange. Her eyes were guarded but I could see the world in them. She longed to shut them, to hide away.
When I first started the job at the financial sales office on Hammond Street I had dressed in grey suits with bright shiny blouses. People were kind but I didn’t want kindness. I found if I dressed all in black, down to my stockings and shoes, I faded into the background. I become noticeable only when I wanted to. It’s strange how black can turn from invisible to sexy by the turn of a head, a carefully planned pout.
I met Neil on the bus, he said it was cheaper than paying for petrol when most of it was wasted in traffic queues. It took him six weeks of shy glances to ask me out. Then it was only for coffee. I liked it. Fast men come and go quickly.
“You have lovely eyes.” That’s what he said. Corny but true. “Why do you wear so much black?”
“I’m not good with colour.”
“You’d look good in anything, Marlene.”
Rain fell lightly as I walked home. My flyaway hair lay damply about my head, sticking to my face at the front. I had paid for the print out of a roll of cash from my wallet. A roll of cash saved for emulsion to do up the living room. We had lived with ‘Cloudy Bay’ for long enough. Neil and I had picked out a tasteful shade of green called ‘Leafy Glade’.
I hoped Neil would like it. I needed him to, as if I had painted the original myself. He was a careful man not given to spontaneous actions. I let myself into the house to collect the car keys which were kept on a hook over the telephone table by the stairs. The house had that empty feel of homes where both partners work, childless. I caught a sniff of sterility. Neil and I were both tidy. Nothing was out of place and everything matched. The large picture window overlooked the front lawn and the facia of the other homes on Lavender Close. And the wall at the far end of living room with a sky light which, when the sun shone, lit it up. Test paint patches of various shades covered a corner of the wall. My insides lurched, warm feelings turning to a shiver of doubt. Who was I kidding? He was going to go off his rocker. I’d forgotten his dry cleaning and spent the money for the paint we had saved for, debated over for months.
I slumped to the sofa. What a fool I’d been. I wouldn’t collect it but what a shocking waste of money. The rain had stopped now and silver clouds were paling. If I was religious I would have seen what happened next as a sign. But I’m not. A shaft of weak sunlight emerged from the skylight, lit the bare wall which now appeared enormous, empty. Waiting for something to grace it. The sun shone like those brass lights set up over the top of paintings in galleries. It was a clean space but it ached for chaos.
He stood there, my Neil, staring at the picture. His head inclined to the right, like an art critic from The Times. “It’s unusual.”
A girl who didn’t look like me, but was me. Her long wavy dark hair, pale, nervous face. A girl with secrets. Her eyes glanced right where a small mirror hung. The young woman looked at her reflection which wasn’t the same. The girl in the mirror was smiling, not a hint of doubt playing on her lips. Her eyes knew, were unafraid.
“Good unusual, or bad unusual?”
A grin broke out across my lover’s face. He laughed.
“I like it,” reached out to me. Placed an arm round my middle and pulled me to him. “It’s very you.”

Is there anyone else out there who feels weird when the kids have a sleepover?

When I became a mother it all slotted into place. That’s not to say I found it easy. Oh no. My parenting style is ‘The Worrier’ rather than ‘The Warrior’. I was the woman who nudged my new born awake to check he was still breathing. And if I managed to get five hours continuous sleep I would wake up in a cold sweat and then go and wake him up to check he was still breathing.

I have worried about whether my boys are getting the childhood they deserve. For the first three years of my eldest son’s life I regularly bought toys and games to stimulate his senses. All he saw for the first years was a red-faced nervous looking woman holding up a toy and shaking it. He owned every toy for infants Lamaze every made.

I held children’s parties with vigour. Twelve courses of food for kids who were just going to stick their fingers in the jelly and run around screaming for three hours. Not that I’d give them jelly. Poisonous food colouring and gelatin made from glue. No fear. And I really should have had therapy the year I hand-stitched one hundred gnomes from felt. And possibly the year I made a gluten-free Taj Mahal which was far to big to ever get eaten. It sat in the freezer compartment yelling ‘trifle’ for months.

These small, perfectly formed beautiful people have taken over my life. They stole away the girl who stayed up beyond ten o’clock and drank more than two glasses of wine. The wild woman who threw caution to the wind, drank a vat of wine and danced on tables with strange and exotic waiters.

Worse than that, I no longer know how to behave without them. I mean I cope when they’re at school. I push wet, muddy rugby kits into washing machines. I fail to wash and dry the only tee shirt my teenager wants to wear. I clean up, I wipe down. I find oats in places only my younger child can scatter them. I write. Usually about women who don’t have children or maybe one child, who lurks in the background cleanly.

We have relatives nearby now and for the first time in eons we get a few child-free nights every now and then. We managed at first. Meals in town, a night or two in a modestly priced motel. Nothing too flash or expensive.

Now we don’t know what to do with our time. Apart from the obvious. Our bedroom walls are flimsy and the kids don’t miss a trick. One of my most embarrassing moments was when the teenager banged on our partitioning wall yelling. “Keep it down in there.”

‘That’ takes all of twenty minutes and then we’d both want something to eat or drink. Something to dull the senses and blot out that picture we hold of ourselves in our head, of how we used to look.

‘That’ safely out of the way, what do we do with the rest of the time? He likes building things, I like reading. He likes messing about with his computer, I like reading. Last time the kids were away The Husband disappeared into the shed and I didn’t see him all day. I ended up watching ‘The Spy Who Came in From the Cold’ and eating pistachios.

Sad, isn’t it. But you see last time we were childfree for any length of time we lived in London. We had pubs. Everywhere. We had stamina and could drink solidly for hours without wanting to crawl under the furniture and cry. Last time we were childfree I liked shopping and had spare money to spend. The husband liked to see the things I’d bought and made me parade about in them. Now I get depressed and after a bit he feels queasy. I know people say that we don’t change but I think we do. And not just that I used to be a 10 and now I’m not.

My experiences have shaped me and my favourite experience was having my boys. Even if they did completely ruin my figure, my sense of perspective and my ability to dance on tables.

Now I could be sensible and get therapy or at least work out what will guide my life in the future. Or I could hold them close and savour every moment. Read them stories, scream their names on the rugby fields. Get up early every day to pack their lunches.

Well I’m glad that’s sorted. Is there a sequel to ‘The Spy Who Came in From the Cold’, anyone?