Authors: Lana Citron
You are who you are, whether you lose a leg or get a cosmetic makeover. Your psyche will remain the same. Though maybe that will be the next scientific breakthrough. People will opt to improve
their personalities, discarding therapy in favour of brain surgery: let’s zap those synapses. Criminals will be targeted first. They’ll be sentenced to lifetimes of being goody-goodies.
The rest of us will cotton on, offering up our scalps, hoping to be reprogrammed: no more negative thoughts, anxiety, insecurity, depression, stupidity. There will be a choice of A-, Bor C-type
personalities. (Yo, Doc, give me ambition with a high IQ and a confident, positive outlook, purrlease.)
Fiona once admitted to feeling trapped in the wrong body. I could relate. There were times I felt trapped in the wrong life, but I wasn’t going to slit my wrists to spite my face.
I went to visit her in hospital. Propped up by a ridiculous number of pillows, she was watching an old Bette Davis black-and-white movie from the bed. I’d popped by after having had
another fight with Nadia, who remained in a right old huff about Peter. I’d left her chewing the cud. Having admitted I’d fucked up, I begged her not to blow the whistle on me. If she
were to say anything I’d lose my job and did she really want that hanging on her conscience? Especially considering she, at least, had a budding other career, whilst I would probably end up a
loser thirty-year-old serving friggin’ lattes in a shite caff down the road.
Little bit of emotional blackmail never goes amiss. Heck, it works nine times out of ten.
‘So how you feeling, Fiona?’
‘Good. The bandages come off in a few days – can’t wait to have a fiddle.’
‘Yeughhh . . . too much information.’
‘Well, you asked.’
‘So how are you peeing?’
‘A catheter.’
‘Oh yeah, I had one of those when I gave birth to Max. Weird, isn’t it?’
My nether regions frozen with an epidural – it was just the strangest non-sensation.
‘Are you sore?’
She nodded.
‘A little – it was really painful at first.’
‘Sounds a bit like giving birth – except in your case, Fiona, you just rebirthed yourself.’
As a kid, a boy once whispered to me conspiratorially that fannies were just inside-out willies. And for years, I’d believed it.
‘I like that,’ smiled Fiona.
‘So, do you feel any different?’
‘Like I’ve come home.’
Cock a doodle, Easter upon us and my little chick was flying around the coop, or rather whizzing up and down the hallway on his new scooter. Grandpa was over for a week, which
had me in a right old flutter. Yes, that latent childhood desire to impress one’s parent and prove I was successfully coping with everything reared up. He, on the other hand wasn’t
coping. His trial separation from his second wife was turning into a divorce. Malika had met someone else, and finally my father was beginning to appreciate what it was like to be cheated on. It
hadn’t helped that the man in question was an employee of his and younger.
Max was in his element and lapped up the male attention. He wanted to show his grandpa off to all his friends at nursery, and demanded my father take him and pick him up. Of course I was
delighted, but it also illuminated the gaping hole in Max’s life where a constant male figure should be. More guilt for me, and out with the cat o’ nine tails.
As for my dad, he very sweetly suggested I pretend he wasn’t here.
In my father’s desire to make himself useful and not get under my feet, he managed to do just that. Tidying was in effect hiding things, and sorting was flinging out all
my chipped crockery, though at least he had the decency to replace it. Worst of all though were those probing questions, which always niggled.
Like:
‘Have you met anyone, Issy?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘It’s not natural. Try the classifieds.’
‘I’m not desperate.’
‘How old are you now?’
‘Drop it, Dad.’
‘And the job, where’s it going?’
‘Dad.’
‘Have you thought about a school for Max?’
‘Dad, Dad, what the . . . Where are Max’s sticks?’
‘I threw them out.’
‘You what?’
I was livid, having gone into Max’s room only to find his entire collection missing.
‘Issy, it looked like a heap of rubbish.’
Max was an avid collector of sticks. He began his collection when still a mere babe. No park excursion was complete without bringing home a twig or two. The boy loved sticks, he breathed sticks,
sticks were his everything. What can I say, but that he had at least a couple of hundred sticks in an ever-growing stack piled in the hearth of the fireplace in his room. Many were labelled by me,
detailing date found, where and use of.
‘Max will go crazy.’
‘Issy, you’re overreacting.’
‘We’ll see.’
Later that afternoon my father went to collect Max, while I fretfully paced the apartment, expecting to hear anguished howls coming from way down the road.
But no, in skipped the boy, all breathless, his little face smeared with chocolate ice-cream.
‘Mum, Mum, Grandpa is going to stay for ages.’
‘Wha’ d’you mean?’
Appalled at the thought, I looked to my father for an explanation.
‘If it’s OK with you, I wouldn’t mind spending another week or so.’
‘Please, Mum, please, please?’
God, I said a man, not my dad.
Yet . . .
How could I deny my child precious time with his grandpa?
I stared straight into Max’s eyes.
‘Max, Grandpa threw away your stick collection.’
‘Ow, it was an accident.’
‘Max.’ I pointed directly at my father. ‘That man destroyed your life’s collection.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Mum.’
I was in a no-win situation.
‘Oh, OK then,’ I grumbled. ‘Grandpa can stay.’
My father had decided to take time out, a sabbatical of sorts, an ‘I can’t deal with the world at the moment’. I kept him busy by introducing him to my
garden, which badly required tending too. He rose to the challenge and provided me with a gardener. Not exactly what I’d had in mind, though the woman was really quite creative, given the
space, and left me with several flowerbeds and a herb garden.
However, the primary advantage of having my father stay was free babysitting on tap. It caught me unawares and I was at a loss as to how best use this time. Having cultivated friendships with
other mothers, I found they weren’t very receptive to my proposal of going out, with a view to getting laid, as they were all in partnerships. Nads was either busy, rehearsing or working,
Fiona wasn’t quite yet up to going on the razzle dazzle, Maria was in lurve and Trisha claimed she was too busy. Freddie deigned to bring me clubbing, which was a mistake, as his nights out
don’t begin till the a.m. and getting totally mashed isn’t conducive to good parenting. I ended up doubling my hours and as luck would have it met Joe Jones.
Or maybe it was the way he told them. An accounts analyst by day, Joe was a budding stand-up by night. Dina his wife wasn’t convinced of his comic genius and to be honest
I’d have to concur, though I’d give him ten out of ten for trying. My mission was to attend all his comedy gigs and determine whether he had potential or was using it as a front to have
a quick fling.
And so I found myself going to various open-spot nights across the city, the Purple Turtle in Camden, the King’s Head in Crouch End, Mirth Control in Islington, the Fitzroy in Soho. Never
knew there were so many clubs, but that’s the great thing about living in London, there’s always somewhere you haven’t been to or something you haven’t done. Watching these
up-and-coming comedians I was struck by two things: a lot of them were attention-seeking neurotics, and maybe this was something I could do.
It’s rare you find yourself in an environment where you feel completely at home, and I did. Humour has a viral quality about it, a bit like catching a cold. To witness a whole room reduced
to tears of laughter by a punchline was inspiring, not to mention a release. Jeez, but I must have offloaded months of built-up stress.
I passed myself off as a wannabe, hung round after the shows and played the carrot, sucking up to Joe, just to ascertain if he was a dick. Naturally he was partial to flattery, as is every man,
but declined to nibble.
Dina was relieved by my prognosis. However, pregnant with their first child, she was feeling emotionally insecure and wondered if I wouldn’t mind continuing ‘babysitting’ her
hubby. For once I was happy to oblige.
Mrs O’Whatshername greeted me full of her usual good cheer.
‘Oh it’s terrible, terrible,’ she lamented.
‘Hi, Mrs O’ –’
‘It’s tragic is what it is. Have you heard?’
‘Oh God, don’t tell me, the neighbour upstairs has had a relapse?’
‘What? No, he’s in fine fettle, not a bother on him.’
‘Phew. Listen, I’m late for a dental appointment, we’ll catch up later.’
My annual dental appointment. Sitting in reception, wading through the classifieds, one caught my eye. ‘Seduce and Destroy: The Honey Trap seeks new recruits in the war
against infidel-ity [sic]. Are you discreet, charming, attractive, curious? Ring Trisha on . . .’
Now call me paranoid, but no one had told me they were looking for fresh blood. I mean it wasn’t as if business was booming. I lagged far behind on the monthly scoreboard, so adding one
and one together I came up with 45, as in P, as in mine.
Swaggering into the office, I thrust the paper down on Trisha’s desk. She was plucking her eyebrows, going for the high-arch look, and flicking tweezered hairs all over
the place. Hands on hips, I demanded an explanation.
‘Eh, er, eh, Trisha, eh, I notice you’re looking for new recruits,’ I spluttered.
‘Yeah, we are.’
‘Oh, OK.’
I’ve really got to be more assertive, more . . . well, just, more.
‘You wouldn’t make us a cup of tea, would you, Issy?’
‘OK.’
In the cubby-hole kitchen, I mustered up the confidence to then nonchalantly enquire, ‘So how come you’re looking for new staff?’
My voice was a tad shaky but I think I got away with it.
She ignored me and cried aloud, ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘What?’
I was hoping she’d plucked straight through her arch, resulting in a gap.
‘The care worker, did you know? It was the care worker.’
‘What are you talking about?’
I handed her a mug and she pushed the copy of the
Camden New Journal
back into my hands. Jesus Christ. There on page three was a picture of Bambuss, under the heading: ‘Detective
Fingers Care Worker’.
Ughh, poor Maria!
I mean, I couldn’t believe it. Bambuss, a lothario, ye gads, but I guess beauty is only skin deep, then again, he is well wide of girth.
But no. Three columns dedicated to the valiant Bambuss who solved the mystery of the missing finger.
Three columns . . . and not single a mention of me.
In a case that has sparked much interest, Detective Christopher Bambuss yesterday announced that a formal arrest had been made. Sarah Bloch, 79, the renowned concert
pianist, resident of Belsize Park for twenty-five years, was robbed only hours after she passed away. The thieves, not content with a swag of more than £50,000 worth of antique
jewellery, had also hacked off the victim’s finger to remove a precious-gem ring.
I skimmed through the rest of it.
The pair were named as Mark Sawyer, 23, unemployed, and Bernadette Quinn, 45, care worker.
‘The care worker. Can you believe it?’ Trisha had started on her stray chin-hairs. ‘You managed to keep that one pretty quiet, Issy.’
‘The care worker,’ I repeated, stunned by the revelation.
Damn, but there’s too many fucked-up people in this city. You put your trust in someone only to be royally shafted.
‘The care worker, and her junkie boyfriend.’
Stephan woke me once again. I told him it was becoming a bad habit.
‘So exactly how long have you known?’
I was playing the pissed-off girlfriend.
‘A while. I thought you knew.’
‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,’ I moaned.
Jeez, but this role came easy to me.
‘Can’t believe you didn’t know.’
‘Well, you could have told me. Huh.’ (Allowed a pause for a sigh.) ‘So are you coming over?’
‘Soon, finally getting some interest in the flat. There’s a couple of viewings this week. If you want you can suss them out for me, act as my spy?’
‘Why would I want to do that?’
‘So you could choose which neighbour you’d rather have.’
‘Oh yeah.’
I hadn’t thought of it like that.
On behalf of the vendor, it was only right I established exactly what type of person the buyer was. Oh my but he was delicious, devastatingly handsome and divorced. Hurrah. And
had a child. (Sunny days are here again . . . Max and I, each having a new best friend, scenario already envisaged and the guy had only stepped over the threshold.) Very charming, Jon, without an
H, a doctor – now you’re talking. How handy would that be to have a GP on tap – not a GP, ‘I’m a plastic surgeon,’ oh excuse me – even better! (And already
I was feeling five years younger.)
Yabba yabba and please, fingers crossing, even toes, please, please, buy the apartment, there I was extolling the virtues of the area.
‘Yes, I am very interested’ – great – ‘Thanks for all the info, lovely to have met you.’
Bye, bye, lovely to have met you too, and now, Mr Estate Agent, who’s up next?
An elderly couple.
Sharp blast of buzzer, someone impatient to get in, and I heard a high-pitched voice screech, ‘Hello? Hello? Are you there?’
Strangely the voice sounded vaguely familiar.