Excerpt from Mike’s To-Do-List Diary (Part 6)
Friday 23 June
3.22 p.m.
I am just about to make an appointment for Claire and me to make our wills at the solicitors on the High Street so that I can tick off Item 20: ‘Make a Will because having twice sliced through the cable while trimming the hedge with the electric hedge cutters I believe my time here might well be limited.’
3.34 p.m.
The deed is done. We’ve got an appointment for Monday morning.
3.45 p.m.
I feel a little bit weird about what I’ve done and tell myself not to dwell on mortality. I think I’ll go and do some gardening.
3.51 p.m.
Claire is asking me if I’ll remarry if she were to die tomorrow. I tell her no. I will mourn her death forever. She studies me carefully and tells me that she reckons that I’ll be remarried within six months because I don’t like being alone.
4.02 p.m.
Claire is asking me whether I’d like to be buried or cremated. I tell her I prefer to be buried.
4.03 p.m.
No cremated.
4.04 p.m.
No buried. Definitely.
4.15 p.m.
Claire asks me what music I’d like played at my funeral. I ask her if we can stop talking about death because it’s putting me off my hedge trimming.
4.20 p.m.
‘Okay,’ I say putting down the trimmers, ‘since you ask I think I’d like “Tonight” by Richard Hawley as that always makes me feel a bit emotional.’
4.21 p.m.
‘Actually I think I’d like “All Flowers in Time” by Liz Fraser and Jeff Buckley because it’s a cracking song.’
4.22 p.m.
‘Or maybe “The Anchor Song” by Bjork because that’s really sad but quite life affirming too but not the studio version, it has to be the live version recorded in Union Chapel.’
4.30 p.m.
‘Do you know what?’ I sigh. ‘I don’t really care what music I have at my funeral so you choose. Just no Abba, okay?’
Saturday 24 June
4.55 a.m.
I am lying in bed thinking about the Will when Claire turns to me and whispers: ‘Are you awake?’ ‘No, I’m fast asleep.’ She asks me if I’m thinking about the Will, and I tell her, ‘No, I’m thinking about sleeping.’
4.59 a.m.
‘Who do you want to leave your stuff to?’ asks Claire who patently doesn’t believe that I am asleep or thinking about sleep. ‘You can have all of it,’ I reply. ‘But I don’t want all of it,’ she says. ‘If you leave me all of it I’ll feel obliged to keep all of it which is unfair. You can’t clutter up this house in death as well as life you know. I don’t mind having the good stuff that reminds me of you but the rest of it either has to go to Oxfam or your mates: you decide.’ ‘Fine,’ I reply. ‘I’ll sort it out.’
Sunday 25 June
9.00 a.m.
I’m on the phone to my old school friend John. ‘All right, mate,’ I say. ‘Just to let you know that should I kick the bucket any time soon the fifteen boxes of Scalectrix that I bought off eBay are yours.’
9.35 a.m.
I’m on the phone with my friend Jackie who was best man at my wedding: ‘. . . and to you I’m leaving all my vinyl and a couple of books.’
10.35 a.m.
I’m on the phone to Arthur from the Sunday Night Pub Club: ‘. . . and to you and the rest of the Sunday Night Pub Club I’m leaving all my CDs.’
12.01 p.m.
I’m on the phone with my brother Andy. ‘If I die which things of mine do you fancy?’ I ask him. ‘I’ll have your DVDs and your bike.’ ‘Consider them yours,’ I reply magnanimously.
12.32 p.m.
My phone is ringing. It is my middle brother Phil. ‘Andy says that you’re making a Will,’ he says. ‘What am I getting?’ ‘What do you want?’ ‘I’ll have your computer if no one’s got dibs on it.’ ‘I think I’m leaving that to Claire. No one’s got dibs on my 1977 Shogun Warriors toy Godzilla,’ I tell him. ‘It’s really cool. It’s about a foot and a half tall and it’s on wheels and when you waggle the button on the back of his head fire comes out of his tongue.’ ‘Nah,’ says Phil. ‘Fine,’ I reply. ‘You can have my fax machine then.’
1.03 p.m.
I text my friend Richard: ‘Should I die I’m leaving you my 1977 Shogun Warriors toy Godzilla. When you waggle the button on the back of his head fire comes out of his mouth.’
1.05 p.m.
A text from Richard: ‘Lovely thought, mate. But no thanks.’
1.06 p.m.
Me: ‘What about if I throw in a brown ceramic Mr T money box too?’
1.03 p.m.
Richard: ‘Now you’re talking! Cheers, mate!’
Monday 26 June
4.08 p.m.
Claire and I are dropping the kids round at my mum’s before heading to the solicitor to make our Wills. We’re both feeling more than a little unnerved. ‘What if we die in a car crash on the way to the solicitor’s?’ asks Claire. ‘Who will look after the kids?’ I’m guessing that’s one of the many questions we’ll have to sort out on the way.
4.35 p.m.
We’re sitting waiting for our meeting with Brian the solicitor. Neither of us is saying much but I sense that Claire wants to cry.
5.12 p.m.
I am exhausted and emotionally drained. ‘It’s very depressing making plans for your own death,’ says Claire as we head home with the draft Wills in our hands. ‘You’re not wrong there.’ I reach over to give her hand a little squeeze. Claire is not in the right frame of mind for tender moments: ‘Keep your hands on the wheel,’ she screams. ‘What are you trying to do, make our kids orphans?’
5.35 p.m.
We pull up outside my parents’ house and practically race to the door. The kids are playing in the garden and we pick them up and give them a big hug. Lydia is more than a little bewildered by her parents’ sudden rush of affection but decides to enjoy the moment without any further questioning.
8.55 p.m.
We’ve drawn up a list of people who love our kids nearly as much as we do and once we get over ten we start to relax. ‘No matter what happens to us,’ I tell Claire, ‘they’ll be all right.’ So we sign the papers, put a stamp on the envelope and put it in the post box at the end of our road. Next week some time the papers will be fully drawn up and we’ll have to go in once again and sign them in front of witnesses but as far as I’m concerned this is one To-Do-List item that has been fully ticked off.
Chapter 20: ‘Beware invitations from strangers.’
It was just coming up to seven on the first Monday in July and I was sitting at breakfast watching my elder daughter slurping up spilt milk from the table while her baby sister looked on in wonderment from the comfort of her mother’s lap when Claire turned to me and asked the one question that I was hoping she wouldn’t ask: ‘So what have you got planned for the day? Anything exciting?’
‘Oh, nothing much,’ I tried to sound casual. ‘You know, just a kind of ad hoc arrangement that I made with Danby last night.’
‘Oh, that’s good, what are you doing?’
‘Well last night he was telling me how he’d booked the week off but had nothing to do and so he’s sort of helping me out this week.’
‘How?’
‘Tomorrow we’re going to London to the Tate Modern to see some art exhibition he’s been raving about because Item number 121 is: “Do more cultural stuff . . .” ’
‘And today? What are you doing today?’
There was no way out; I was going to have to tell her the truth. ‘I’m . . . I’m . . . I’m going to have a facial.’
There was a long silence.
‘You’re going to have a facial?’
‘Yes, a facial.’
Claire rolled her eyes
and
shook her head. I was in trouble.
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s on the List, Item 579: “Get yourself a skin care regime because you’re not getting any younger”.’
‘But what about “Keeping it real”?’
‘Having a skin care regime
is
keeping it real. Think about when I’m sixty. Would you rather be married to a sixty-year-old man with the face of a bulldog or a sixty-year-old man with the face of an angel because he started a skin care regime at the age of thirty-six? This is the twenty-first century, babe. Real men moisturise.’
‘And Danby’s having one because . . .?’
‘He’s had them before apparently. He’s quite the regular.’
Claire looked forlorn and I realised I was being slightly insensitive. ‘Is this because you want to have a facial too?’
‘I’m thirty-four,’ a double revolution of eye rolling in my direction, ‘I’m still trying to shake my baby weight and this morning I was up at 4.00 a.m. with
your
youngest daughter, why would I like a facial?’
I think she was being sarcastic.
‘Do you want me to book you one?’ I asked even though I hadn’t planned on ticking off Item 12 again: ‘Be nicer to wife because it’ll only be a matter of time before she compares notes with her mates and finally works out what kind of a rough deal she’s on’, quite yet.
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? Because I’ll book you one if you want one.’
‘I said I don’t want one.’
‘Fine, I won’t book you one then.’
In the end I felt so guilty about my day out with relaxed and toned facial skin that I not only booked her in for a facial but also booked her in at Nicky Clarke’s to get her hair done. It wasn’t technically on my list but in a bid to stockpile Brownie points, I briefly considered getting her hair cut by Clarke himself. But after finding out how much this would cost I reasoned that it would be cheaper and more useful to buy a small family car instead.
It was just after nine when I arrived at the salon for my appointment and Danby looked as though he had been
in situ
for some time.
‘Mike, mate how are you?’
‘All right.’ I eyed him carefully. ‘You’ve made yourself at home.’
‘Indeed,’ he replied. ‘I’m going to make the most of this.’ He raised the glass of orange juice in his hand. ‘This is my second, and I’ve got a cappuccino on its way too. Do you want one?’
‘Nah, I’m fine.’
Danby looked at me.
‘What’s on your mind? You look like you’re about to face a firing squad.’
‘I feel a bit weird.’
‘Weird? Why?’
‘Well you know . . . You and me sitting here first thing on a Monday morning in some swanky salon about to have a facial.’
‘And?’
I blurted out, ‘It feels a bit girlie. I told Claire that real men moisturise but I’m pretty sure they don’t. Other than shower gel, deodorant, aftershave and a bit of toothpaste, real men don’t do toiletries.’
‘You’re just nervous because it’s your first time,’ said Danby. ‘Trust me, once you’ve had it done once you’ll love it forever.’
We were no longer alone.
‘Hi, I’m Jasmine,’ said the girl on the left of Danby. ‘And I’ll be taking you through your treatments today.’
‘And I’m Keeley,’ said the girl on the right of me. ‘And I’ll be taking you through your treatments today.’
Keeley was beautiful. Somewhere between a young Sophia Loren and Jennifer Lopez’s better-looking kid sister. In a matter of minutes I was going to be entering a darkened room with a beautiful woman who was not my wife who would then close the door behind her and ask me to partially disrobe. Now this might not be a big deal to swanky, single, metrosexual London types but to not so swanky married men living in the West Midlands it was definitely disconcerting. It wasn’t that she was suddenly going to offer ‘extra services’ or even that she’d become so overawed by my Adonis-like body that she wouldn’t be able to keep things professional. The problem was simply that: beautiful women make me nervous.
‘Have you done this before?’ asked Keeley.
Suddenly I was unable to produce saliva.
‘No,’ I croaked eventually. ‘It’s all new to me.’
‘Right then, if you’d like to slip your top off and put on the gown over there I’ll wait outside and come back in when you’re ready.’
In spite of my nervousness as new experiences with incredibly beautiful women go it was pretty good. There was a fair bit of rubbing of my temples and shoulders (despite the tenuous connection they have to my actual face) but I did quite enjoy it and at the end when Keeley half-heartedly tried to sell me a ludicrously expensive collection of lotions and potions that she had used on my ‘combination skin’ I was so relieved that I agreed to take the lot.
The feeling of ‘lightness and well being’ that Keeley claimed to have instilled in me lasted for the rest of the week. I felt full of lightness and wellbeing when Danby and I headed off to the Tate Gallery. I felt full of lightness and wellbeing the day after that as I ticked off ‘Watch
A Clockwork Orange
’ (Item 590) and ‘The first
Godfather
film’ (591) and still felt reasonably floaty the day after that when I bought a new lawn mower in preparation for an assault on my garden. In fact I was fairly steaming through the To-Do List. I was beginning to think to myself that I’d more than likely have the lot ticked off by the middle of the summer when on the following Sunday morning Claire turned to me and whispered something that diminished any trace of lightness and wellbeing that might have been lingering: ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you, Derek and Jessica have invited us for dinner tonight.’