I want a new pair of moccasins

Today has been challenging. On my way to HM Prison Dartmoor this morning a tyre I purchased in January burst. In the old days I would have phoned my very own fixer, the Frankster, and he would have made a very nice man appear to change the tyre. More precisely he would have asked his secretary to call the AA and rearrange my appointments. With the benefit of hindsight I recognise how much I relied on Frank to sort things out. In any event, after running out of profane exclamations I googled the AA and telephoned them, called the legal visits officer at the prison and put my appointments back to the afternoon, arranged afterschool childcare, and then emptied the boot contents onto the back seat in order to investigate whether I was the proud owner of a spare. During the latter process I discovered what has happened to the eighteen pairs of Jack’s PE socks I have purchased since the start of the school year and the source of that odour.

While waiting for the AA I pondered the very many times that Frank asked me what I would do without him. As well as wanting to scream skyward “THIS, AS A MATTER OF FACT!” I recalled my response was generally a warm smile, whilst muttering under my breath, I’d phone Natasha. I am no believer in the notion that everything happens for a reason, but today has drawn a number of diverse strands of recent thought together. It brought to mind a strange conversation with my dad at the weekend. I asked him if I could borrow his lawnmower, and after ensuring I was aware how inconvenient my request was (as is his way) he agreed. He then informed me that my mum was away for the weekend and he was on his lonesome. I ignored the inference that he would be amenable to a dinner invitation, and instead suggested that he walk a mile in my widowed single parent  moccasins. He stated that I’m happy because I don’t need anyone. I’m generally fairly good at retorts of a sardonic or sarcastic nature, but on this occasion i was stumped.

It occurred to me that I have been irked that my newfound ability to bludgeon the boiler with a wrench, cobble together flat-pack furniture, and generally overcome my fear of power tools had apparently gone unnoticed by my parents. I wasn’t expecting them to arrange a chorus of Halelulah, although that would have been nice, but a “well done you” wouldn’t have gone amiss. What occurred to me at that moment was that my father was disappointed in me for not being needy enough. It’s possibly a man thing (cue sexist remark debate). Frank liked helping people generally, and became animated when he was able to fix something for me or the Little Darlings, frequently celebrating as if he had scored the winning goal in the 89^th minute of the FA Cup Final. I suspect that if I hadn’t called on him as much as I did he would have been equally as disappointed as my dad seems to be.

I didn’t need Frank’s help with anything, but I liked the fact that he loved sorting things for me, and that I miss. Once I’d sorted the tyre, and realising that as I had no CDs in the car and the Jeremy Vine show was about to start on the radio I popped into Sainsburys about bought one. It’s music that I have on my ipod, but rarely listen to these days as the Twin Set have it away with my earphones on a regular basis: when the boy isn’t inserting them up his nostrils that is. I’m in danger of getting a bit soppy, but this track, which I’ve listened to many times but never heard, made my eyes leak. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z6lKaLNZSVk I didn’t need Frank, but that’s not the point. I don’t need any more pairs of shoes either, but it doesn’t stop me wanting.

When Grumpy (as he is known to the Little Darlings) appeared, huffing and puffing I pointed to the lawn and informed him that it wouldn’t mow itself. I believe this is the first time in a long time that I’ve made my father happy.

Attempting to be a good mother for a change and struggling

I learned today that Jack has been offered a place at the local academy school in September. I was keen to move him from him from his current school, mostly on account of the fact that he is the only child in his year. I did ask for an appointment with the Head to discuss this about a month ago. Strangely enough while the secretary is scrupulously efficient in pursuing overdue fees, she is concomitantly inefficient in arranging appointments where difficult questions are in the offing.

Frank and I opted for this school after the Twinset’s first year at the local primary school when it came to our attention at the end of reception year that Kate and Eve were unable to write their own first names. We didn’t choose monosyllabic names to ensure an easy introduction to the written word, but having done so I anticipated more progress than was demonstrated. I have a number of friends who are teachers, and can therefore virtually feel the heat from their reddening cheek areas. Frank and I could legitimately be criticised for not teaching the Twinset to write at home after school. My view is that children go to school to learn, and while I’ve always been prepared to help with homework, I am a bad parent and not a teacher. If I am expected to teach my children, then their teachers can come to my office and do some filing. Just saying.

During the course of this academic year I have formed the view that we do not always get what we pay for, and concluded that the Little Darlings are likely to be better off in a good state school than a mediocre private one. With this in mind I took the Boychild to visit our local state school late last year and he was staggered by the options and facilities on offer, particularly in sport: a sports hall; tennis courts; and rugby and football pitches. One look around the woodwork and metalwork rooms and he was asking where his signature is required.

The Twinset are divided. After their visit Kate concluded that it would be like attending Waterloo Road, the maths teacher made her laugh rather than cry, and would move tomorrow if beaucracy were not an issue. Her motives may not be based on securing the best education available because high on her list of wishes ticked off were the fact that she could wear trousers and would not have to tie her hair back. Still, I took that as a victory. Eve on the other hand had to be dragged, literally, huffing and puffing just to look around. She rolled her eyes and sighed loudly at approximately seven second intervals. Since then she’s been using every weapon in her armoury to persuade me not to send her there. I have been on the wrong end of emotional blackmail bullshit that “this wouldn’t be happening on dad’s watch.” She’s learning what a hard bastard I’ve become since dad’s watch prematurely concluded, but she doesn’t like it and I’m ruining her life. The fact that I ruin her life when I won’t let her watch Eastenders because it’s mindless drivel and clashes with Chanel Four news which I am compelled to watch on account of it makes me feel superior to most of my clients, means that this particular attempt to pull at my threadbare heartstrings has, to date, failed.

I don’t intend to cause her needless unhappiness, but, for fear of sounding like my own parents (which let’s face it, all parents if they’re honest promise themselves they won’t but nevertheless  end up doing at some point), I know she would be better off there. I also appreciate that adjustment will be tough, and I will be on hand to provide as many hugs and chocolate brownies as she can stomach, probably considerably more of the latter. I’m also prepared to act as a punch-bag if this helps.

This is the hardest thing that I’ve embarked upon since Frank died. The bastard bank, HMRC, Sky and BT have made my blood boil, but I don’t recall losing any sleep over it – possibly because at the time I was medicating with repeated doses of Sauvignon Blanc. The grim reality of making life changing decisions for the Little Darlings as a reluctant single parent – I’m struggling to remain cliché-free (Luke) – really can be pants: an XXL sized, over-worn and under-washed pair at that.