New deal in the turkey shed
Tuesday, December 7, 1999 Wisteria Walk, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leicester
My mother returned from her honeymoon tonight, she complained about the cold weather in Pompeii and talked about suing Cheapo Tours. She has already filled in one of their official complaint forms with the lie that she was forced to buy a cashmere sweater, pashmina shawl and a Gucci leather jacket in an attempt to keep warm. When I pointed out to her that it was ludicrous to have expected blue skies and hot sun in December, she said that she was led to believe that Vesuvius would give off "some residual heat". "By whom?" I asked. "A geologist I met on the net," she replied. I advised her to drop her claim.
Wednesday, December 8, 1999
William has changed his mind about the Barbie Hairdressing Salon. He is now demanding the same present that Brooklyn Beckham is getting — a £45,000 toy Ferrari from Harrods.
I admit to feeling bitter and resentful about this. Beckham junior is nine months old and has never done a stroke of work in his life, yet he'll soon be driving around in the lap of luxury. Whereas I'm an involuntary pedestrian. Where is the justice in that?
Thursday, December 9, 1999
Job Centre New Deal appointment, 10.15. Catherine Root is my personal job advisor. She is personable enough, though somebody should tell her that it is possible to cure a squint these days. Ms Root wrote down my work experience and qualifications:
Librarian, civil servant with responsibility for newt and natterjack toad statistics, offal chef and TV presenter. "Quite an eclectic mix," I said, anxious to impress on her that I was not just any old job-seeker but had an extensive vocabulary and would be wasted sweeping leaves in the ground of an institution.
"Do you have a degree?" she enquired, almost looking me in the eye. "No," I admitted, "but I did once share a flat in Oxford with Doctor Pandora Braithwaite MP." This was a mistake, Ms Root turned out to be a critic of Pandora's, remarking coldly that, in her opinion, she had lost touch with her constituents. When I asked for proof of this, Ms Root said she turned down a request to open the Job Centre's new toilet block, disappointing many. I left with an appointment to see a Mr Nobby Brown of Brown's Poultry at 11am tomorrow.
Friday, December 10
I am now employed as a turkey plucker. For £3.50-an-hour, I pull the feathers out of recently deceased birds. I work with six women in an ill-lit shed. The noise and cackling is indescribable and the turkeys being butchered next door kick up their own hideous din, too.
11 pm
Went to Glenn's school tonight to see their Christmas musical Jesus In Las Vegas — A Star is Born, written by Roger Patience the headmaster. Glenn played a croupier who helped at the birth.
Some of the audience were obviously taken aback when Mary made her entrance in a strapless sequinned evening dress, to be joined by Joseph in his tuxedo singing “All Shook Up”, but I took it in my stride. I have been to the Royal Court Theatre in London several times.
Sunday, December 12
I asked Costas in the kebab shop why he was in such a bad mood tonight. "S'that bleddy Tony Blair," he said, hacking angrily at the doner turning on the split. "'E broke 'is bleddy promise init?"
"On what?" I asked. "Onna bleddy Elgin Marbles, init?" he snarled. I mentioned to him that Turkey was about to join the EU, but not until I was leaving and was halfway through the door.
Mole's millennium
Friday, December 24, 1999 Wisteria Walk, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leicestershire
I thank God that my work at Brown's Poultry is seasonal and therefore over. I managed to keep my turkey-plucking job a secret from my family, though tonight my mother asked me why I had feathers in my hair. I made up the ludicrous story that a pillow had burst as I walked through Debenhams bedding department while Christmas shopping. She narrowed her eyes and was about to speak when Ivan called from the kitchen that the Sellotape had run out. This led to a row, with various members of the family accusing the others of wasting, hogging or using too much Sellotape while wrapping presents.
Being the only one sober, I was forced to drive to the BP garage. The shelves were empty of stationery goods, but Mohammed, the manager, took pity on me and gave me some sticky-tape from the back office. It was an act of Christian charity. Later, I was blowing the feathers out of my underpants with a hairdryer when my mother barged into my room. She said, "If you're going to indulge in bizarre sexual practices, you should put a bolt on that door."
Christmas Day
William quickly tired of his main present, The Barbie Hair Salon: the rollers were fiddly and Barbie kept slipping out of the chair until I fastened her in with a lump of Blu-tak. My father arrived at 11 and sneered when he saw William brushing the doll's tresses with a tiny plastic brush. "He'll end up a bleedin' poofter," he laughed, before thrusting an ill-wrapped present into William's arms. It was an Action Man, riding a motorbike armed with a rocket-launcher and enough ammunition to annihilate China. I said, "I specifically requested that William was not to be given any gender-targeted toys." Later, I watched in disgust as my little son made Action Man rampage through the hair salon, kidnap Barbie and subject her to various indignities.
Boxing Day
The Moles took tea with the Braithwaites today. The atmosphere was strained to start with, and was made much worse when my mother ridiculed the Dome, saying it looked like a female porcupine about to mate. Pandora snapped that she had been invited to Millennium Eve in the Dome. I asked to see her ticket. She said it was "in the post".
Friday, December 31, 1999
I borrowed my mother's car and spent the evening driving Glen and William around Leicestershire in a fruitless search for beacons and fireworks. Eventually, in Victoria Park, we came across a brazier on a pole fuelled by a cylinder of British Gas. A kindly Hindu man handed out samosas to the few spectators. As midnight sounded in Leicester Town Hall Square, I shared a bottle of buck's fizz with a party of drag queens dressed as Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella etc. William asked to be introduced to the "beautiful princesses". He didn't appear to notice that most of them had severe five-o'clock shadow.
When the clock struck 12, I kissed my boys, then we linked arms with strangers and attempted to sing “Auld Lang Syne.” Some rowdy elements in the crowd sang the tune but improvised the words, bellowing scurrilous and defamatory things about Sir Cliff Richard. Later, at home, we watched as a family as the guests inside the Dome criss-crossed arms. Glen said, "How come the Queen don't know how to do “Auld Lang Syne” proper, Dad?" For once, I didn't correct his appalling grammar, though I have resolved to do so in the year 2000.
As I went up the stairs to bed, Ivan drunkenly whispered, "Your mother told me about your feather fixation. Do you want to talk about it?" I resolved, at that moment, to move into 7 Scrag Close, the council house I'd previously, arrogantly, stupidly, turned down.
Flu provokes a family crisis
Friday, January 28, 2000
Wisteria Walk, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leicestershire