Friday 9th September
Today sees the arrival of Barbie. Unfortunately, this means Johnny and I have to clean the house. True to form, neither of us are up before noon. Barbie arrives at one.
Cue a mad dash for the hoover.
This helps us in no way whatsoever, as our hoover, in the words of Worzel, has less suck than a forty year marriage. Henry the Hoover has clearly become disillusioned with sucking up other peoples’ dirt.
Beer bottles from the night before litter the house. I find a can of Strongbow in the toilet. I think about asking Johnny about it, but decide some things are better left to the imagination.
With half an hour to spare, the house is clean…
Well, according to us anyway. Barbie comes in through the door and hugs are doled out. After that particular formality is over, she sets to work inspecting the house. The sweating begins on mine and Johnny’s part.
After five agonising minutes…
The house lives up to expectations. Johnny and I stop clenching.
Clenching what? Use your imaginations.
Sunday 11th September
While Barbie is at work, Johnny and I sit around discussing the finer points of life. We come onto the subject of tattoos.
I tell him I would never consider having a tattoo as my parents are vehemently against the idea, and I refuse to get one due to my respect for their opinion (and a healthy dose of fear). Johnny reveals that he would quite like to get a tattoo of his parents’ names on his shoulder.
I try to speak some sense into him. Not only would it be highly impractical – I assume his parents’ names are long and hard to spell for your average tattoo artist – but why not something a bit… cooler? I tell him it’s just like getting any name tattooed on your shoulder, and ask him why he wouldn’t get mine tattooed on him.
He replies: ‘You’re not my mother!’
Cue an awkward silence where we both consider the implications of that sentence. If I was his mother, would he get my name tattooed on his shoulder? And how could I ever be his mother? I would need a uterus, and perhaps more importantly, a time machine.
We conclude that he will not get a tattoo of my name on his shoulder. Otherwise it would be a DeLorean away from turning into the fourth Back to the Future movie.
Tuesday 13th September
Today sees the return of Worzel to the house. He has spent the summer in a Lake District forest, presumably giving trees massages and learning to fish using a net woven from his own hair.
To celebrate the return of Mother Nature’s favourite son, we go to Reflex in Bedford Place.
For those of you unaware of what Reflex is, it is an 80s themed nightclub, with more colour than a room full of Rubik’s cubes, and as far as I can tell, the best place to go if you have an urge to pull a forty-seven year old divorcee with three grown-up children. We’ve all been there.
Wednesday 14th September
I wake up not remembering a lot about Reflex, and having the lyrics to Wham’s ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go Go’ in my head. I ask Worzel if he had a good night, and he did. Which is strange, considering Reflex contains the least natural materials I have seen in any establishment. It surprises me that the whole place isn’t made of spandex and hairspray.