Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband (2 page)

Tuesday 1 January

Not exactly a great New Year's Eve last night, largely
owing to the fact that I spent it on my own. Sally was
called up to the office at 5 o'clock in the afternoon –
some flare-up in Ktyteklhdfistan or somewhere – and
she didn't get back until 7 this evening. As a result spent
the whole day trying to fend off Peter and Daisy's
pleadings for their mummy, while doing my best to
entertain them. By the time Sally got home, I was ready
to vent my spleen, but she looked so knackered, that I
thought it would be dreadfully unfair. Instead, I poured
her a large gin and tonic and put a slutty supermarket
pizza in the oven and we sat down to watch a DVD (all
of which we were supposed to do last night).

Predictably, Sally fell asleep just as the
opening
credits
began to roll, and so I half-carried her upstairs and
tucked her into bed. She murmured something
appreciative and then she fell back asleep before I
turned off the light. Gave up on the film, and instead sat
down to write this.

I really wish Sally would give up her job. I know that
it's an impossibility, but there MUST be something else
she could do. Even just to move departments to
something less taxing would help, but she'd see that as
a sign of failure, which I suppose would be fair enough.
It might help if I do more consultancy work for Sir
Roger, but the more work I do, the less I am able to look
after the children, which means hiring a nanny, which
is not exactly the point of me being at home to raise
them. At least not in Sally's book. And that's a very strict
book.

After the disaster that was Christmas, and the nonevent
that has been New Year, I don't feel good about
this year at all.

Friday 4 January

I should have been a soothsayer. My old company has
been taken over by Minto Fellowes (what sort of name is
that for a firm of management consultants?) which
means great news for the partners – I'm guessing a cool
£3–5 million each – but not great news for Sam Holden.
In fact, utterly crap news: 'Unfortunately, Minto Fellowes
operates a strict non-outsourceable operation, which
means that your freelance contract will now terminate at
the end of February.' That was pretty much it, no
apology, no regret. I tried calling Sir Roger, but he was in
Antigua apparently. For the next month. Wanker. After
all I've done for him. If it weren't for me discovering that
those bastards Chris and David were trying to run down
the company before taking it over, he wouldn't have had
a firm to sell, and now he's tanning his man boobs on
some exclusive beach with his latest bimbo.

At bathtime, I got Daisy and Peter to stick up some of
their rubber letters on to the tiles to form the sentence
'Sir Roger is a treacherous bastard', and then took a
picture of them pulling faces next to it. (I wanted to put
something a lot ruder, but I thought explaining what
the words 'tosser' and 'fuckwit' meant was somewhat
inappropriate for a four-year-old boy and a two-year-old
girl.) I then emailed the result to my old work buddy
Clive, but the email bounced back.

Broke the bad news to Sally when she got back. I
nearly didn't, as she looked drained, but worked on the
principle that there was no good time to tell her.

'What are we going to do?' she said.

'Well, we've got your income still. It's not as though
we're broke.'

'But we were hoping that your consultancy would
bring in enough to cover some school fees.'

'I know, I know,' I said, 'and I'll find some more
consultancy work.'

An arched Sally eyebrow appeared over a bloodshot
eye.

'Really?'

'Really. Honestly, it'll be fine.'

'Oh God, please don't say "it'll be fine".'

'But it will be, I mean it.'

'You always say that as well.'

We stood in silence until Sally turned and opened the
fridge. A small jug of off cream fell out and smashed on
to the floor, severely splattering her shoes, which I
immediately noticed were suede. I watched Sally's
shoulders slump. Normally, she would have had a bit of
a fit – I'm pretty sure these are currently (or were) her
most favoured footwear – but instead she just turned
round with a resigned expression and slipped the shoes
off, examined them, and then put them in the bin.

'But, but,' I stammered. 'They'll be fine, won't they?'

Sally shook her head and returned to the fridge.

'Is there anything to actually eat in here?'

'Plenty,' I said.

She withdrew a rubbery leek.

'Well, not that, obviously.'

Next came a bowl with something slightly blue in it.
God knows what it was, but it followed the shoes, along
with several other foodstuffs that were either past their
sell-by dates, too colourful or not colourful enough.

'What were you planning to cook us this evening?'

I picked up the phone.

'Fancy a takeaway?' I asked boyishly. 'Chinese? Curry?
Pizza?'

'I think I'm going to have a bath and go to bed.'

Sunday 6 January

In the end, the weekend wasn't too bad. We had Nigel
and Clare round for lunch today, and even though we
barely spoke to each other as we attempted to feed and
police the five children, it was good to see old friends,
and really great to see that the children got on so well.
Both Peter and Daisy, barring the odd minor tantrum,
were the perfect little hosts, and shared all their toys,
which was nothing short of a miracle.

What wasn't so great was the news that Nigel has been
promoted, which now means they can send their bunch
to the oh-so-swanky private primary school, and they're
also looking to buy a new house. Naturally, I pretended
to be delighted for him, but if I'm being honest, I can
only be genuinely happy at friends' success if I'm also
doing well. Is this just me? I don't think so. Surely it's
human nature. At least I hope it is. However, I think I've
got a bit too much of whatever it is, as I find my heart
also leaps when I hear that a friend has failed. I suspect
this makes me a very bad person, but I hope not.

In truth, I want my friends and I all to be equally rich
and successful. This evening I told Sally that if I won £5
million on the lottery, I'd give each of our good friends
£250,000 so they wouldn't feel so jealous.

'But you should be giving them that money because
you were generous and wanted to share your luck,' she
said.

'Not at all,' I replied. 'I'd be giving them the money
as a sort of bribe to stop them hating me.'

'But that's awful.'

'I don't think so. Besides, I doubt they'd worry about
my motive. I wouldn't if someone gave me a quarter of
a million quid.'

'Do all men think like this?'

'Yes,' I said confidently. 'It's a nasty place inside the
male head.'

Sally grimaced.

'Charming,' she said. 'So basically you think that men
hate all men richer than them?'

'Yup.'

'And you only really like the ones who are poorer
than you?'

I thought about this.

'Um, yes.'

'In that case,' she said, 'you'd better start looking for
some new friends.'

Sally's logic was unpalatably brutal. I am easily the
poorest of my friends, but the whole point of me
becoming a househusband was that such things didn't
matter. However, they still do. I wish I could just find
some sort of middle ground between being Total New
Dad and Incredibly Rich Dad. The only ground I'm in
is some sort of swamp. I feel like sending Sir Roger one
of the crappy postcards of the local church and writing
'Wish You Were Here' on it, with an arrow pointing to
the graveyard.

Just before I came up, Sally reminded me that we
have dinner with her sister Victoria next Friday. This is
fine, as Victoria is a lot poorer than us, so I like her
immensely despite her pothead vocab. Her boyfriend
Rick is some sort of 'landscape designer', who is indeed
extremely poor, so I think he may have to become my
new best friend.

Tuesday 8 January

Whatever is happening in Ktyteklhdfistan is getting
worse. Not that I can possibly know what is actually happening
there, because places like Ktyteklhdfistan never
appear on the news. (I doubt that they ever did.) However,
what I do know is that Sally is working increasingly
late, and when she gets home, she bashes away furiously
on her laptop. She seems muted and distant. I've never
known her like this. She also looks somewhat tired, and
I even thought I spotted a grey hair in amongst her
normally shampoo-advert-like long brown tresses.

When I ask her what the matter is, all she can say is
that things in Ktyteklhdfistan are pretty bad and there's
a lot to sort out. She can't be more specific, which is
infuriating.

'Surely you can tell me something?' I asked this
evening.

She shook her head as she drained her third glass of
wine. (Another worrying development – she's beginning
to drink as much as me.)

'Not even a little bit?'

'Nope.'

'Is the world going to end? Have they got nukes?'

Worryingly, Sally paused.

'Put it this way,' she sighed. 'The country is a fucking
mess. That's about the politest way I can put it.'

(Oh dear. Swearing like me as well.)

I felt a little helpless. After all, there was not a lot I
could say or do.

'I know,' I said eventually.

'What?'

'Perhaps they need some management consultants.'

Sally looked at me, wide-eyed.

'Are you being serious?'

'Of course not!' I lied.

Thursday 10 January

I'm ruing my latest 'it'll be fine'. There is no
consultancy work out there, not even for me, the great
whistleblower who saved Sir Roger's august firm of
Musker Walsh and Sloss (Consultants) Ltd. I am feeling
increasingly bitter about this, perhaps more so than
when I lost my job.

I'm also feeling a bit guilty that I've taken this out on
Peter and Daisy. After picking up Peter from school and
Daisy from playgroup, the rest of the day was a bit of a
washout. Literally, because it was raining, and
metaphorically because everything I attempted to do
with them felt half-hearted. They picked up on my
mood immediately, and as a result, they were bolshy.
Example: painting. Normally they love painting, but
today they showed a marked reluctance.

'Painting's boring,' said Peter after I had plonked the
paints and brushes bad-temperedly down in front of
him on the kitchen table.

'But you like painting.'

'No I don't.'

Peter's reluctance was copied by Daisy, who shook
her head and went 'no' each time I tried to put a
paintbrush in her hand. Normally she is good for a
squiggle or two, but today she just flung the paintbrush
to the floor. I then told her this was naughty, and she
burst into tears.

'Mummy!' she kept crying.

'Mummy's at work,' I shouted.

'I want my mummy!' started Peter.

Gritted teeth.

'Mummy is not here,' I said slowly.

Cue large shouting match which saw me leave them
alone in the kitchen while I read the paper in the
living room. Or rather, I pretended to read the paper
as all I could concentrate on was the ceaseless
bellyaching.

'Just get on and paint!' I shouted, knowing that this
would only infuriate them, but by now I was feeling
bloody-minded.

'Mummy!'

'I don't want to do painting!'

'Mummy!'

And so on. All because I had started them off badly.
It was my fault, I knew it, but I find it impossible to
hide my mood from them. Perhaps I should be more
professional, and not take my problems to 'work', but
they should realise that Daddy is human as well, even
if not a particularly brilliant one. Later, partly out of
guilt, but more because I actually wanted to, I gave
them both some huge cuddles on the sofa, and order
was restored.

My whole life is stretching in front of me, and from
here it looks like something Daisy would have painted
had she been willing – a bloody mess, a meaningless
bunch of squiggles and splodges that add up to very
little, but something which other people must be
polite about. I'll be able to see it in my friends' eyes,
the same look that I give Daisy and Peter when I
admire their artwork. And there'll be the same words
as well – the over enthusiastic 'well dones' and 'good
for yous'. But the big difference between the children
and me is that they're proud of what they do. I just
pretend to be.

Oh God. This is all getting self-pitying and revolting.
Dinner at Victoria's tomorrow night – there had better
not be any rich people there.

Sunday 13 January

Dinner at Victoria's was so much better than I expected.
So so much better. In fact, potentially life-changing. I
must do my best not to get too excited. But I can't help
it, and I doubt anybody would be able to keep calm in
my circumstances. I've gone from the equivalent of
nul
points
to the cusp of Eurovision greatness in just a few
days, and if this thing pays off, boy will it pay off.

Anyway, to begin at the beginning. The assembled
looked pretty much as I had feared – absurd facial hair,
clothes too young for the bodies therein – but there was
one of them towards whom I immediately gravitated.
Despite having those standard 'I'm alternative, me'
rectangular glasses, and an inexcusable ponytail (I
really thought ponytails had been collectively shorn in
about 1997), he looked a little more bright-eyed and
less stoned than the rest of Victoria's friends.

It turned out he was called Dom Simons, and he was
a TV producer. (I should have guessed.) Normally, I
have little time for people in the media. Most of them
are full of crap, and think they know exactly how the
world works with their glib categorisations and zeitgeisty
spiel, and sure enough, Dom seemed no exception.
Also, like most media people, he believed that his voice
was the only one worth listening to, and he spent the
first ten minutes telling me all about himself. Still, he
was entertaining enough, and beneath the self-puffery
there seemed to beat the heart of a genuinely
intelligent and interesting bloke.

Eventually, he asked me what I did. I'm always
tempted to lie at this point, because saying 'I'm a househusband'
sounds so wet. In fact, I've practised saying it
so many times, I feel like an actor who's been asked to
play James Bond, and is hung up on how to say, 'The
name's Bond, James Bond.' I've tried saying it in a sort
of macho way, but that just sounds pathetic. On this
occasion, I just kind of blurted out:

'ActuallyI'mahousehusband.'

'What was that?'

'A househusband. You know, I stay at home and look
after the children.'

Dom's eyes bulged roundly behind his rectangular
frames.

'Wow,' he said. 'That's awesome.'

'Awesome? Well, if you think nappies are awesome,
think again.'

Dom's glasses slipped down his nose a little. He
looked genuinely 100 per cent surprised.

'How . . . but how . . . how did it happen? I mean did
you choose to do this? Or what?'

'Well it's quite simple. I got sacked. And then my wife
decided that she would go back to work, because her
job was more interesting, and she thought in these days
of sexual equality there was no reason why she
shouldn't be the breadwinner.'

I was aware, even as I was saying all this, that I had
said it a thousand times before.

Another wow from Dominic, and then: 'So what did
you do before then?'

This is getting increasingly common. When I tell
most blokes that I'm a househusband, they find it so
beyond their ken that they then ask what I used to do.

'I was a management consultant.'

'OK,' said Dom, manfully struggling to work out what
to say next. 'And, um, how did you find that?' he asked.

'To tell the truth I enjoyed it.'

'D'you miss it?'

I chewed this over along with a stale crisp. Victoria's
crisps are always stale. Why is that?

'I miss the office life,' I said. 'I don't miss the politics.
I suppose what I miss most of all is making some sort of
professional impact. You know, with management
consultancy, you're actually going to a firm, and within
a few weeks you've made them more profitable, and
you've really made a huge difference.'

'I thought you lot just sacked people.'

I waggled my finger in a vaguely schoolmasterly way.

'Aha! A common misconception,' I replied playfully,
although in truth I was a little narked. It's so unfair that
everybody thinks that management consultants just sack
people in order to make companies look profitable.
When we went to some big insurance firm down in
Poole, I remember recommending that they should
actually employ more people. I told all this to Dom, who
seemed to take it on board. Well, he sorted of nodded
a bit, before asking me whether I still kept my hand in.

'I do a bit of consultancy from time to time,' I said
sheepishly. 'Good for staying in the loop, that sort of
thing.'

More absent-minded nodding. I could tell that I was
beginning to bore him. (This is something else that
seems to be happening more often. Either I really have
got more boring, or I have always been boring, and am
now far more sensitive.) My next conversational gambit
was therefore born out of desperation.

'But you know what?' I asked. 'I think I'd make the
subject of a great TV programme.'

This time Dom's eyes popped open so widely that
they actually went beyond his frames, making it look as
though he had two Tube logos stuck on his face.

'You?' he spluttered on his mulled wine.

'Why not? You know, a real-life documentary of a
househusband. The trials and tribulations of an
ordinary bloke stuck in a woman's job.'

More bulging. It was hardly surprising – the idea was
not exactly well thought out, and had only been voiced
in order to make conversation.

'Well, it's, um, very
interesting
,' said Dom.

'You think so?'

'Yesssss,' he said convincingly. 'But I think it needs
another element, you know, a celebrity or something.'

A celebrity. Why did it always have to be a celebrity?
What right do celebrities have to lecture us? The other
night I caught the end of some female comedian
presenting a programme on the British Empire. What
did she know about it? Precisely nothing. About as
much as my old history tutor knows about situation
comedy. In fact, probably less than that. And then, in
the midst of my seethe about celebs, a brainwave.

'Why not a programme about me trying to bring up
my children according to the techniques of management
consultancy?'

'What?'

Excitedly, I told Dom all about the Holden Childcare
Programme, and how I had attempted to raise Daisy
and Peter using it.

'Did it work?' Dom asked.

'Er, no,' I admitted sheepishly. 'So perhaps the idea
isn't really a flyer after all.'

'Well, that doesn't technically matter,' said Dom.

'What doesn't?'

'Whether it worked or not.'

'Why not?'

'Well, truth should never get in the way of good
factual entertainment.'

Now it was the turn of my eyes to bulge.

'I thought that only applied to travel writing.'

Dom laughed a little.

'You know all those makeover programmes?'

'Sort of.'

(I didn't want to admit that I knew them a little too
well. They're on when I cook dinner.)

'The ones in which they make a new you, or a new
house, all that crap.'

'Yes, I know.'

'Well, they're a load of shit.'

'Really?'

'Yup, completely made up.'

'How can you be so sure?' I asked.

'I make the bloody things.'

My turn to splutter on mulled wine.

'Really?'

'Yup.'

Dom then gave me a list of the programmes he had
made, most of which I had either heard of, or had
indeed watched.

'Remember the one where that old bag had a tummy
tuck?'

'Sure,' I replied. 'That was incredible – she looked so
much better.'

'Well, she refused to have the surgery.'

'But I thought I saw her being operated on.'

'Stock footage.'

'But she
looked
thinner. I mean, her tummy had
disappeared.'

'We just Photoshopped it out.'

'You can do that?'

Dom smiled, perhaps a little smugly.

'We can do
anything
.'

'But isn't that just, well, you know,
lying
?' I asked.

'I guess so. But we're giving the punters what they
want.'

I was shocked. And I also felt a little naïve.

'But don't the participants complain?' I asked.

'No,' said Dom, adjusting his glasses. 'We make them
sign non-disclosure agreements, so if they moan, we sue
the fuck off them.'

Christ, I thought, the man was amoral. He would
have made a great management consultant. Before I
could say anything, Dom continued.

'So that's why it doesn't matter whether your management
consultancy childcare works or not.'

Dom emptied his glass and then smiled a little.

'I'm warming to the idea, you know,' he said.

'Well, I was only joking, I mean, I wasn't seriously
suggesting . . .'

'No, I think it's got some mileage. "Business" is sexy
at the moment, and I like the way this combines that
with home life.'

'You do?'

Dom paused.

'I've got it!' he said. 'We get you to go around and
management-consult problem children. You know, in
you go with your "sound business practices" and pie
charts and what have you, and by the end of the week
the children are good as gold and eat their greens etc.'

Now I was warming to the idea.

'We could call it something like
Wonderhubby
,' I said.

Dom laughed and then invited me to give him five,
which I did, somewhat awkwardly, as I am the least
'street' person you could meet, with the exception of
Dom.

'
Wonderhubby
! I like it!'

'Thanks,' I said. In fact, I rather liked it as well.

The one person who didn't like it AT ALL was Sally. I
told her about my conversation with Dom in the car on
the way home, and she was dismissive.

'Yes darling, I can quite see you as a TV superstar.'

The sarcasm tore through my drunken gaiety.

'I know you think it's just a silly idea,' I said, 'but
honestly, Dom's serious. He's asked me to give him a
bell on Monday to arrange a meeting.'

'You are joking.'

'Not at all.'

Sally half-sighed, half-yawned.

'I know what you're thinking,' she said. 'You're
thinking that in a year's time you'll have made zillions
of pounds, and you'll be enjoying worldwide fame, and
then I can give up work and then we can live happily
ever after off the proceeds of your lucrative TV career.'

'Exactly,' I said, determined that being unashamedly
optimistic was the best policy. 'Just you wait.'

'Oh I will.'

I wish Sally wasn't quite so negative about my ideas. I
admit, not all of them come to something, but when
they do, they work out really well. I can't be bothered to
list them all right now, but there are plenty.