Read Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband Online
Authors: Sam Holden
'Is there a difference?' I asked, slightly too
aggressively.
'A huge amount,' said the Emmas. In unison. No
kidding.
'Anyway,' said Dom, folding his arms. 'Tell us all
about
Wonderhubby
. It's caused quite a stir, I can tell
you.'
The Emmas nodded. Bollocks, I thought.
'Really?' I went.
'Really.'
I coughed. I strained my ears, listening for any
nonsense coming from Dom's office, but at this stage,
the TV was still working its magic. Oh, how I love the
television. The best invention ever. If the stuff on it was
any better, I'd be happy to leave them in front of it all
day.
'Well, if it's OK with you,' I began, 'I'd like to give you
a small presentation, outlining how I see the project,
and its core aims and targets, and then fleshing out its
narrative.'
The Emmas let out a slight giggle.
'What's the matter?' I asked.
'Nothing.'
'Um,' went Dom, slightly hesitant, 'you don't need to,
er, talk like a management consultant to us. Save it for
the programme.'
'Oh,' I said, unaware that I was in full consultant
mode. The thing was, it was all coming back far too
easily, all those 'bullshit bingo' words and phrases that
to management consultants are meat and drink, or
rather carnivorous consumable and digestible fluid.
'No problem,' I continued, a little unsure of what to
say next. Try and talk like a human being, I said to
myself, which would be hard when I considered what
was coming on the next slide.
I clicked the mouse. Up it came. A whole load of crap
that I had written the day before. This one was
headlined 'Aims', and featured a load of bullet-pointed
sub-headings.
I took a deep breath. Would they go for it, I
wondered? What were they thinking? The faces of Dom
and the Emmas told me all I needed to know. Their lips
were all sort of puffed out, trying to contain 'church
laugh'.
'I know you think this is funny,' I said, 'But I assure
you this is all workaday stuff for us management
consultants.'
'Gosh,' said Development Emma.
'OK,' said Acquisition Emma.
'Keep going,' said Dom, 'I love it.'
'You do?'
'I think it's great. It's the type of bullsh— I mean, the
type of approach that will make the programme, um,
fresh and entertaining.'
'You think so?'
'Oh yes.'
Encouraged, I continued. I spoke in general terms
for the first five minutes, outlining how successful I had
been in adapting my skills as a consultant to the home,
and how it had reaped such enormous rewards in terms
of the children's behaviour and their development. I
just had to hope that the frequent raised eyebrows were
signs of encouragement rather than of cynicism.
'My approach,' I said, 'will be in four stages. First,
qualitative and quantitative evaluation. I will enter into
the clients' homes, and establish where the problems
lie. Secondly, I shall process-consult them, and draw up
a framework in which we can go forward together. The
third stage will be rollout-stroke-implementation, and
this will clearly be the crux of the programme. The
fourth and final stage will be appraisal and reevaluation,
in which we employ some of the same
functions in stage one in order to establish quantitative
and qualitative performance differentials . . .'
Dom cleared his throat.
'Yes?' I asked.
'Um, doesn't this just, um . . .'
He was struggling to be polite.
'. . . um, mean that you're going to go there, tell them
what to do, and then leave, come back, and see how
they've done?'
I chewed over his words. I thought a bold response
was called for.
'Yes,' I said. 'In essence.'
'So all management consultancy really is, is telling
people what to do.'
More chewing.
'Not quite that simple.'
Now it was Acquisition Emma's turn to pipe up.
'What I don't get,' she said, 'is how this is different
from any of the other nanny-style remake programmes.'
I was ready for this.
'Aha, I'm glad you asked me this.'
'You are?'
'Yes. Because there's an enormous difference. Huge.
Massive. A gulf, even. As big as the Gulf of Finland.'
'Finland?'
'Yes. I went there for a stag weekend, and it's a very
big gulf. Very big indeed.'
'OK,' said Acquisition Emma, cautiously.
'A big difference,' I said.
'Which is?' asked Dom.
'Methodology. Implementation. Solution processes.'
'Can you be a little more precise?' asked
Development Emma.
'Of course,' I said.
A brief silence while I wracked my rusty brain. The
problem about being a househusband for so long is that
I'm sure part of my brain has gone numb, atrophied.
'I shall be using all the techniques of management
consultancy in the home, and that's the crucial
difference.'
'But what techniques are they exactly?' asked Dom. 'I
mean, what if a child is not eating his food? What would
be the management-consultant approach as opposed to
the normal approach?'
I briefly thought back to the water debacle with Daisy,
and tried to expunge it from my mind.
'Well,' I started, 'as one would do in a management
consultancy environment, we would seek to establish
the cause for non-take-up. This could be for any
number of reasons – pricing, inadequate marketing,
little perceived need for the goods or service and so
on . . .'
'Sorry to interrupt,' interrupted Development
Emma. 'We are talking about food here.'
'I was coming to that,' I said, narrowing my eyes,
trying to look hard. She didn't look that intimidated, to
be honest.
'Anyway, I was saying, there could be any number of
reasons, so the first thing to do is to evaluate what they
might be, and then implement a range of solutions that
will facilitate a take-up of the goods or service – in this
case, say, baked beans. Is that clear?'
'Um . . .'
'Er . . .'
'But . . .'
'Good!' I said, clapping my hands together, 'I'm glad
you're still with me!'
For the next few minutes I worked my way through
the rest of the slides, talking as quickly as I could just in
case Peter and Daisy suddenly decided that watching TV
wasn't the best activity in the world. By the time I had
finished, Dom and the Emmas were sitting there
motionless. They must have been impressed.
'So, what do you think?' I asked.
'It's different,' said the Emmas, in unison again.
'That's the idea.'
Dom made a funny sort of frown.
'I'm still not clear on the tone of the programme,' he
said. 'I mean, would we play this for laughs, or would it
be deadly serious?'
'Deadly serious, I would have thought.'
'Hmmm.'
'I mean, these will be real children,' I said, 'real
families we will be dealing with. We can't just take the
piss.'
'Hmmm.'
Dom was being annoyingly non-committal with his
'hmmms'.
There was a knock on the door, and in walked a
somewhat frazzled-looking middle-aged woman who
had the air 'sensible person' sprayed all over her. She
looked at me with an expression of dread on her face.
'Er, Sam?'
'Yes.'
'Your children, they're um, well, you'd better come
and see.'
I raced out the door, trying to look calm. What had
they done? Vandalised the office? Urinated against
Dom's desk? Puked on the carpet? Scribbled on the
walls?
The answer was all of the above. I noticed the puke
first, then the graffiti, followed by the pee, before my
eyes rested on a lamp that had fallen over 'all by itself
Daddy' and smashed into the enormous billion-pound
flatscreen.
I didn't know where to begin. I thought about
scooping them up and running out the door, but that
was clearly not an option. Behind me, the Emmas
gasped and Dom let out a dry chuckle.
'You know what I think,' he said. 'We should
definitely make a programme.'
I turned round.
'You're joking,' I said, looking into his eyes to gauge
some sort of irony.
'No,' he replied sincerely. 'I think TV is ready for the
Holden Children Programme.'
'Well, not your TV,' I said, my somewhat feeble
witticism masking my discombobulation. Did he
REALLY want to make
Wonderhubby
?
To tell the truth, on the journey home (predictably
hellish) I grew even more confused. I couldn't work out
whether Dom was taking the piss, and whether I was
going to be one of those people who was abused by the
TV, misrepresented, etc. But as soon as I think about
the potential dosh (minus the cost of one expensive
television) all those thoughts are dispelled.
Will discuss with Sally over the weekend. I think I
know what she'll think.
Sunday 3 February
My suspicions were right. Sally thinks it's a crap idea. It
was clear she didn't really want to talk about it, so I
dropped the subject, which I thought was rather mature
of me, or perhaps indicated that we've now been
married long enough to know what's worth discussing,
and what's not.
Monday 4 February
Email from Dom, outlining the structure of the show –
pretty much as I had explained, so some of my
presentation must have gone in. It appears that he is
being genuine. I still can't quite believe his enthusiasm.
However, he wrote that just because they'd bought into
it, it didn't mean that the TV stations would. They
pitched hundreds of ideas per year, and only a handful
got made, so I wasn't to get my hopes up.
Still, I can't help but think of fame and fortune. I'm
doing my best to mask my excitement from Sally, not
least because she is having an even more crap time at
work. Every time she gets home, she seems even more
exhausted than she did the night before. This evening
she looked terrible (not so terrible as to look
unfanciable, but just really really tired).
As we ate supper, I asked her what the matter was.
She gave that familiar I-can't-tell-you sigh.
'I know it's all Top Secret,' I said as I carved into our
(perfectly cooked) lamb chops, 'but it seems as though
you're carrying the weight of the world on your
shoulders.'
At that, Sally's shoulders literally fell, and she sighed
again.
'Is everybody at work like you?' I asked.
'How do you mean?'
'You know – tired.'
'Pretty much. But more just us in Central Asia.'
'I know you don't want to tell me, but I can only
assume that something nasty's brewing, and I'll also
assume that it's terrorists with dirty bombs or nukes or
something and that you're doing your best to stop it.
And I know this sounds silly, but it really does seem to
be getting you down, getting you down to the extent
that you almost seem depressed.'
Sally shook her head as she put down her knife and
fork. The lamb chop – again, I must stress, perfectly
cooked – remained largely untouched.
'I don't think I'm depressed,' she argued. 'But it is
very stressful. I obviously can't say whether you're right
or not, but if we fuck things up, then a lot of people
could get hurt in a very nasty way. And it's up to us and
the Americans to stop it all happening. And part of the
problem is that the Americans think we've fucked up,
and we think they've fucked up, and so there's a lot of
crap flying around between us, crap that's getting in the
way of us doing our fucking jobs and stopping what it is
we're trying to stop.'
I'd never heard Sally so uncouth. I rather liked it.
'And is your neck on the line if it all goes wrong?'
I briefly marvelled at my mixed metaphor.
'In a way, it doesn't matter about my neck,' she
replied. 'Small beer compared to what would have
happened if things had got to the stage where my neck
was for the chop.'
'How much longer is this going to go on for?'
'I have no idea,' she said.
She got up, went to the fridge, and extracted a bottle
of Chablis.
'How long is a piece of string, huh?' I asked.
'Exactly.'
She rummaged around the drawer for the corkscrew
and then proceeded to cut the foil around the top of
the bottle. I watched her, inwardly remarking that it was
always me who opened wine, probably because I'm
more of a dipso. Sally's lack of practice soon became
evident.
'Here,' I said, 'let me do it.'
'I can bloody do it myself,' she snapped.
'OK, OK.'
She couldn't, because the cork broke in half as she
half-wrenched, half-twisted it out the bottle.
'Fuck!'
'It doesn't matter,' I said, 'it's perfectly salvageable.'
She handed the bottle to me.
'You see,' she said, 'I'm shit at everything.'
'That's not true. You can't extrapolate any supposed
inadequacies from the dodgy cork on a bottle of
Chablis.'
'It's symbolic.'
'No it's not,' I insisted. 'You'll be believing in
astrology next.'
'Perhaps I should,' she said, and then a smile crossed
her face. In a few seconds, the evening newspaper had
been extracted from her handbag and she was flicking
through for the horoscopes.
'Here we go,' she said. 'Taurus. That's me. "Although
you have been having some work troubles recently, the
rise of Saturn in your constellation will mean they will
soon come to an end. In the meantime, you must
ensure that you keep a calm head, and show others that
your strong will and determination can see you through
bad times as well as good." '
Sally looked up, triumphantly.
'Wow,' I went. 'Pretty accurate for a load of dross.'
'I'll say. Perhaps there's something in it after all.'
I snorted.
'All right,' said Sally, 'let's read Leo then.'
I sighed. I HATE astrology, hate the infantile
moronic illogical turdy basis of it all, despise the very
notion that if the moon can have an effect on the sea,
then it's not unreasonable to think that the planets and
stars might have some effect on us humans, as aren't we
90 per cent made of water blah blah. Honestly, what a
load of crap. Listen people, the moon has an effect on
tides because of the changes in its gravitational pull on
the earth's surface. There's no possible way that the
stars can affect the human body in the same – or any –
way.
'Leo,' Sally began. '"This is a time for going ahead
with new projects. The Moon in Uranus [I think that's
what she said] means a time of great creation and
productivity. Now would be a great opportunity to take
a risk and just go for it. With the right drive and energy,
you have a great chance of succeeding." '
'Aha,' I went. 'This augurs well for
Wonderhubby
.'
'Oh God,' said Sally. 'Not that.'
'Look,' I said, triumphantly tapping the newspaper
with my fork, 'it's in the stars.'
'But I thought you thought this was all bollocks.'
'Nope,' I said. 'I think it's brilliant.'
And, much to my later disgust, I realised that I wasn't
being entirely sarcastic.