Whatever next?

“So is Raphael straight or gay? I don’t get it. He’s lusted over everyone so far. Anyone got any views on this?”

To which I answered:

“It’s possible to fancy both men and women you know. Welcome to the 21st Century.”

“But in a romantic novel? I’ve never heard of a bi romantic lead?”

I was still composing my response when someone else suddenly chimed in.

“I like it. Give it a chance. It’s traditional that you don’t know whether the hero and heroine get it together at the end. This version is even more tantalising.”

They’re very articulate, the members of the Chapter by Chapter online community. I wonder why I haven’t considered writing like this before. When you know you have someone actually waiting for the next instalment, you like to surprise.

Then someone called JaneyBee chipped in: “Loving Harriet! She’s so proper and English and old-fashioned and such a contrast to Raphael. Two worlds colliding. Am I right?”

I couldn’t resist diving back in. (It’s all going to go wrong anyway. You and I both know that.)

“I’m so glad you like Harriet. I love her. She’s so good and moral and decent. I wanted to create someone who was genuinely, thoroughly likeable. Someone we can all get behind.”

“Are there really people as decent as Harriet in this world?” asked JaneyBee.

“God yeah!” I told her. “There really, really are.”


Kate Knorr-Windlass, the junior partner in the tax department, looking sweet and unaffected in a plain grey suit and red, polka dot silk scarf, came over to my desk and leant down so that her left cheek was almost flat against my right.

“We all think you’re a wonderful asset,” she told me, and she sounded thrilled to tell me so.

My heart was bursting. It meant so much from someone like her.

“Thanks very much,” I said.

“I’ve recommended you for a bonus.”

“That’s… that’s very kind. Wow.”

Her perfume was rather headier than I’d expected from such a sensible, down-to-earth kind of girl, rather sultry, far too much jasmine in it. It made my nose run.

She turned herself round so that she could face me and gave me a swift but huge and maternal hug.

“Excellent,” she said.

“Thanks,” I told her.

She didn’t move.

“Great, thanks,” I said, waiting. “Was there anything I could do for you?”

“Since you’re asking,” she said at once, before I’d even ended the ‘oo’ of ‘you’. “There is a job you could do for me and right now please.”

I watched the fascinating transformation of her expression. She didn’t seem so maternal any more.

“Fire away,” I said.

She was writing something on the pad beside my phone.

“Here’s the number for my partner Geoff’s work place. Ring him up right now and tell him that I’ve been called away urgently to finalise a deal abroad and can’t come home tonight. Then call him from your home tomorrow and tell him that you’ve just heard that my flight has been delayed and that I’m staying on an extra day.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” I said.

“So? You can call from home can’t you?”

“But can’t you call him and tell him?”

“No I can’t. I want you to do it. You want that bonus, don’t you? Then the odd bit of work at the weekends is worth it.”

“I’d rather not have the bonus,” I told her.

“Yeah, right. Like someone in your position would turn down some cash. It’s not like you have much else going for you. I heard you live with your mother.”

“What do I tell him when he asks why you can’t call him?”

“Earn your bonus,” she said with crisp authority and was off.


The impossibly good Harriet is about to show her true colours.



Tax Affairs

My new boss is about six foot two, steel grey of hair, as finickity as a Dickensian clerk but in fact American and called Cortez Baignton. Isn’t that great? Cortez!

This morning he said to me:

“You in brown again? Didn’t anyone tell you the seventies are so OV-ER?”

“I like brown actually,” I told him (we get on ever so well). “It’s very forgiving with my skin tone.”

“Not on any chart I’m looking at, sister.”

He handles the tax affairs of immensely wealthy clients. I wonder if he comments on their colour choices, too. I wonder a lot about him during the day. He’s one of those people that gets on with absolutely everybody (the polar opposite of me, in other words). I think he may bat for both sides, what’s more.

I’m also beginning to think that he and one of the other partners in the department, a Kate Knorr-Windlass, are a little sweet on each other. She’s the only other solicitor in the whole place with whom he’s tongue-tied and awkward. (There’s a partner in property called Carmen Boynton who would be a much better match in name terms but love doesn’t work like that, does it.)

Both are married or at least in relationships their partners must assume are safely permanent. When they are in the same room, Cortez is very gallant and old-fashioned and asks her if she wants to sit down or bids me fetch coffee for her whether she wants it or not. Her eyes glow in his presence and she grins a lot at anyone who’ll receive it.

“It’s a sordid little office romance,” my colleague Amanda told me this lunchtime.

“Oh no!” I protested. “I’m sure that nothing has happened between them. It’s probably all so chaste. Why should that be sordid?”

“Office romances always are,” she huffed.

“Maybe no one will get hurt,” I tried. You see I’m very fond of Cortez already. He’s the only reason I’m sticking to this awful bloody job. He can do no wrong.

But all the way home I couldn’t get him and Kate Knorr-Windlass out of my mind, the innocence of all that shyness, the fun of it, the wonderful risk of utter disaster. That’s a spectator sport if ever there was one and it’s free! But also I thought: what if an office fling was presented as a huge romance? What if it was soaring rather than sordid?

Wouldn’t that be funny.

I sat down after dinner in the new-found silence of my home and clicked on to a site called Chapter by Chapter. I’ve never written like this before – for an immediate audience. It’s just not me. But then I wasn’t going to be me. I was going to be Danby Houghton (Male? Female? Who knows?) and I was going to set out the opening chapter of A Sordid Little Office Romance.



John is gone.


And just like that everything changes.


Four days after Christmas, John came up to me, his lovely little face dark with confusion.

“What does my mum look like again?” he asked, evidently struggling.

I answered before I gave myself time to think.


I shouldn’t have said that, though it did seem to end some doubts.

“Oh in that case, she’s been standing on the other side of the road for days.”

I rushed to the living room window and there indeed stood Justine, underdressed and quivering in a transparent raincoat over a purple velvet tunic. She was wearing those squashed caveman boots that are everywhere and a fair isle woollen hat with a bobble as big as her head.

She had come for her son, it turned out, and I called Peony down from her room for support as I made Justine repeat her garbled monologue about needing to start again as a mother and give it her all this time.

Peony took me aside and told me: “We have no choice, Mum. I’m only his guardian if she’s not capable and even then with her permission.”

“But his education? His life here with us? Me? What about me?”

She simply hugged me in answer and we packed his bags and said goodbye.

“For now,” I emphasised as I zipped up his jacket. “It’s goodbye for now. Remember that.”

He nodded solemnly and reached up for his mother’s claw…hand, sorry, hand.




Peony went with him to ease the shock of the change. She’s much wiser and certainly more caring than we give her credit for, my dear good girl. She has kept me posted on how things are working out – relatively well – and is there for him when he comes back each day from his new school. (I knew some good would come out of her constant state of unemployment.) Justine’s parents are once more bankrolling their daughter’s whims.

So I was left to mourn. Mother was quiet and tactful, bereft herself. Laurence was solicitous, calling round all the time to take me out to dinner and I went at first but then we both got bored with comfort eating and that stopped.

And then about two weeks ago the phone rang and it was Amanda Asquith. We used to work together.

“I know you got a redundancy package and everything but there’s been a sudden up-turn in work and it’s your old department and they wondered if you would come back, part-time and everything. Would you be interest… and everything?”

“Yes,” I said.

Just like that, as quick as smacking a mole with a mallet. Yes.

Never mind that when I left I left for good, that I said I’d never go back, that I told myself it was time to call myself a writer, a proper writer, and not a part-time anything.

“There are two new partners. One’s an American. He’s a man. And the other one’s a woman. Oh and that man one is American. Did I say that?

Can I work with Amanda again? Can I work at all – running around after a bunch of lawyers, picking up their pieces, sorting out their days?

Well we’ll soon find out. I start tomorrow.



The Venerable Mother.

A parsnip yesterday.

A parsnip yesterday.

The dentist yesterday morning patched up my threadbare molar and declared that the tooth was unlikely to last long.

“But it might see you through until… well… the end, as it were.”

“You appear to be telling me that I don’t have long to live,” I observed. “Funny, but I always expected to hear that from a doctor.”

“Oh don’t be like that,” she squealed as she hit me on the collar bone with her dental mirror. “We’re none of us getting any younger.”

“You can’t be more than twelve,” I told her.

“Oh just a little more,” she demurred, a tiny, twinkling crystal visible on a front tooth.


My mouth was a dripping tap of drool as I walked home and so I took the long route to avoid coming across someone I might know. The day was oppressively dark and layers of damp leaves slid apart under my feet as I walked. Of course it’s when you try to avoid people that they so maliciously appear and so there was Alfons, sitting on a bench, frowning at his phone.

He looked up just as I thought I’d made it past unseen.

“Dentist, is he?” he asked and I nodded, tissues still held to my jaw.

“Come and sit by me, old friend,” he said preposterously. He was clearly in a preposterous mood. “No, you’re no old friend. You are more like a mother to me. May I call you Mama?”

I couldn’t tear the tissue clump away fast enough.

“No, of course you bloody can’t,” I spat.

“You have spirit, isn’t she,” he exclaimed and he chatted a while about how mothers were the backbone of society and that we should venerate them. I cut him short when he got onto the “breasts that sag with the weight of so many children and lovers”.

“Why aren’t you at work?” I wanted to know.

“My writing life is over,” he announced, just like that, flatly and with no apparent sense of loss.

“What? What about Julius Pettigrain and Plankton and all the rest of it?”

“Oh don’t be coyful, please not,” he sighed. “You understand. Who reads us, the self-published? We are considered excrement. We are shunned.”

I couldn’t speak. I suddenly felt very low, trapped in a conversation I’d always dreaded.

He went on: “We struggle. We say we are independent. We say we don’t need nobody. We are artists. But maybe we are just all manure-makers.”

Oh where did that come from? A tear formed in the corner of my right eye. I raised the wad of spit-and-blood-soaked tissue and added the salt water to its foul contents.

There has to be some fight left. You want to survive. I needed to rise above him somehow, to crawl out of the manure.

“As a matter of interest, Alfons, how many books did you manage to sell?”


“Twelve hundred?”


“You wrote four of the bloody things.”

He didn’t seem quite as appalled as I did.

“I give it a good shooting,” he continued. “It is time to move me on.”

“On to what? What will you do?”

And without any inkling of humour anywhere about him, he informed me: “I am Nordic. I will go into crime-solving next.”


“I saw Alfons in the park today,” I told Peony later on. We were in the kitchen and I was trying to work myself up into boiling something. “He looks more and more like that chap holed up in the Ecuadorian Embassy. You know the one. Are you still sleeping with him?”

“On and off,” she said as she continued to scrape parsnip shavings directly onto the kitchen floor. “Why?”

“I’d just hate him to beget a child by you,” I told her. “Or indeed, you by him.”

She froze and her eyes widened with fear and guilt.

“Ah…,” she managed.

“Peony! Oh surely not.”

And of course she bellowed with laughter at the sight of me.

“Oh don’t be ridiculous, Ma!” she howled. “Look at your face. It’s boss! Of course there’ s been no begetting. We don’t do that kind of sex.”

“Well how many kinds of sex are there?” I called after her as she and the parsnip departed for the hall.

“Mum. Honestly. What are you like?”

Well how many?

I’m only like this because another birthday has been and gone. I look back at the past year and of course it is still fallow.

Fallow with a good sprinkling of manure.

There’s a book launch in there somewhere.

I don’t want to talk about it.

The holiday, I mean.

Too much of it was spent filling out insurance forms in surgeries while listening to Mother weeping about ma vie misérable to the doctor in the next room. Charlton was absent at these points, having told me he needed a break from caring for her. He must care for her a lot more than anyone knew, because we never saw him in two weeks.

Like I say, I don’t want to talk about it. Because despite all the awfulness, all the complaints about cold, heat, poisonous cheeses and suppositories, I kept hold of the words Lyre had used to soothe me just before I left.

“I know good things await you,” she had said. “How do you know?” I grumbled to myself every night as I lay awake listening to Mother’s high pitch whistle as she slept beside me. “You just said that to keep me going. How can you possibly predict good things? Eh? How?”

And yet there I was earlier today, putting the phone down from a most wonderful woman called Roberta who publishes – “well, it’s more like a beloved hobby than a business” – a select number of “little gems” and…well… this is what she said:

“It’s very funny, you see, your best-known book being called Mrs Tempest’s Marriage Bureau because my publishing business is called The Tempest Press and so I often accidentally came across your book but I only actually bothered reading it this weekend and oh my goodness but it’s a delight, a true delight.”

“Oh,” I said to her (I’m not good with compliments, never was, and could feel the defensive, negative stuff approaching). “It’s self-published you know. I thought everyone assumed self-published books were rubbish.”

“Oh far from it. Plenty are, of course. But there are some who labour away producing real quality and for whom independent publishing is just the thing. That’s what I do – discover the best of the independent market.

“I take pleasure in rootling out oddities and stuff that is outside the mainstream but still very good. I talk with the author and we either re-plublish or agree a marketing strategy. It’s all very tasteful and disastrously low key but there’s never any artistic compromise. Get that! In this industry. I’ve just published a fine little story called Your Most Avid Reader by Bibi Berki – crazy name! – have you read it?”

“No. But I will.”


And then, as though I’d handed her a script, she told me: “I’m all about great stories well told. Simple as that.”

“Me too! Me too! Oh that’s what I always say. What else is there?”

“A kindred spirit,” she said warmly. “I can’t promise you fame.”

“Don’t fancy fame much.”

“Bit vulgar and compromising, isn’t it.”

“I just want to have a point to what I’m doing.”

“Oh there’s point. Please reassure yourself there’s a point.”

And that’s possibly the kindest and best thing anyone has ever said to me.

So we agreed to talk a little more, over lunch, and I rang off with my heart beating at double speed. It’s not the prospect of recognition – not at all, far from it – it’s the lifting of the darkness of out there. There is someone out there.


And then this evening the phone rang again and when I answered, he said:

“I’m sorry.”

I couldn’t answer him. You see, Laurence’s naked ambition had seemed to eclipse what he felt for me and while I didn’t blame him for feeling that way, I was a little reluctant to put my head above the parapet once more.

He sheepishly filled the silence.

“I put my momentary flirtation with journalism above you. How could I have done that? It was a minute of madness. But you, you are what is above everything else. I must have hurt you terribly. I will never do that again.”

“They’re rejected you haven’t they.”

“Turns out I’m a better doctor than I am a writer.”

But I was feeling magnanimous. Poor sod. He must feel crushed. His writing career lasted about ten minutes.

“Fancy another go at going abroad?” he asked.

“Nah,” I said. “I’m done with abroad. How about a walk in the cemetery?”

You could hear the relief.

“Get the dog lead. I’m on my way.”

This is the last time. I mean it.

The cards remain in their pack.

The cards remain in their pack.

Connie is checking my pulse. Lyre has periodically leapt up from her chair to lay a hand against my brow. They are looking for signs of illness, fever, derangement.

We are in my garden, sitting around the little table where we normally play cards of a summer evening. The cards remain in their pack.

“It’s good for a person to have her dearest friends around her at a time like this,” I whimper.

Connie’s hand grips my wrist. I watch them exchange glances.

“I want you to remember me how I once was. Fit, healthy, easy-going, a lover of life, a woman with dreams and plans and ambitions. That’s still who I am essentially. Remember that. Underneath this horrendous weight, is a woman with a sunny disposish.”

Lyre talks like a woman in shock. “But how could this have happened? How did it sneak up on you?”

I can’t answer her because there is an enormous lump in my throat.

Sometimes our lives just take terrible turns for the worse.


All I’d said a week ago – and I’d said it to Peony by the by, while I was washing up and she was watching me doing it – was that I still had an open-ended car ferry ticket to France, given that Laurence was now busy with THREE commissions from newspapers and magazines, not to mention his rather relegated day job at the hospital.

“You wanna be careful who you say that kind of thing in front of, Ma,” she told me.

“Wha- ?” I looked up and heard, rather than saw, the scurrying of feet from the kitchen. Mother’s feet. We peered out of the window and saw her hurrying across the lawn to Charlton in the shed. She was skipping, as a matter of fact. And very possibly singing.

“Idiot,” said Peony.


And so here I am on the eve of a holiday with my mother and my brother, a prospect that filled me with despondency when it happened routinely in my childhood, let alone now in middle age. And that’s not even bearing in mind the hollowness I feel at being abandoned by a man I thought liked me but who would far rather knock out clichés about the future of the NHS than sign his name next to mine in the guest book of a little Brittany auberge.

What misery heaped on misery.

But my friends are here. That’s something isn’t it?

“You’ll see,” says Lyre in her caressing tone. “You’ll survive this ordeal and come back a stronger woman. Your luck will change, my dear, I promise you. I know good things await you. Your time will come.”

Connie is shaking her head tearfully.

“No human being should be asked to endure this amount of suffering.”

They are full of love and sympathy for me.

But their eyes say “idiot”.

A Short long weekend.

“Why did you come back, you fool?”

We were sitting in the queue to the ferry when the call came.

(It was a long queue and we were going nowhere, the French ferry staff too occupied with burning tyres on the other side to run any boats that day.)

Laurence nodded and grinned and said “of course, of course” over and again and then “tomorrow? Of course” and rang off.

He turned to me and his eyes burned.

The Times want me to write a piece for them about the future of the NHS. They want it by tomorrow.”

“But what about our long weekend in France?” I asked, though my voice didn’t rise in indignation. We both already knew that it wasn’t going to happen and it wasn’t just The Times’ fault. What was wrong with us? Why were we so flat and indifferent now that we were together with the prospect of escape? Was its impossibility always the attraction?

“This could be the start of something new for me,” he told me, peering left and right to see how he could extricate us from the queue.

I had thought this might have been the start of something new for me, too.

And so it wasn’t so much a sense of disappointment that percolated about inside that hot car on our way home, but rather a degree of fatalism on my part, cheery anticipation on his. Perhaps it was for the best, this near miss.

As he let me out of his car he leant across and said: “Would you check my article for me later? You’re the writer, after all.”

“If you want,” I said and he was gone before I could start my spiel about not liking to call myself a writer. Not really.


The contents of the shed were strewn across the garden and there was a lot of commotion coming from inside.

I stood in the middle of the lawn and called across: “Who’s in there? What’s going on?”

A window from the house behind me – my bedroom window – was hurled up and my mother leant out.

“Just hold on will you. I’m coming down to explain.”

Ken Tray was rubbing against my leg and looked up at me with commiseration.

“Why did you come back, you fool?” he seemed to be saying, his expression tragic even by his long-faced standards.

“What on earth are you doing back here, might I ask?” demanded Mother tetchily as she arrived at my side.

“Isn’t that my business?” I asked. “This is my home after all.”

“It’s very inconvenient,” she complained and clamped her lips together to show it.

“What is going on with my shed?”

“It’s not a shed any more. It’s Charlton’s new little house.”

Ken’s body quivered against my thigh. I jammed my fingers into my hair.

“His house? His little house, did you say?”

Mother shook her head in disgust.

“It’s alright for you. You’re already on the property ladder but it’s almost impossible for young people to get onto it these days. London is for the very rich and the very poor. What about the squeezed middle, the toiling young masses who have no prospects of home-ownership?”

“That’s twice you’ve called him young,” I said. “He’s nearly fifty. Does he toil? I’ve never seen any toiling. That’s my shed. I am about to cry, Mother, and I know you don’t think I have any feelings and you are rather repulsed by the idea that I might have some so I’ll go and do it in the peace of my own room.”

“Your room? So it’s your room now is it?”

I just focused on her narrowed, hostile eyes and waited.

So she went on: “That’s nice, I must say. You take the best room for yourself. I only ever get to enjoy it and its expansive views while you’re away and I’ve barely moved my things into it and suddenly you’re back and wresting it out of my hands again. Thank you. Thank you very much. And me with my plastic colon. I’ll just move in with your brother, shall I? Is that what you want?”

A tightness in my chest was growing more and more intense and it suddenly occurred to me that I might be lucky enough to be having a heart attack.

“You’ve got a perfectly good room of your own,” I muttered.

“Not good enough for you though, is it. Charlton! I’m coming with you. There’s plenty of room for both of us.”

From inside the shed the clattering stopped and a long low groan took its place.

Ken gravely walked over to the corner of the shed and eyed me solemnly while he emptied his bladder across it.


He’s written his article. I’ve seen it. It’s not half bad. He’s on his way to a new career he never even knew he wanted. That’s how these things go, I suppose.

It’s a party. In a street.


“I don’t exactly know why he’s done it,” I announced to the other residents of my house on Saturday morning at breakfast, “but Laurence has invited us all to his street party tomorrow.”

“What’s a street party?” asked Mother suspiciously.

“It’s a party. In a street. You know perfectly well what it is.”

“Why would anyone have a party in a street?”

“To pretend they like each other. To satisfy their curiosity about their neighbours. To get rid of surplus frozen spring rolls. I don’t know. Perhaps the people in his street genuinely get on.”

Peony scoffed. “Ugh. Grotesque.”

“I like Laurence,” said John.

“You haven’t met his family, or his neighbours,” I reminded him.

“I’ll be too ill tomorrow,” said Mother.

“If I’m making an effort then you’re making a bloody effort,” I said and I got up and left to prevent further prevarication.

And so we set off yesterday – a warm Sunday afternoon – and we drove all the way to his rather ornate neighbourhood, which is that much nearer to Town and, therefore, more expensive. He is a doctor, remember.

“What I hate about contemporary living,” Peony told me from the back of the car, “is bunting. If there’s any bunting I’ll come over all queer.”

“Brace yourself, then,” I warned her. “There will almost certainly be bunting.”

“What’s bunting?” asked Mother.

“You know what bloody bunting is. I know what you’re doing. You’re doing that thing when you pretend to be all weak and confused. You can cut it out now. There’s no way I’m going to feel more sorry for you than I do for myself so don’t waste your energy.”

“…dragging me to a party in the street,” she growled.

In the event, of course, we couldn’t park on the street because there was a party taking place on it so I slid several quid into a metre half a mile away and we trudged back in silence through the dust and racket of the busy avenues of this wealthy borough.

When Laurence noticed me it was like witnessing a prisoner being released from the rack. He couldn’t believe his luck. It was so touching.

I stood by his side and secretly brushed the back of my hand against the back of his. He smiled. John came and stood by his other side and got his hair ruffled in recognition. The place was buzzing and lively and knots of people stood or sat brazenly on the carless road, drinking Pimm’s. Swags of floral bunting had been strung across from opposing windows.

“Ah Peony, good to see you,” Laurence beamed and reached out a hand.

My daughter was scanning the street and was distracted.

“Do we have to pay for this?” she wanted to know.

“Excellent,” laughed Laurence. How sweet – he thought she was being witty.

“Where are we?” asked Mother, faintly. “I can’t see very well.”

Laurence glanced at me. “Is she alright?”

I brushed his hand once more. I was finding it easier to communicate that way.

And then suddenly there was Vanessa, his sister, advancing towards us, with a vast black cake on a platter. She was in what they call a maxi dress now but what used to be called a kaftan when I was a kid. Its fabric was a vivid jungle design. Her lips were frosted pink. I felt Peony’s hackles rise.

“Ah Imelda,” said Vanessa. To me apparently. “I must talk to you about the works of that genius Leon Bogrush. But first I’m about to cut the cake. I made it, by the by. Let’s all tuck in.”

“What is it?” asked Peony, not at all politely.

“It’s chocolate. Gluten-free chocolate cake.”

“Oh,” sniffed Peony. “I only eat gluten. In fact, I can’t get enough of it. I have to have it with every meal just to keep my levels up.”

Vanessa eyed her chillingly.

“Who’s Imelda?” asked John from my side.

Slowly I was beginning to consider letting myself enjoy things. This always happens. When my family’s behaviour goes way beyond my control, I seem to let go at last and watch the awfulness unfold as though it can’t touch me.

“What’s gluten?” asked Mother, not at all vaguely this time.

“Gluten,” said Vanessa, placing the cake on a garden table beside us, “is the scourge of the modern gut. Its consumption leads to a whole string of ailments, from lethargy to chronic bowel conditions. It’s a bloody ticking time bomb, is what it is!”

“Oh,” cried Mother. “That’s it. That’s what I’ve got. Too much gluten in my system. I can barely go on.”

“Thanks for that,” I murmured.

It was then that I noticed a tiny wisp of an elderly lady hidden behind Vanessa’s kaftan, as though she’d got attached somehow and been swept along. She had the sweetest smile and a gentle, frail light in her eyes. She emanated tenderness.

Laurence followed my gaze.

“My mother,” he said.

The sweetheart beckoned to me and I stepped away from our party and joined her by her side. I had to bend down to catch what she said and in fact didn’t hear her at first, so weak and refined was her tone.

“I’m sorry?” I said, charmed by her intoxicating manner.

She grasped my hand with her two. Her skin was worn smooth like veneer.

“I said,” she smiled benignly and tilted her silvery head to the side as though she were an amiable little sparrow. “Who’s the whingeing old bitch?”


We all just about endured each other for another forty minutes and then I explained that the parking meter would be running out and we ought to go.

“I’m sorry about my mother,” said Laurence. “She’s not senile, just evil.”

“Mine appears to have acquired a gluten intolerance.”

John had his arm wound round my waist and I kissed the top of his head. My boy. How soon until we ruin you?

I looked back to see Peony wresting a plastic box of some kind of salad from Mother’s arms and dumping it on a table.

“But it’s a quinoa and goji berry salad in a pomegranate dressing. I need it for my intestinal tract,” complained Mother.

“Come on, Grunma,” said Peony, dragging her forcibly away by the hand. “These people are arsing my brain up. Let’s score some gluten.”

People were brazenly drinking Pimm's in the middle of the road.

People were brazenly drinking Pimm’s in the middle of the road.

A Manuscript changes hands.

Public notice: what is love? Don’t arse me. Geddit!

From solid.passage by Leon Bogrush

(Punctuation and geddit added by editor)

Laurence said we should go away for the weekend. I was terrified. It’s been such a long time since I’ve done that kind of thing. You know what kind of thing I mean so don’t make me say it.

I told Peony about it.

“Eurgh,” she said. “I feel sick now. Thanks for that.”

All I’d said was that we fancied a city break. I never even alluded to that kind of thing. You know what kind of thing I mean etc.

I mentioned my possible absence to Mother.

“Oh good. Charlton can have your room while you’re away. I miss that beautiful boy. I need him like a cat needs air.”

(A cat needs air? Might she have meant hair?)

Well that was the decider. I wasn’t going anywhere, certainly if the thought of it induced nausea in my daughter and gave my feckless brother a foothold in my home once more.

So Laurence said: “Then come to mine for dinner. I’ll pack my mother and sister off to their folk night.”

I must say his sap seems to be rising a bit since he was offered his old job back. He’s also seeking compensation for wrongful dismissal, which is a bit rich given that not all that long ago he was trying to dissuade me from running to the lawyers.

And so last night I removed all extraneous hair and put on the black dress with the Grecian neckline that Mother always says should be draped on a coffin, and arrived at his door step at seven on the dot as arranged.

But a woman of about my age, with very raw pink skin and black bobbed hair, opened the door.

“Who are you?” she growled. “No hang on.” She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re Imelda.”

“No,” I said.

She opened her eyes.

“Oh you’re the other one.”

Laurence came rushing up behind her. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

“Who’s Imelda?” I asked him.

“What?” he asked. “Who’s Imelda?”

“That’s what I just said.”

“This is my sister, Vanessa. She wasn’t supposed to be here. I took her and Mother to the pub and she came straight back.”

Vanessa moved aside to let me in. She eyed me suspiciously as we brushed up against each other.

“You’ve got a writer’s nose,” she told me.

“Have I?”

“I’m fascinated and yet repulsed by writers.”

“I don’t consider myself a writer,” I mumbled.

We all three sat down in a too-clean, oatmeal coloured living room. The silence was awkward so I broke it.

“Wow, that’s a potent aftershave.”

“Thank you,” said Vanessa.

A little more silence.

“Let’s go out after all,” suggested Laurence.

Vanessa stood at once.

“Great idea,” she agreed.

You could tell that he was suffering, poor chap, that he was frustrated and angry and helpless and never did I feel closer to the man than I did at that moment. We are soul mates, I thought.

“We can discuss literature,” announced Vanessa, as she fetched her jacket. “I only read proper, difficult literature. Life is too short for anything less.

I smiled at Laurence.

“Then you might like this,” I said, rummaging about my bag for the bogbrush manuscript, as Peony and I call it. (If you’re wondering, I’d brought it with me to entertain Laurence with it in case of flat moments.)

“Love the title,” she said, marvelling at the top page. “Leon Bogrush. Is that you?”

“No!” I shrieked, perhaps a little too hastily. “Fancy having a go at editing it?”

She swayed a little.

“Me? Are you serious? It would be an honour. What should I do?”

“Oh we’ve all had a go at it, my daughter, my daughter’s young ward, my mother. We’ve decided that throwing the odd geddit? into every page suddenly makes some sense of it.”

She looked from the manuscript to me and narrowed her eyes. I heard a clock. I heard the rumble of a plane.

“Right well,” she announced at last. “I can’t join you for dinner then. I have serious work to do.”

And she left the room.

Laurence put an arm around my shoulders and squeezed me with overwhelming force. “My God but you’re good.”

“You see,” I told him, gasping happily. “I know exactly what we’re dealing with here.”


We ate some chips on a bench and well… we kissed.

Oh stop gagging.

Confronted by genius.

My study is the smallest room in the house – in fact smaller than the traditionally smallest room. And yet everyone congregates here while I try to write. Mother has taken to doing her Pilates right under my nose as I’m typing.

“Why are you even doing it?” I demanded yesterday morning. “You’ve always been so scornful of exercise.”

“Because if the medical profession refuses to help me, then I must help myself,” she grunted.

Peony, who was eating her cereal while standing over me and idly observing my progress, tutted: “Hurry up and write something funny, Mum. I’ve been watching you for ages and I haven’t even managed a smile. Come on!”

I’ll get you all out of here somehow, I seethed, and I pushed Ken rather roughly off my lap.


A little later that day, my daughter sought me out in the garden:

“Mum, I’ve got my agent’s hat on now. Not literally. It’s a figure of speech.”

“Right?” I sighed.

“Alfons is very excited about something and wishes to speak to you.”

The thought of an excitable Alfons was revolting to me and so I struggled to get out of whatever they had brewing but the man actually turned up on my doorstep at lunchtime, phosphorescent with news.

“Just think, don’t you!” he exclaimed. “Someone has submitted a novel for me to publish. Plankton is a going concern. I want you to take a look at this manuscript and tell me as a fellow writer what you think.”

God but my heart sank.

It was bad enough to have to look at this manuscript but to be pulled into a writing fellowship with Alfons was galling. I asked to be able to retire with it to my study for ten minutes. I thought ten minutes would be enough to get a feel for it. In the event, ten minutes felt like a lifetime.

I emerged to find Peony pushing a Twix into Alfons’ trouser pocket.

“Well?” he beamed.

“What exactly do you want to do with this?” I asked him, throwing the manuscript onto the kitchen table.

“Why publish, isn’t he! Then lots of crazy publicity. Lots of people buying lots of books and buying mine too.”

I cleared my throat.

“But it’s excrement.”

He turned questioningly to Peony.

“Poo,” she said.

“Alfons, this is the most dire bit of nonsense I’ve ever been forced to read. And I include my own manuscripts in that.”

“It is genius.”

“It is poo.”

“Tah.” He dismissed me. “This writer is very, very clever. What fault are you finding?”

“Well for starters there’s absolutely no punctuation whatsoever. It appears to be four hundred pages made up of one sentence.”

“Genuis. Experimental.”

“I can’t find anything in the way of plot and certainly no characters. It is all written in the first person – with a lower case ‘I’ while we’re on the subject. It is puerile indulgence.”

“This is literature, isn’t he.”

“Alfons, simply because you don’t understand it, doesn’t make it high art.”

“Maybe you don’t understand it.”

“Maybe I don’t.”

“But you will still edit it for me?”

I exploded.

“How do you suggest I do that? Place a judicious full stop in the middle?”

But of course I’ve taken it on. He’s determined to publish it, on the basis that it’s the only book that anyone’s ever submitted to Plankton. It was Peony in the end who brought me round. Alfons had gone and she was hooting with laughter.

“Can’t you just see the humour in this?” she cackled. “Sometimes getting a laugh out of something is its own reward.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” I relented and looked again at the title page. solid.passage by Leon Bogrush. At least he’s put a full stop in the title. That is a title, isn’t it?”

“Hey I’ve just noticed.” she laughed. “If you put a b in the middle of his surname it spells bogbrush”


I am writing this in the vast embrace of my new PU leather “executive” office chair. Lush and brown and excessively thick in the seat and back and with great curlicue arms, it as good as screams “Sell! Sell!” down the phone by itself.

I picked it out from the pile in front of the second-hand office furniture shop this morning. It is such a monster that you have to flatten yourself against the wall to get into my study. This room now consists or a desk and a chair. And me. Just me.