Page 64 of Has Anyone Seen My Sex Life?
‘He’s fine with it. He’s a Captain.’
Danny laughs.
‘Sounds like a right posh twat.’
Twelve
I definitely pulled the short straw here.
LOL, tough titties. I did the last unicorn disco. I had to throw glitter in the air and make unicorn wishes with a woman in a rainbow tutu.
Can you defrost the chicken for dinner?
One step ahead of you. Have they started serving alcohol in that place yet?
No and they’re missing a trick. This place would be better with wine.
And a tranquiliser gun. Laters
It’s the following week and even though we asked Stu reallyreallynicely if he’d fill in for one of us today, I am doing the parental chaperone duty for the birthday party at Cheeky Monkeys Play Pit. Today it’s a joint endeavour celebrating Jimmy, Poppy and Emillia’s collective sixth birthdays and what better way to do that than gather thirty odd classmates and family members in an enclosed space, throw some sugar at them and blast some Disney tripe over the speakers for an hour and a half.
I have a love/hate relationship with soft play. At times, I like the fact it gets us out of the house and the girls can run off some steam and make a mess of somewhere that isn’t our home. However, I always leave with a blinding migraine and more often than not, an injured child who was usually flattened by an unsupervised kid who went the wrong way up the bloody slide.
‘Meg, lovely to see you. Thank you so much for coming!’
Jimmy’s mum, Vicky, is the lovely benign sort of mum who you know signs her child’s reading record every evening and always has healthy snacks in her bag. She also had to chase up my RSVP for this party, for which she may or may not now hate me.
‘No, thank you for the invite. I’m sorry about the present.’
Turns out I didn’t read the back of the invite either which stated that we just had to donate a fiver each and the birthday trio were going to use it to ‘have a special friends’ day out. I’m not quite sure about a six-year-old’s social life but I am pretty sure that the money gathered could buy you dinner at The Ivy with decent wine. In any case, instead of a fiver, I’ve shown up with some shoddily wrapped parcels that contain some cheapo arts and craft sets. No doubt, the presents will be stored and recycled for parties and school tombolas later in the year. I see Jimmy roar with the feral excitement that only a birthday gathering can bring and watch him tackle a young child into the ball pool. The child disappears, sinking rapidly into the germ-ridden plastic cesspit possibly never to be seen again. Vicky runs off to the rescue, clapping her hands and trying to maintain some order in this place. I’ve never seen that happen before but bravo on her for trying.
‘Mummy! Mummy! Watch me!’
Eve waves at me from a rope bridge and hurls herself across. I flinch slightly to see her land but she gets up and follows a small gaggle of friends she’s with. Eve has always been quite hardy, which I attribute to her being born in the Lakes. It’s like the wilderness is part of her. Tess is different. Born a Londoner, she has a cautious side; she would usually arrive at one of these parties scowling, physically attaching herself to me. Eve comes to the edge of the play area and talks to me through the rope netting. Her face a shade of rhubarb, she takes off her cardigan and passes it through.
‘I’m so thirsty. Can I have a drink?’ she says, already scooting off.
It’s what they do here too. They crank up the heat so you’re forced to buy them drinks. I nod and look to the party table. Nada. I approach Rosie, mother to Emillia. Did we add the extra ‘l’ in the birthday card? Who knows? All I know is that if we didn’t, I will be judged.
‘Umm, is there anything to drink?’ I ask.
Rosie is one of those mums I never can quite read. She’s obviously a little posh, was probably part of the school hockey team and is very deadpan so I can never quite tell if it’s sarcasm or she’s being deadly serious.
‘Well, we’re providing drink with the meals.’
I don’t know what she means. Does this mean we’re expecting them to run around like loons for an hour and a half without hydration? I don’t want to question it or appear ungrateful for her hospitality.
‘That’s totally cool. I’ll get something for Eve.’
I head over to the food and drinks kiosk counting the coinage in my pockets. Kiosk girl has those sorts of eyebrows which make her look like she’s drawn them on in Sharpie. Even after all my years having worked in fashion and seeing fads come and go, from berry liner around a pale lip to two tone highlights, I fail to understand the appeal. Why on earth would anyone want to look like a demonic kabuki performer?
‘Hi, do you do squash?’ I ask.
‘We do squash jugs for £2.00.’ As I anticipated, the customer service is lacking. She looks like she wants to stab everyone in this room with a wooden coffee stirrer. I would too if I had to spend forty-two hours a week in this hell hole.
‘I don’t want a whole jug, just a cup.’
‘We don’t sell by the cup.’
