Page 7 of Has Anyone Seen My Sex Life?
I head to the back door to let him out. Outside, a fine Lakeland drizzle mists the air. Mr T looks as unimpressed as I do as he goes to water my rose bushes with his urine. I stand there, cradling the mail to my chest. Meanwhile, Eve stands in the middle of the kitchen, having opened every cupboard.
‘There’s nothing to eat,’ she declares.
‘There’s bread for toast, white bread that you ate yesterday in a jam sandwich,’ I reply.
‘It’s not white, it’s that 50/50 stuff. You think I’m stupid.’
No, I think your father is stupid because he can’t tell the difference. You’re five and are one of those ridiculous children who seem to possess a discernible palate that knows when I’ve changed brands of baked beans or attempt to bring sugar-free fruit squash through the doors.
I refuse to fight over bread so take it out of the bag and pop it in the toaster. She has that stubborn face which makes me want to buy 50/50 for the rest of her life.
‘There are Cheerios…’
‘Don’t like them.’
‘Porridge?’
‘I’m not a bear.’
‘Eve Morton. Don’t you dare be a sassy pants with me this morning…’
We exchange glances. Five-year-olds gunning for a fight so early in the morning can go do one. Upstairs, a baby barks in the distance. Mr T saunters into the kitchen, tail wagging, and I throw him a biscuit that bounces off his head because his youth and reflexes have abandoned him. He looks at me and the biscuit. I feel you, Mr T. I really do.
‘What’s in the box, Mummy?’ Tess rifles through the mail. She shakes the box which makes a clunking sound.
I poke lamely at it with a butter knife. Part of me is half-excited we have a box in the house that I can turn into Tess’ Viking ship homework due next week. The box is plain and mundane – it will no doubt be something for Dan’s work. He’s the boss at a paper mill which is as dull as it sounds but always means I’m sorted for A4.
Opening the box, I put it down for a moment so I can wrestle a biscuit-hunting Eve out of a cupboard. ‘Biscuits are not breakfast!’
‘Yes, they are. You can eat Belvita for breakfast – I’ve seen them on the tellybox.’
Tellybox is a Danny thing – a Northern affectation that means my daughters also don’t know what meal dinner is and call cupcakes buns. Eve is hell-bent on a Hobnob breakfast.
‘Belvita are special biscuits for people in a rush who have to eat their breakfasts on trains,’ I say.
Upstairs I can hear Danny swearing as he’s had to break open a new packet of wipes and can’t handle the secret wizardry of the packaging. Things are falling to the floor. I’m having arguments over breakfast biscuits with a five-year-old.
‘Mummy, what is a triple tickler?’ Tess studies the contents of the box.
Tickling, what on earth? I shake my head; from biscuits to this inanity. I peer in at its contents. It’s long and blue like a rolling pin. What newfangled kitchen nonsense is my mother sending me now?
‘I don’t know, Tessie. Is it important now? Really?’
‘It says here that it has more features and better girth to help you come to organism.’
‘You’re talking gibberish now.’ I grab the box and retrieve the item from the plastic moulding. Why is it blue? I hold it in my hands. It’s huge. Why is it made of rubber? Then I realise it has bollocks. I shriek and drop it on the floor. It has impressive bounce. Tess and Eve’s eyes seem to be glued to it. I have the urge to hurdle the table and carry them out of the kitchen to safety, like an earthquake has just hit. I scurry to the floor, hide it under my dressing gown and stuff it back into the box. What the actual mother of crap?
‘GIRLS, we’re done here. Let’s get ready for school.’ I clap my hands like a seal. ‘Now! We can do breakfast after.’
Tess’ eyes follow me suspiciously as I try to close the box back shut.
‘Why are you angry?’ Eve’s eyes bulge, imitating my frazzled look.
‘I’m not angry with you. I’m not…I’m just…Uniforms, please, please, please…’
Desperate pleas lead them to saunter out and up the stairs. I freeze for a moment. I open the box back up, slowly like the thing might escape. That is really there, isn’t it? I get it out again and examine it, this blue dildo, with a curious eye. Mr T has gone back to his corner of the kitchen to fall asleep but the cat, Magnum (we went with an eighties pet name theme) gives it a curious look from his corner of the house. I feel the need to protect the cat. Shield your little feline eyes! I can’t let this corrupt you. I shove it back in the box once more and force it shut.
Then there’s the small issue over why it’s here. In our house. Did I fill in some online survey and forget to tick a box? I do a lot of those surveys. Or maybe it was sent by someone to arouse me. Yikes, what if it was made in the image of someone as some sort of ruse to get me into bed? Like a 3D dick pic? I applaud the effort but am perturbed that someone would go to such lengths – extreme lengths from the looks of this thing.
