Читать книгу Bullies, Bitches and Bastards - Eileen Condon - Страница 6

Never grows up. Even if you have babies of your own, he’ll be a bigger baby than any of them. At least your proper children will give you intermittent periods of joy and wonder. He won’t. He’ll whinge, whine, make demands, have moods, inflict sullen silences and throw tantrums. Ultimately, he’ll chuck his toys out of the pram and vomit all over you if you don’t give him your Full Attention.

His priorities in life? Music, electrical-techno things, money, mates/booze/footie/rugger, socialising (the pub), holidays (snowboarding), DVDs (Tarantino), games (monster-girl-gun-shoot). Oh, and the kids. Anything else? Ermmmmm. Oh yeah! You.

Mooching about in his skateboard gear, he drinks latté in a takeaway cup—with a straw. He will text, text, text, text, text. He’ll plug into iMacs, iPods, PSPs, hi-fis and Wi-Fis in the company of friends and family. He will glaze over if the conversation doesn’t revolve around him.

When he’s not hooked up to a gadget, he will take to his bed for afternoon naps because you and the children ‘exhaust’ him, and he needs to preserve his energy for…more takeaway coffee and downloading iTunes. He is 42.

That’s the age at which people used to die years ago, having led a full, adult life, with all the trimmings: fighting for their country, starting a family at 20, not getting into debt for shiny things and trinkets, being mature enough to realise that once they had children of their own, they had to put away childish things.

Not this one. Even in his early middle age, he still requires a babysitter himself.

If, say, you decided to leave your infants in the care of a 15-year-old youth with a penchant for sinister video games and self-harming, fair enough: you wouldn’t be surprised to find him splayed out on the sofa while the fruits of your womb are running amok, sticking their fingers into every available socket. This, however, is not what you expect when you ask your other half to mind the kids while you take a quick phone call in the bedroom.

Essentially, when you require him to be at his most grown-up, he will let you down worse than any five-year-old denied access to a Wacky Warehouse Christmas free-for-all.

A halogen-downlit office. You, trying to unpack the cargo of verbal nonsense a 19-year-old estate agent is offloading. EBB next to you, head down.

You:…so, essentially, what you’re saying is that the vendors’ purchase has fallen through?…oh, they’ve found another house?…but that’s in probate, isn’t it?…and doesn’t that mean it won’t go through for months, if not years?…but we’ve sold ours and we’re renting on a six-month lease—can we get our solicitor to put pressure on the vendors to go into rented accommodation?…but then, surely, if we do that, we can at least go ahead with our purchase and not be out of pocket?…oh, I don’t know, I’m not sure I know just what you’re advising us to do at this point…(Turning to EBB) What do you think?

EBB (glancing up from his 30GB Apple Video iPod): Eh?

It gets worse.

The hallway, you, halfway down the stairs, panting and clasping the rails. EBB lounging in doorway.

You (calling out): What are you doing?

EBB: Why?

You (exasperated): What are you doing?

EBB: Just on the phone to work. Alright?

You: Did you make the other call?

EBB (irritated): What call?

You: To the midwife?

EBB (into receiver): Hold on a minute, I’m getting interrupted this end.

You: Have. You. Rung. The. Midwife?

EBB: I. Am. On. The. Phone.

You (seizing phone): Ring her now.

EBB (wandering off to living room): You do it. I don’t know the number.

You: Where are you going?

EBB: I’ve got to Sky Plus Clarkson Goes Large.

You look at phone, contemplating its use as possible murder weapon, and pondering the chances of getting off with diminished responsibility due to contractions.