Spin Cycle (4 page)

I begin by sweeping the dirty dishes into the sink (fairly gently) before slamming my fist down onto the counter (not at all gently) and kicking one shoe off my foot. It goes whistling past the island bench and across the room, hitting the opposite wall with a resounding BANG! That feels (and sounds) extremely satisfying so I immediately proceed to do the same with the second. Unfortunately this one obviously wasn't watching what it was supposed to do. Instead of whizzing towards the opposite wall, it immediately does a vertical flip straight up into the air, hitting the ceiling hard before being propelled downwards at approximately 60 km/h, striking the budgerigar's cage full on and ricocheting off into the fish-tank.

I stand at the bench frozen in disbelief. I really
don't believe how this day is going but self-pity will not get me anywhere (it cost me quite a lot to learn this so I plan to remember it whenever appropriate; not necessarily use it, but definitely remember it), so I wipe the plaster flecks off my shoulders and go to inspect the damage.

The bloody bird is dead.

Now I
really
don't believe this. This creature has never had a worry in the world, has food and drink delivered daily, has its abode cleaned for it regularly, even though it consistently displays an ignorance of even the rudiments of toilet training, and it drops dead just because an imitation Doc Marten strikes its cage? I stare rather blindly at the corpse for a few minutes before remembering that the dear departed is CJ's one and only pet (her words), and she is
already
not speaking to me! I briefly consider mouth-to-mouth or the equivalent, but dismiss the notion on the grounds that if my day is going to get worse, I prefer to take a more passive role. However, I do open the cage and prod gently at the body in the hope that it has merely fainted, but no such luck.

At times like these it is always best to stop, pause and think … panic never solved anything. I stop, pause and think … and throw the bird's night-cover over the cage. I shall worry (and stop, pause, think, probably panic) about this little problem later. I have other problems at the moment, the major one being the one that I keep relentlessly shoving into the recesses of my mind – where it just as relentlessly refuses to remain. Instead, it keeps peeking coyly around the edges of my psyche, making me flinch
and shudder uncontrollably at the most inopportune moments – like when I was handing over my change to the lady at the deli counter. I give up and morosely open the cerebral gates. There it is: my mother has just told me she is getting married. And I didn't even know she was
seeing
anyone, let alone someone she was serious enough about to consider marrying! Can this day get any worse?

Brring, brring … brring, brring …

There are probably those who would be totally justified in suggesting that I bring crap on myself by tempting fate with stupid questions like that. I shall valiantly attempt to ignore the telephone because it is sure to be either the budgie branch of the RSPCA or the merry widow ringing to discuss another bright idea regarding her fishy salmon-tinged floral bloody wreaths.

… brring, brring …

Salmonella would be more appropriate as far as I am concerned. All I wanted was a relaxing lunch with her, maybe to talk about myself for a change. I mean I actually fired my therapist and I haven't been able to tell anyone about it! This is the therapist I practically own … well, at least I have a considerable share in her latest office redecoration and even those nauseating ‘Picasso' reproductions in the waiting room that strongly resemble the graffiti that I can see on the train for free.

… brring, brring …

And
she
had to burst my bubble, just like always. After I actually had the courage to stand up and tell that therapist where to go! Well, to be completely
honest, the actual words I used were ‘I don't think I can make it anymore, I'll get back to you.' But the real message had clout and it was there in my eyes and she read it, I could
see
that she read it!

… brring, brring …

Things like this always happen to me. Here's a perfect example. About three years ago, there was I, poised to finish a 5000-piece jigsaw puzzle of the Great Wall of China which
she
had given me for Christmas. Despite the fact that I loathe jigsaw puzzles, I was determined to persevere and it had taken me over six weeks of concentrated effort to put the damned thing together. The feeling as I arranged those last five pieces was indescribable. Oh, the sense of accomplishment! I had planned to glue it and frame it as a symbol of my ability to conquer anything my mother put my mind to.

… brring, brring …

It was not until I triumphantly went to place those five pieces in their five spots that I realised that the empty spaces actually numbered six. In absolute dismay I screamed hysterically, peering under the table and around the room. I think I expected the missing piece to materialise in mid-air and float obligingly into my hand; instead, what I saw was a petrified boy running for cover and a stunned two-year-old with something in her mouth.

… brring, brring …

By the time I'd tipped CJ upside down, shaken her vigorously and then forcibly removed the puzzle piece, it was beyond repair and I had three nasty dents on one finger and actual broken skin on another. The moral of this story is that just when you think you
are getting ahead, something is invariably devoured. Well,
I
know what I mean anyway.

… brring, brring … brring, brr
–

‘Hello?'

‘God, it took you long enough to answer. I was just about to hang up!'

‘
Diane!
How
could
you have done that to me!'

‘That brings me to my first question – how
was
your lunch?'

‘Where the hell were you?'

‘Actually, I was
dying
to join you but, well … I decided I was being incredibly selfish and that you deserved some quality time with Mum and Elizabeth, bonding and all that. But don't thank me now, I can wait.'

Diane has a rather warped sense of humour, which probably explains why she is so incredibly sane while I … well, let's just say that I have some itsy-bitsy problems coping with life in general. And with therapists, and children, and ex-husbands, and dead budgerigars and mothers remarrying …

‘Are you still there? It wasn't that bad, was it?'

‘Yes, I'm still here, which is a lot more than you deserve and it was worse than just bad. Bloody Elizabeth wasn't even there and Mum – she said she was going to drop by your house. Did she?'

‘I've only just got back so I probably missed her. But never mind about all that, I had a good reason for not being there, wait till I tell you my news!'

‘It can't possibly be as big as what you missed at lunch! Mum said –'

‘No, don't tell me about it just yet. I
won't
let her
spoil this – first my news! I've been bursting to tell you all afternoon and I can't wait. Guess what? You'll never guess!'

‘You're getting married again too?'

‘Don't be silly, for some of us once is enough! No, I'm having a girl! Next February I'm actually going to have a
girl
!'

‘Di, slow down …' Although I am beginning to have a horrible idea of what she is talking about, I make a feeble attempt to make light of it. ‘Are you trying to tell me you're making advance plans for becoming a latent lesbian?'

‘No, you twit! I'm pregnant! I didn't want to say anything because I knew you would all say I'm mad, but I had the tests today and she's a girl! A daughter, I never thought I would ever have a daughter. Please don't say I'm crazy because I don't think I've ever been this happy. You don't know what it's like, surrounded by so many males all the time. Men, bloody men everywhere I look.'

This could be a rather thought-provoking statement if I didn't know Diane's family as well as I do, so it's not. Anyway, I am more stunned by what I have just heard to concentrate on the image of men, men everywhere … surrounded by males all the time and men, men every –

‘Are you even listening to me? I'm telling you that I'm
pregnant
! Aren't you even going to say congratulations?'

‘I'm sorry, Di … congratulations. I'm really happy for you but I, well, I suppose you've caught me a bit by surprise. I never even realised you wanted another
baby, or that you were ever upset that you didn't have a girl. I mean you never said, I never thought …'

With this I can't think of another damned thing to say. I am pleased for her but also absolutely stunned and just a little concerned. Diane is forty-two years old and her youngest child will be thirteen in a month! When you add to these facts the reality that she suffered progressively worse pre-eclampsia with each of her pregnancies
and
has been waiting hand and foot on those males of hers for many years
and
they are totally incapable of change or even the realisation of how much work she really does – a recipe for disaster could be looming.

And I don't need to worry about any more looming disasters at the moment, thanks very much. Another baby in the family! There goes our in-sync periods. I suppose now I'll have to keep track of my own. And I am beginning to get the uneasy feeling that I am on a roller-coaster ride that is going just a
little
too fast for my liking. But there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.

‘Well, of course I never advertised the fact, but I have been
so
jealous of you with your two girls. And ever since the boys have gotten bigger – well, I haven't felt so
needed
. Or something. I'm just so excited. Oh god, I'll have to go, Michael's just walked in with some friends and I haven't told the boys anything yet. I'll ring you tomorrow. You can practise being just a
little
more ecstatic, and we'll talk some more. Just be happy for me, please?'

‘You can't leave me till tomorrow! Ring me tonight!'

‘I can't, we've got Evan's indoor soccer final tonight. I'll ring you tomorrow, I promise.'

‘Diane, don't go yet, at least tell me how many months you are. When's it due?'

‘Oh, I have to go back again in a few days because apparently I didn't drink enough or she was in a bad position or something, but guess what? It looks like you're going to get a birthday present you didn't expect! The only date they've given me at the moment is your birthday – February the thirteenth!'

That makes two birthday presents I didn't expect and I believe that my puzzle piece has now not only been devoured, but also massacred, stomped on and then regurgitated for good measure.

‘Mummy, I told you
last time
that I hate horrid cooked mushrooms.'

I look across at this rather small piece of pyjama-clad humanity who stares equably back, her round little face framed by a freshly washed blonde bob. I decide to try subtle sarcasm.

‘Hell's bells, CJ, I can't think how I could have forgotten that crucial fact or how I could have failed to take it into account when I spent two hours preparing this delicious and nutritious meal that – IF
YOU FEED ONE MORE MUSHROOM TO THE CAT YOU CAN GO STRAIGHT TO BED!'

‘I didn't feed them to Golliwog … I tried but she won't eat them coz they're berry bloody disgusting.'

Fortunately I have used the time spent cooking this meal (page 69 in the
Slimmers Guide to a New You
) to good advantage and have recovered my usual even temperament and naturally semi-optimistic nature by thinking through the day's events calmly and rationally … and having the odd few glasses of wine. I am now, or at least I
was
, the epitome of the perfect mother, setting a good example by picking at the revolting mushrooms without complaint and not allowing myself to be upset by the fact that the table was set for four and yet only two are in place. The cat has wisely given up trying to beg food from CJ and has begun a methodical paw-washing operation instead. I watch CJ push food around on her plate while she pouts at me, and will myself to take several deep breaths before answering her challenge.

‘
Go to bed right NOW
!'

So I sit alone at a table set for four, pushing my own food around my plate while I look at the cat, which has started to have some rather odd convulsions beneath CJ's chair.

I decide not to eat the mushrooms.

I also decide to tear out page 69 of the
Slimmers Guide to a New You
.

Actually, I think I must be experiencing some kind of otherworld catatonic trance because I cannot move nor take my eyes off the idiot cat. Either that or I'm drunk. And it has just occurred to me that if
the cat dies as well as the bird, I might as well call it quits and eat Ben's goldfish for supper. Although that damn galah squatting in the garage is probably top of my pet hit list, and the hyperactive chihuahua-cross next door is a close second. This last thought is what finally gets me moving. I clear the table and scrape the plates with the mushroom leftovers into a doggy bag to give to my neighbour as a gesture of goodwill. After all, they will be going through the upheaval of moving soon.

As I am completing this rather thoughtful task, the cat launches itself into a desperate lunge for the glass sliding-doors and comes to a sudden spread eagled halt (mainly because the sliding-doors are closed), before having an upheaval of its own and retching all over the glass and the newly cleaned carpets. I watch this fresh (extremely fresh) development with a rather detached air. How much can one humanely react to in a single day? And I suppose that, after all, it is probably my own fault for having the sliding-doors closed on a cold winter evening.

As I wash the dishes, and clean the glass, and scrub the carpet, I attempt to regain my earlier equilibrium by reflecting on the fact that my mother will soon be able to host her own dating service at the pearly gates. And anyway, if Bloody Elizabeth is to be a bridesmaid, then she will also be the one who has to endure countless salmon fittings with our mother, and if Diane goes into labour at the wedding then at least there will be something to look forward to. The expression on my mother's face being the least of it, almost. I try to hold on to these promising thoughts
because at least they distract me from the latest development in a day that started off pretty badly and has just kept outdoing itself as it goes along. I feel like my roller-coaster ride has veered off the tracks and is now balanced precariously on the edge of a cliff, and not a particularly picturesque one at that.