Author: T. A. Belshaw (Page 56 of 57)

Part One

14th March 2013

How do you start a diary I wonder? I’ve never kept one before, not a serious journal at least. I’ve often thought about keeping one but I’d be mortified if Gary the Grump found it and read my innermost thoughts.

He thinks he knows everything about me just because we’ve been married for eighteen years, but in truth he knows very little and understands even less. Oh, he can find his way around the intimate parts of my body and he knows to keep well clear if I’m in one of my moods, but he doesn’t have a clue who the real me is. I hate the way he calls them, my moods, as though he’s always full of the joys of Spring. At least I have the excuse of an excruciating period or the beginnings of a migraine when I snap. He gets unbearably shitty if his precious football team loses, and God help us all if England aren’t doing very well at the cricket.

 He thinks he knows which TV shows I like, (the ones I get to see when there isn’t a conflict with the sports channel,) but he doesn’t have a clue what I Sky Plus and watch when he’s at the pub or nursing a Sunday morning hangover in bed. He has no idea what I dream about, what I think, or what I do all day.

He’s convinced that I vote Labour because he does, but I’ve never voted for them once. I actually voted for the Rubber Chicken party at one election and I’d have been quite happy had they got in.

Gary still hasn’t worked out that if I nod my head when he’s screaming at the TV during Question Time it doesn’t mean I agree with him. It’s actually far more likely to mean that I agree with the politician who almost caused him to have a seizure. Gary has always been arrogant like that. He assumes that he wears the trousers in our house but in actual fact the decision-making process is shared equally. He decides what we should do about Libya, oil prices and the EU and I make the everyday decisions, like, what we buy, where we buy it, how much we put away for a rainy day, who we buy our gas from, who’s offering the best mortgage deal … It works out perfectly really.

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Part Two

I’ve decided to turn this into a weekly diary. My everyday life is so boring that it would be pointless making it a daily one. If I’m lucky I’ll just about cram enough into a full week to make a worthwhile entry. There is also the fact that The Grump might find it strange that I’m spending so much time on the laptop. I normally only go onto the Internet to order new refills for the fridge, water filter, or buy the odd book from Amazon. If my life story should suddenly become more entertaining, I’ll start doing twice weekly updates. I can always tell him I’ve joined Mumsnet.com. He’ll think I’ve gone all radical.

I suppose I’d better start by introducing myself properly. You’ll need to know a little bit about me if we’re going to be sharing my innermost thoughts.

My name is Isla Ferry and I’ve been married for eighteen years to The Grump, aka, Gary Ferry. (He tries to make out he’s distantly related to the singer, Bryan Ferry, but his mum told me the first time I met her that he isn’t.)  When we decided to get married, I fully intended adding my maiden name to The Grump’s in order to make a posh sounding double barrelled name. The problem was, my family name is Whyte and it didn’t take long for me to realise the years of torment I’d be letting myself in for if I were to become Isla Whyte-Ferry. I had enough jokes made up about my name when I was at school without adding to the misery.

I’m thirty-nine years old and rapidly approaching forty. I have no idea how this happened as the last time I looked I was twenty-seven. Life crept up behind me one morning and screamed ‘Hey, it’s time for a midlife crisis.’ I’ll never forget that moment, I was cleaning the toilet bowl at the time.

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Part Three

Suckers

What is it with teenagers? They are so full of contradictions.

At 8.00am on Saturday I was in the kitchen cooking bacon, when Lara strolled in. I looked at the clock in mock-shock and opened my mouth wide. Normally we don’t see her until lunchtime at the weekend. She slammed a magazine down on the kitchen table and pointed to the headline. ‘Have you seen this?’ she growled, as though I was the subject of the article.

I picked up the magazine. ‘Polar bears in trouble as ice pack melts.’ I read.

‘It’s sad isn’t it?’ I sympathised.

‘It’s not sad, it’s disgusting, that’s what it is.’ Lara flicked through a couple of pages and pointed to another article. ‘Whaling,’ she continued. ‘Aren’t you ashamed? The fleets catch more and more each year, soon there’ll be none left.’

‘Whaling is bad too,’ I agreed.

Lara fixed me with a glare. ‘It’s your fault.’

‘My fault? Why is …’

‘Your generation’s fault then. You allowed it to happen on your watch. You’ve

sat back and done nothing for years, now it’s probably too late.’

‘That’s not really fair, Lara,’ I said quietly, trying to take the heat out of the situation. I always give to the animal charity collectors when they come around, and I joined the RSPB.’

Lara wasn’t appeased. ‘So, you stick 50p in a tin and think you’ve done enough to save the planet? Look around you Mum, animals are suffering.’

I looked round the kitchen. Spencer was attempting to get the last atoms of dog food from his bowl and Slasher was washing her face after eating a breakfast of tuna chunks. ‘Doesn’t seem to be much in the way of suffering here,’ I joked.

Lara grabbed two sandwiches, slapped them onto a plate and stormed out of the kitchen.

‘That’s right, make a joke of it,’ she spluttered through a mouthful of bacon sandwich. ‘You just don’t care what happens to animals, do you?’

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