The Displaced Nation

Why is it that, just as you get Life under control, Life decides you’re too complacent by far and snatches your security blanket away? And not only snatches it away, but rips it down the middle, throws it in a muddy puddle, and stamps around on it for good measure? Then Life hands you back the pieces and says, “Take that, you smug bitch. How much in control do you feel now, Libby?”

You see, last night at dinner, Oliver mentioned that his company would like him to transfer to another department. He rambled on a bit, but that was the gist. I confess I was a little preoccupied when he made this announcement, trying to stop our two-year-old from feeding the dog his Marmite toast. (The dog is gluten intolerant. Of all the dogs in the world, we have to pick the one on Atkins, the one who won’t eat your leftovers.) So my response was something like, “Lovely-darling-and-don’t-even-think-about-it-Jack” before grabbing Fergus – that’s the dog – by the collar and dragging him into the study, where he would most likely eat final demand electricity bills instead. Unlike me, he’s not intolerant of those.

All in all, it probably wasn’t the response Oliver was after, and it made me feel a bit guilty. I try not to feel guilty, but I’m a full-time mother now and therefore must be more supportive of my husband, so guilt goes with the territory. At any rate, that’s what my mother tells me every time she phones. God knows what she was doing in the 1970s while other women were burning their bras. Out shopping for whalebone corsets, I imagine.

Oliver, naturally, is all in favour of the idea of supportive wives, and sucks up to my mother unashamedly to get her support as well. He once sent me an email, one about 1950s’ housewives knowing how to treat their husbands properly. You’ve probably seen it. Wives are advised to hand their husbands a G&T the minute they walk through the door, tidy the children up and the toys away – or perhaps it was the other way round – and to shut up while Hubby speaks because his opinions are more important. Oliver claimed the email was a joke. I told him it would have been, had I been employed and salaried, but right then, with baby-sick permanently welded to my shoulder, I failed to see the humour and Oliver was fooling no one. Millennia of male chauvinism cannot be wiped out by Harriet Harman – whatever she may think – or a few charred Cross Your Heart foundation garments.

But back to Oliver’s announcement. Once I was reseated at the table, Oliver said, “You didn’t hear what I said, did you, Libby?”

“Yes, I did.” I handed Jack a triangle of Marmite toast. He mushed it into a ball and chucked it at the window behind me, where it stuck for a second before sliding down, leaving a greasy snail trail. “HR wants you to transfer.”

Oliver waved his hand around in a circle. “And…?”

I thought. “And you’ll get a pay rise?” I said hopefully.

“Plus a relocation package.”

I stopped persuading Jack to eat, and stared at Oliver, who seemed satisfied that he’d at last got a reaction.

“Relocation package? Relocation to where? Liverpool? London?”

“Massachusetts,” Oliver said. “We’ll talk about it.”

And that was the point when Life snatched away my security blanket, hurled it in a swamp, and danced the mashed potato on it.

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 Next - Libby’s Life #2: Fishy Motives

Previously - Introducing the Patrick family     .

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Image: Travel – Map of the World by Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net