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LIBBY’S LIFE #42 – Something in the water

Leave a comment Posted by on March 15, 2012

With just weeks to go before the arrival of the twins, Libby is making the most of her life with only one child by finding him a new nursery school and thereby becoming a Lady Who Lunches. But it’s not all Fun, Fun, Fun, she is finding.

“Libby, do stop worrying. Jack will be just fine.” Charlie shrugged off her jacket and draped it over the back of her chair. “I know you had a bad experience with that other nursery, but Helen Flynn’s place is wonderful. He’ll love it there.”

“But suppose he doesn’t? What if it’s a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire for him?” I said, pulling out a chair from under the restaurant table, and sitting down heavily. The chair wobbled. It had a wooden seat, and wasn’t nearly as comfortable as the padded benches in the booths along the walls, but I could no longer squeeze into those, so Anna Gianni had tactfully seated us at one of the Maxwell Plum’s large centre tables.

Anita opened up the black padded menu. “Think about it logically,” she said. “The owner told Caroline to find Dominic another school because his idea of free play was beating up smaller children with whiffle sticks. She’s not going to stand idly by if someone’s giving your son a hard time, is she?”

I opened my own menu. “You’re probably right. It’s difficult not to worry, though.”

“I hate to tell you this, hon, but it only gets worse. Wait until he’s at elementary school.”

I don’t know why some people think you’ll feel better if they tell you things will be even worse later.

“Well, fortunately, I don’t have to think about that,” I said. “By the time Jack’s ready for elementary school we’ll be safely back in Milton Keynes. He’ll be starting Year One at the local Infants and learning how to spell properly instead of missing the U out of all the words.”

Anita and Charlie exchanged knowing glances.

“You say that now,” Charlie said. “But most people stay much longer than two years. Woodhaven draws you in.”

“I’m not most people, and I’m not being drawn in anywhere,” I snapped, banging the menu down on the table. “I agreed to two years, not a bloody life sentence.”

Here’s the thing. Oliver and I have been here barely nine months, and already the people in HR are talking about extending the contract. The initial two years? Fine. I can cope with that. Three? OK — I think. But where does it stop? At what point do I put my foot down, or, worse, at what point does I discover that it’s harder to go back than it is to stay?

“It’s terribly slow service today,” Charlie said, looking around the restaurant. “At this rate we won’t have time for dessert.”

“They’re short-staffed,” Anita said, studying her menu again. “There’s only the owner’s wife. That other loopy woman who works here is nowhere to be seen. I bet she’s out somewhere with a small animal in a pushchair. Last time I saw her, it was a rabbit. Honestly, she’s so many sandwiches short of a picnic—”

“Carla’s a whole loaf short.” Anna Gianni materialised at our table behind Anita, notebook and pen in hand. “But I’ll take her, both minus the Wonderbread and plus small animals in strollers, any day, rather than be the only server on a busy lunchtime. Now — what can I get you, ladies?”

Anita’s face turned a delicate shade of magenta. Charlie bit her lip, either in embarrassment or in an effort not to laugh, and I threw Anna an apologetic smile. She winked at me as we gave her our orders, then glided away to another table, where a couple of businessmen in suits were having a loud, showy-offy conversation about the price of Apple stock.

“You and your big mouth,” Charlie muttered at Anita.

Anita shrugged. Her face was still a bit pink. “It’s true, though,” she whispered. “She’s as nutty as a fruitcake.”

“Must be something in the water.” Charlie picked up her own glass of water and examined it. “Take Caroline.”

Caroline still wouldn’t say whether her new baby was a boy or a girl, and although she had now given it a name, it was the unisex “Taylor”, so we were none the wiser. Her husband, the boss, was equally silent on the subject.

Anna came back with our drinks and appetisers, and Charlie asked her sympathetically if she would be holding the fort on her own for long.

“Only until Saturday.”

“And then Carla will be back?” I asked.

Anna’s tone softened. “Sadly, Libby, no.”

I saw Anita raise her eyebrows as Anna said my name.

“She’s having a bad spell right now,” Anna continued. “Maybe she’ll be OK enough to come back in a few weeks. We’ve ordered her one of those life-like baby dolls to look like the photo of…well, you know. So that will help her, we hope. And me, come to that. I’m tired of looking after a menagerie.”

She bent down to pick up a napkin from the floor — mine, since I no longer had enough lap to keep a napkin secure — then patted me on the shoulder.

“You and I should get together again,” she said. “As soon as—”

“Miss?” One of the loud businessmen waved at her from across the room. “Miss? How much longer before you bring our order? We have a very important conference call at 1pm.”

Anna smiled in their direction. “I’ll be right with you,” she said loudly. Still smiling, she muttered “Never mind gun control in this country — what we really need is to keep jerks like that separated from their BlackBerries.”

“I’ll call you on Sunday after we get the agency staff settled in,” she said to me. “I promise I’ll call.”

She hurried away.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Anita turned to me. “How do you know her so well?”

I explained about Maggie, and how she seemed to know everyone in Woodhaven.

“Maggie?” Charlie asked. “You don’t mean Maggie Sharpe, do you?”

I was surprised. “You know her?”

“I know of her. Everyone knows of her. Or at least, everyone knows about her daughter…what’s her name?”

“Sara.”

“That’s it. Sara. Anyway — according to town legend, she’s the reason Carla Gianni lost her mind. About twenty years ago.”

“What?”

“Small town talk, but it’s what I’ve heard from quite a few people.”

“And…” I fumbled around for words, did a few calculations based on what Maggie had told me about her daughter. “How did someone barely out of her teens make Carla lose her mind?”

Charlie shrugged. “Like I said, there must be something in the water here.” She picked up our water pitcher and refilled all our glasses. I waited. “But the story I’ve heard is — she killed Carla’s son.”

.

Next post: LIBBY’S LIFE #43 – Alone again – naturally

Previous post: LIBBY’S LIFE #41 – Pick & Mix at the Baby Shop

Click here to read Libby’s Life from the first episode

STAY TUNED for Friday’s introduction to Haute Couture for the Dolce-and-Gabbana-challenged.

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LIBBY’S LIFE #41 – Pick & Mix at the Baby Shop

5 Comments Posted by on March 8, 2012

Despite Oliver’s best intentions to put Libby in a state of nirvana with hourly facials and pedicures, Libby has decided that the way to mental peace is via a lengthy shopping session in a baby equipment store.

“This is the closest I’ll ever get to shopping for a grandchild, and I’m going to make the most of it.” Maggie manoeuvred our shopping trolley into an aisle stacked with Pampers. “You use the disposable type, I suppose? Everyone seems to now, despite all the fuss they make about saving the environment.”

“I’ll save the environment when the twins are out of nappies, and not a minute before.” I waddled to the section where the smallest sizes were. “How many boxes, do you reckon?”

“Not too many.” Maggie hefted a jumbo-sized box into the trolley. “Babies grow fast. One minute they’re spitting up milk, and the next they’re off to college. And in some cases, that’s the last you see of them.”

I picked up a multi-pack of baby wipes from the shelf, and said nothing. This, I knew, was a reference to Maggie’s daughter, Sara, who left America in her late teens and never came back apart from one unannounced visit a few years ago, for a school reunion. Maggie hasn’t said as much, but she must have been pretty hurt that when her daughter finally elected to return to her hometown, it was to see her old friends rather than her mother.

“I’m never going to be a grandmother now,” Maggie said again. “Not that I can blame Sara for that, of course. I was hardly a good example of motherhood. Barely in my twenties when she was born, and Derek and I divorced before she finished kindergarten…although I’m sure that’s not the only issue. The Max affair has a lot to answer for.”

I raised my eyebrows, willing her to say more, but she turned away and seemed very interested in a rack of burp cloths.

Max Gianni, I assumed she meant: the mysterious dead brother of Frankie, and brother-in-law of Anna Gianni. As far as I could piece together, Max once had something going with Maggie’s daughter, and it hadn’t ended prettily. In my eight months in Woodhaven, I’d heard a lot of half-finished conversations on this subject, all with tantalising missing endings, and I’d have liked to ask Maggie more, except that it was obviously something she didn’t like to talk about much.

I wondered what my own life would be like when I was Maggie’s age, when my children were grown up.

Would I be bitter at the years I’d lavished on their upbringing, only to have them live across oceans, as far away from me as they could? Or would I consider it a job well done, that my children were independent and free of me? A job rather too well done, in fact?

And I wondered what they would say about me in years to come — how would Jack look back on his childhood, the twins on theirs?

Would they view me with affectionate pride, or with contempt and disdain? Would I visit them in my twilight years, knowing they’d be glad to see me return home, when all I wanted was to hold on to them forever?

I thought of Sandra, of how thankful I’d been to see her return to England. I thought of my own mother, whom I’d not seen for eight months, but didn’t really miss.

I thought of how I would feel if my own children viewed me the same way.

And, as Maggie hinted just now, are the sins of the parents gifted upon the children, so that, no matter how hard you try, your offspring make the same mistakes as you did? Or, in recognising your failures, are they forced to break away, severing an invisible umbilical cord by putting thousands of miles between child and parent — and even then, does anything really change?

In other words — would Oliver and I become our parents?

Damn these pregnancy hormones.

“Libby?” Maggie was looking at me with concern. “Are you feeling all right? Do you need to sit down?”

I collected my thoughts and smiled quickly at her. “I’m fine. Just thinking about—”

My sentence was cut short by a pigtailed girl around Jack’s age, who, unlike Jack, was not securely strapped into the child seat of a shopping trolley, and appeared to be unaccompanied by any adult, responsible or otherwise. The child thundered past us, unbalancing me enough to make me throw out my hand to steady myself, and she headed straight for the automatic exit doors. Normally those doors need something at least three times heavier than a truculent three-year-old to make them open; today, however, Murphy’s Law dictated that they be in a particularly sensitive mood. The little girl rushed straight through them towards the busy parking lot, and I watched in slow-motion horror as a huge black SUV came weaving through the parking lot, along the lane that led past the baby shop. I could see its driver clearly: a woman chatting animatedly, obliviously, on a cell phone.

I turned to Maggie, to squeak at her that somebody must do something, but Maggie was no longer there.

Considering Maggie must be in her mid-sixties, she can move fast. Faster than I can at the moment, anyway. She was already at the store’s exit.

She dashed through the automatic doors and, just as the child was about to step into the path of the black SUV, grabbed the back of the child’s pink jacket and pulled her back. Then Maggie took her by the hand and led her back into the store.

“Where’s your mommy?” I heard her ask. The girl shrugged. “Well, what’s your name?”

The girl said something. Maggie nodded, and together they walked to the back of the store, towards the sign that said “Customer Service”.

Soon, a disembodied voice on the loudspeaker informed us that there was a lost child in custody and that the parents should think about collecting her before she was sold or returned to the warehouse, or words to that effect.

Ten minutes later, Maggie returned to me and Jack, alone.

“That’s your good deed done for the day,” I said, patting her on the shoulder.

Maggie shook her head, and carried on shaking it, as if bewildered.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Did the parents not come for the little girl?”

“It wasn’t a little girl.”

“But—” You know, I don’t want to stereotype, but when a child is wearing a pink jacket and ribboned pigtails, you kind of assume certain things.

“The mother had a baby, too. Couldn’t have been more than two weeks old, and it’s tough trying to keep hold of one child, never mind look after a baby as well, so I can’t blame her for the girl — or boy — running away like that. Anyway, the baby was all dressed in green and yellow, and I asked the mother if it was a boy or a girl, and do you know what she said?”

“Surprise me.”

“She said, ‘We haven’t decided yet.’ I kid you not. ‘We’re letting our child make its own mind up about its gender.” Maggie shook her head again. “Do you want to know the worst part of it?”

“Go on.”

“This woman was English. I always think of people from the old country being very down to earth and no nonsense, and in five minutes, this woman shattered my illusions.”

A nasty suspicion formed in my mind.

“This woman,” I said. “Was she wearing diamond earrings, by any chance? Big diamonds?”

“Huge.”

“And did the child tell you her or his name?”

“He did, but of course, I got it wrong. I thought he said his name was Dominique. Shame. It’s a pretty name, for a girl.”

Poor Dominic, I thought.

Still, it’s an ill wind.

I suddenly feel much more confident about my own parenting abilities.

.

Next post: LIBBY’S LIFE #42 – Something in the water

Previous post: LIBBY’S LIFE #40 – R&R: ABBA-style

Click here to read Libby’s Life from the first episode

STAY TUNED for Friday’s post.

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to subscribe for email delivery of The Displaced Dispatch, a round up of the week’s posts from The Displaced Nation. Sign up for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

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LIBBY’S LIFE #40 – R & R: ABBA style

4 Comments Posted by on March 1, 2012

As a surprise Valentine’s gift, Oliver has arranged a babysitter (and dogsitter) for a few days while he takes Libby for a well-earned rest at The Health Grange Spa and Resort in New Hampshire. After less than twenty-four hours there, though, Libby is discovering that you can have too much of a good thing…especially when you have other things on your mind.

Frederika adjusted the the towel over me and started to knead the muscles at the back of my neck.

“There. Does that feel good? You relaxed now?

“Mmm-hmm,” I murmured.

Inside my head, a little shopping list began its loop again. Two cots, double pushchair, six sets of sheets, two car seats, two bouncy chairs…

“You’re tensing again.” Frederika gave an extra little push at a muscle, and I winced. Her own arm muscles would rival Arnie’s

“Ouch.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I try to be gentle with you pregnant ladies, but you know, I was professional sports masseuse in Sweden for a long time. Sometimes I forget.”

“I should send my husband to you.” He’d enjoy it as long as he kept his eyes shut. Well — I wouldn’t be recommending her services to him otherwise, would I?

“You do that. If he’s as tense as you, he needs it.”

She continued to rub at my neck, and my shopping list commenced again.

…four packs of vests, babygrows; socks. Nappies! Oh my God, how many nappies do two babies get through?  Shampoo, baby wipes…

*  *  *

“…And Frederika — that’s the masseuse, she’s Swedish — she said her sister-in-law had twins six weeks early, and they weighed five pounds each and were perfectly fine. Six weeks early — can you imagine? It’s only five or six weeks away from where I am now. And I haven’t done a thing with the nursery yet, not even bought a second cot. If these babies were born tomorrow, they’d have to share a bed, or one would have to sleep in a drawer like my granny did when she was born. Although I’m thinking we should buy two new matching cots, because Jack’s old Mothercare cot is much smaller than the standard ones over here and I won’t be able to find fitted sheets that actually fit or — Oliver? Are you feeling all right?”

Oliver put his knife and fork down, his plate of low-fat grilled chicken unfinished, and leaned back in his padded dining chair with his eyes closed.

“Libs. Please stop talking and let us both enjoy our dinner. I brought you here to the Health Grange so you could relax, not so some Scandinavian blonde Amazon could send you into premature labour by worrying over cots and stuff. Do me a favour and request a different massage person tomorrow. Preferably someone who doesn’t speak English.”

A waiter sidled up to our table, eyeing Oliver’s inactive knife and fork.

“Are you still working on that, sir?” he asked, stretching his hand out to take Oliver’s plate.

I held my breath and waited for the inevitable explosion.

“NO!” Oliver sat up in his chair, banged his hand on the table, and sent a butter knife spinning greasily to the floor. The waiter took a couple of steps back in alarm. “Leave it alone. I’m trying to enjoy it, not ‘working on it.’ It’s a plate of poultry, not a bloody PhD thesis.”

Current pet hate of ours — going out to dinner, taking our time over a meal (in my condition, I have no choice but to take my time) and having a waiter hurry us by asking if we are “still working on” our food. As if eating is a chore and not a pleasurable pastime. This particular waiter had already asked me the question twice this evening, and now had just blown his chance of a tip by asking it a third time of Oliver.

“Bring us a bottle of the Chianti,” Oliver ordered, “and don’t come back after that until I ask you to.”

The waiter hovered uncertainly. “The wine…is it for the lady?” He swivelled his gaze at my extended stomach. “Because the Health Grange’s policy regarding serving alcohol to ladies who are—”

“The only policy that concerns you right now, mate,” Oliver said, barely holding on to his temper, “is keeping the customer happy. Either bring me what I ask for, or you explain later to the manager why, rather than adding a tip to the check, I deducted the amount instead.”

Slightly embarrassed by the scene — if anyone needed to relax round here, it wasn’t me — I lowered my head and looked down at my lap.Tried to look at my lap, that is, but I can’t see it any more.

At 29 weeks pregnant with twins, I am as big now as I was at full term with Jack. How I’m going to last another eleven weeks, I can’t imagine — except it won’t be eleven. At my last visit Doctor Gallagher told me, “You can knock off two or three weeks with twins. You won’t want to go the full nine months.”

Too right; although I have a suspicion achieving this will involve elective C-sections and things that would once have appalled me. Now, all I’m bothered about is getting rid of this enormous protuberance. Plus the realisation that we haven’t set foot in a baby shop yet, have nowhere for the twins to sleep, no car seats, no double pushchair — not even enough clothes for them. Those things are starting to bother me a lot.

All this was circling round my mind as the waiter came back with the bottle of wine and nervously set it down on the table.

“Anything else?” he asked Oliver. “Can I take your plate, or are you still work—”

Oliver fixed him with a hard stare, and the waiter blanched. “Don’t even think about saying it again,” he said. “Just bring us the check. We’ll take the wine back to our room.”

*  *  *

Back in our room, I lay on the bed on my side, surrounded by pillows, and tried to get comfortable.

I’m trying to relax during this weekend away. I swear I am, really.

Oliver swims in the resort pool and goes to the weight room and sauna, and keeps himself busy while I “relax.”

I’m dutifully having massages — Oliver made sure we were staying at a place with a specialist in prenatal massage — and herbal facials, and pedicures (although as I can’t bear my feet being touched, these aren’t very relaxing to be honest, but Oliver has already paid for them.)

Am I feeling relaxed as a result?

Despite Oliver’s best intentions, the answer is No. I am not. It all seems a bit forced — “You’re going to relax whether you like it or not” kind of thing — and while the white-coated Frederika is rubbing my back with oil, I’m not so much thinking “Ooh, that’s good” as “You know, we could be spending this time in BabiesRUs.”

Now that I have time away from Jack, the nursery school politics, man-eating landladies, and all the other things that have occupied my mind for the last few months, I can see just how unprepared we are for our imminent arrivals, and it horrifies me.

When I was expecting Jack, I had my hospital bag packed by this stage, my birth plan written, the nursery decorated…

How times and circumstances change.

The birth plan, for example — what a joke that is. As if babies ever read them. My intention, four years ago, was to give birth surrounded by scented candles, essential oils, Vivaldi CDs, and all while floating peacefully in a birthing pool. These fond plans went west when Jack refused to get out of his nice, cosy womb and had to be kick-started with artificial hormones that, after two hours, had me screaming for an epidural while hurling the candles and CDs at Oliver.

So have I bothered writing a birth plan for the twins’ arrival? Of course not. Duh.This is America; I am a “high risk”; the birth will be high-tech; in fact, I get the feeling the people at the hospital would rather I was totally anaesthetised, like they used to do to labouring women in the 1960s.

No wonder I’m tense.

“Libs.” Oliver’s voice cut into my thoughts. “Do you want to risk some wine?”

I shook my head. “Ask me again in three months or so.”

Life was so unfair. The one thing that probably would relax me, and it was forbidden.

*  *  *

“So on the agenda today,” Oliver said next morning, over our room-service breakfast, “you have a facial in the morning, then an hour’s downtime, then lunch, and then another massage in the afternoon.”

I slathered butter on a croissant, and said nothing. When your instinctive reaction at a schedule of massages and facials is “Oh God, not again,” you know the aim of “relaxation” isn’t going to be achieved.

“Do I have to?” I asked.

Oliver looked hurt. “Why? Don’t you like all this pampering?”

“Of course,” I said. “But…you can have too much of a good thing.”

“It seems an awful waste. I’ve paid for it all up front.”

“Well —” Oliver’s feelings were easily hurt, so I had to tread carefully “—why don’t I go this morning, and you see Frederika this afternoon instead? She does guys as well as women.”

A pause, while Oliver tried not to seem too enthusiastic.

“You say she’s Swedish?” he said at last.

I tried not to laugh.Oliver was so transparent sometimes. His view of the world was made up of little stereotypes; it would be good to prove at least one of them wrong.

“That’s right.”

He pretended to consider this option.

“OK then. It would be a shame to waste the appointment.”

*  *  *

“You could have warned me.”

Oliver stood over me, arms akimbo, his face very red.

I looked up innocently from the lounging chair by the swimming pool. So pleasant to be sitting reading by the hotel pool, with the palm trees growing inside, and steel drum music playing on the loudspeakers. If I squinted a bit, I could make believe I was in Barbados instead of New Hampshire.

“Warned you about what?” I asked.

“This Frederika person! She’s brutal! Look —” Oliver turned round and lifted up his T-shirt at the back.

“It looks a bit sore, certainly.” I picked up my magazine again. “Still, no pain, no gain. That’s what you always say.”

“I don’t know where she learnt her massage techniques, but the way she kept pummelling me, I thought she was waiting for the ref to ring the bell while I went down for the count.”

He sat down on the lounger next to me, wincing. “You said she was Swedish.”

“Not all Swedish women look like the blond from ABBA.” I couldn’t contain the giggles any longer. “It’s unfortunate that this one looks more like one of the blokes in the band, though. The one with the beard, at that.”

Oliver sat down on the lounger next to me and winced.

“No wonder you didn’t want to go again,” he said.

“Oh, she’s fine with me. But I’ve had enough of people getting inside my personal space…masseuses, doctors, midwives. At this stage, I think I’d de-stress more by getting stuff ready at home. Nesting instinct setting in, I guess.”

“But we’ve got another full day here. What would you like to do instead?”

I adjusted my sunglasses. I didn’t need them. It just added to the illusion we were in the Caribbean.

“How about a little light shopping this evening?” I suggested. “There’s a BabiesRUs just down the highway.”

Oliver pursed his lips, weighing up the idea of  shopping with another assault by Frederika. “It’s got possibilities. Fancy a steak somewhere while we’re at it?”

“Tell you what,” I told him. “Let’s be entirely bad, go against the philosophy of a health spa, and have dinner in McDonald’s.”

“They won’t torment you with wine, at least.”

“And they will never,” I said, “ask you if you’re still working on that burger.”

.

Next post: LIBBY’S LIFE #41 – Pick & Mix at the Baby Shop

Previous post:LIBBY’S LIFE #39 – Sugar and spice, and all things lice

Click here to read Libby’s Life from the first episode

STAY TUNED for Friday’s post, when we welcome author and “global love” expert Wendy Williams to The Displaced Nation!

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Image: Travel – Map of the World by Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigit

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LIBBY’S LIFE #39 – Sugar and spice, and all things lice

Leave a comment Posted by on February 23, 2012

So, here I am, back on Planet Earth, and back to what I was writing before the lovely Oliver whisked me away for a weekend of facials, pedicures, and heartburn-inducing gourmet meals. Thank goodness for Zantac is all I can say.

“Yes, you are going to school this afternoon, sweetheart. And you’re staying to lunch first, but remember – it’s not like proper school today. It’s a just a Valentine’s party. You like parties, don’t you?”

Jack fixed me with a suspicious stare. “Are you sure there’s ice cream at the party?”

“Of course,” I said, without missing a beat. Too late now to backtrack on yesterday’s bribe. “There’s always ice cream at parties. Your favourite. Strawberry.”

He made an exasperated clicking noise with his tongue – a habit he’s picked up from Oliver.

“Chocolate’s my favourite now. I don’t like strawberry any more.”

Ah, Strawberry must have been flavour of the month for January, so the half-gallon tub in the freezer presumably will stay there until it becomes pink sour cream.

I sighed. “I expect there’s chocolate too. Or vanilla. And cupcakes. And biscuits, of course, because we made the biscuits, didn’t we?”

Jack looked at me as if I’d escaped from a high security institution for the prematurely senile.

“Cookies, Mummy! Not biscuits!”

I shut my eyes briefly. It had happened. My son was now American. “Cookies, then.” I hesitated. “And we’ve done all your cards and sweets – I mean candy – for your friends.”

I’d been a little taken aback by Patsy Traynor’s emailed list of instructions for this party. No peanut products – fair enough – BUT, Patsy stressed with random capitals and italics, if you were going to send in Valentine cards and candy, you MUST send in something for EVERY child in the class, not just your child’s special friends.

So we dutifully wrote out eighteen cards last night and Jack, with his tongue sticking out in concentration, printed his name on all of them. That took over an hour. Then we squashed Sellotape around a lollipop onto the back of each card. The Valentines, which we bought in a pack of 32 – 32! So much love to spread around! So much profit for Hallmark! – were only slightly larger than a postage stamp, and (surprise) had pictures from Disney’s Cars on them. Jack spent a lot of time deciding who was going to have which picture. His best friends were honoured with Lightning McQueen; little girls he had a crush on would receive pictures of Sally Carrera, the blue Porsche. His least favourite character in Cars is Mater, the rusty tow truck. Only one child got a Mater card.

That’s right. Dominic.

And the sweets? We bought a big bag of assorted lollipops. Jack likes all of them, except for the Root Beer flavour. (Reasonably enough. It smells like Germolene.) Naturally, Dominic will receive a Root Beer lollipop.

I get the feeling that Jack would rather exclude Dominic from his bounty bag altogether – and to be quite honest, I don’t blame him.

Still, it is a party when all’s said and done, and I think Jack should have a good time this afternoon.

Now, you’re probably wondering why I’m suddenly so keen for Jack to go to nursery after keeping him away over the Dominic issue.

Simple. Today I need a babysitter. Maggie is going out, Oliver is in Seattle, the coffee morning ladies have gone home en masse for a winter break visit, and I – oh, lucky Libby! – have a three hour appointment at the hospital’s diagnostics office, having starved myself since midnight last night.

While Jack is ingesting sugar in cookie-, ice cream-, and cake-form, I shall be sitting in the diagnostics office having an armful of blood drawn every hour, after downing my own special Valentine’s sugar rush – the most disgustingly sweet fizzy lemon drink, specifically formulated by the medical profession to give me diabetes.

That’s not quite what it’s for, of course – the test is to see if I have pregnancy diabetes in the first place. But as I don’t eat many sweet things – OK, I love chocolate, as you know, but I don’t inhale the stuff – I don’t know why this test is necessary, or even good for you. Mine is not to question why. I don’t wear a white coat, and the white coat people get a bit snippy if you question their methods, and they make disparaging remarks about Britain’s NHS and Obamacare and things.

One thing’s for sure – a twin pregnancy in the USA is very different from a single pregnancy back home.

* * *

I’m not sure what I was expecting when I dropped Jack off at nursery. A celebration at the return of the Prodigal Son? Patsy welcoming us with open arms and tears of joy in her eyes?

A good thing I had no expectations. Patsy’s welcome, while not exactly chilly, wasn’t over-effusive either.

“You’re welcome to attend the party yourself,” she said. “If you want. A lot of the parents are coming back to take pictures and videos.”

Another parenting obsession I never quite get: compulsive filming of the minutiae of your child’s life. I always used to forget my camera for these occasions, although since getting one of those smart phones that does everything, I’ve improved.

“I don’t think that will be possible,” I told Patsy, and explained about the three hour appointment.

She nodded, sympathetically. Or maybe it was mock-sympathetically.

“But you’ll be back to pick him up on time, won’t you?” she asked. “You know our policy on children being left behind at pick-up time.”

“Of course.” She takes them to the dog pound or something. I paused. “It’s taken quite a bit of persuading Jack to come back to school today, so you will watch out for him, won’t you, and make sure there aren’t any…incidents?”

Any sympathy, real or mock, in Patsy’s expression dissolved instantly, and she drew herself up to her full height, although as she’s shorter than me, it wasn’t that impressive.

“I always keep a strict eye on the children. You should know that, Mrs. Patrick.”

Since she was offended enough to call me “Mrs. Patrick”, I refrained from pointing out that she’d been oblivious to previous incidents involving Dominic and my son, and hoped that she’d taken my point.

“Call me on my cell phone if you have any problems,” I said.

And left.

* * *

By the time I reached the hospital, it was 11:45 and I felt ill with hunger. Normally this test is done first thing in the morning to avoid lengthy starvation, but with the babysitting situation, I had no choice but to do it later in the day. Either that, or drag Jack along with me to the appointment, which would send my blood pressure up and precipitate a whole new series of tests to determine the exact cause of my sudden hypertension.

Starvation it was, then.

The appointment wasn’t that bad, really. I brought along a book and my iPod, and once I’d drunk the fizzy goo (and kept it down) I was free to wander around the hospital until it was time to have more blood drawn. Syringes don’t bother me any more. It’s one of the dubious benefits of pregnancy – you become immune to having needles shoved in every available vein.

So, perverse as it sounds, without Jack I had a very peaceful three hours. I toured the maternity wing – more like a hotel than a hospital ward – walked in the gardens, did a little window shopping in the on-site gift shop, lay down on a couch in the diagnostics office and read my book…

In fact, everything was hunky-dorey until the nurse was stabbing me for the final time, and, in the depths of my handbag, my mobile phone began to ring.

It’s not a subtle ring tone. It’s one you have to answer straight away or die of embarrassment.

“R-E-S-P-E-C-T! Find out what it means to me! R-E-S-P-E-C-T! Take care, TCB, Oooh…”

I scrabbled around in my bag with my free hand, but the phone was buried under my book and purse and iPod.

“Honey, stay still,” the nurse said. “I can’t draw blood if you’re moving around. Least, not from where I want to draw blood. If that call’s important, they’ll call back or leave a message.”

I slumped back in the chair and watched my blood slither into the tube.

“Sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me…”

After a few seconds Aretha Franklin subsided, and the phone pinged to tell me someone had left a message.

The nurse withdrew her needle for the final time and stuck a Spongebob Squarepants plaster in the crook of my elbow.

I retrieved my phone and dialled the voicemail number.

“Mrs Patrick, this is Patsy Traynor at the nursery school.” Her voice was icy. “I realise you’re busy, but if you could come to the school as soon as you can… I’m afraid there’s been an incident.”

* * *

I burst through the front door of the school, and the polite hum of chattering parents dimmed as everyone turned and looked at me.

“Where’s Patsy?” I demanded of one parent, the mother of Tom, the little Milky Bar Kid.

She pointed in the direction of Patsy’s dusty office, and seemed about to say something, but I was already storming towards the office door.

“An incident” Patsy had said in her message – no mention of what type of incident, or whether anyone was hurt, and yet, when I tried to ring her back, the line was busy. Lucky for me that no state troopers were on the road at the time I was driving here from the hospital, or I’d have clocked up a speeding ticket to add to the fun.

I opened the door, and a small sobbing tornado hurled itself at my legs.

“Mummy! Dom said I hit him, and I didn’t, I only didn’t give him the lollipop.”

I sat on the nearest chair, plonked Jack on my knee, and wiped his face.

“And there wasn’t ice cream, either,” he snuffled.

I looked around the office. Patsy sat regally in her office chair, her hands folded on the desk. Against the wall with the framed preschool artwork sat Caroline with Dominic on her lap. Dominic had bits of dried blood caked around his nostrils.

“Is this true?” I asked Patsy.

“That’s correct. There was no ice cream,” she said.

I rolled my eyes. “About Jack hitting Dominic?”

“Your son,” Caroline said, through a tiger-mum smile, “has broken my son’s nose.”

Patsy nodded vigorously. “I’m afraid I can’t tolerate behaviour like that in my school, Mrs. Patrick.”

I did first aid courses with St John’s Ambulance many years ago, and his nose looked ok to me. No swelling – actually, it looked as if he’d just had a mild nosebleed.

“And my son,” I replied, “says he didn’t hit yours. Mrs. Traynor, did you see what happened?”

“Well, not exactly, but Dominic says Jack hit him with a toy car, and he’s a truthful child, so…”

“And so is Jack a truthful child. But you thought it would be advantageous to believe the child of the mother who is contributing the most to your new playscape, correct?”

Patsy turned an interesting shade of mauve, and began to splutter.

“Certainly not! I would never–”

“Actually, you would. I think we already determined that, several weeks ago. Jack, sweetheart, take no notice of these nasty ladies, and tell Mummy yourself what happened.”

Jack sniffed; his chest hitched. “I was playing with the Tonka truck. The big one. And…”

“Yes?” I encouraged.

“And Dom wanted it, and he took it off me, only I said no, it was my turn with the Tonka truck cos he plays with it all the time, so I tried to take it off of him, but he hit me on the head with it.” He sniffed again. “And I pushed him away, and the truck banged his nose.”

“Did you tell Miss Patsy this?”

“I tried to tell her, but she was being cross because Dominic’s nose had a bit of blood coming out of it and she said I did it and I was bad.”

I glared at Patsy. “Guilty until proved innocent in this place, is it?”

“Nevertheless,” she said, “no one saw the incident, and therefore… Dominic, is this true what Jack said?”

Dominic shook his head and sucked his thumb.

“One child’s word against another, I’m afraid, and given Dominic’s injured nose, I must give the benefit of the doubt to him.”

“Unbelievable.” I rocked Jack and kissed the top of his head. “It’s OK, sweetie. Mummy knows you’re telling the truth.”

After all — if your mother won’t take your side, who will?

There was a tapping on the door, and someone poked her head into the room – Tom-the-Milky-Bar-Kid’s mother.

“I think you should see this,” she said, holding up a smartphone. “We were videoing the party, and we caught the, um, incident on our camera.”

* * *

“I have never been so insulted in my life,” Caroline said as she stuffed Dominic’s arms into his pink fleece. “I donate generously to your playground fund, and then you tell me you won’t tolerate Dominic’s behaviour? He’s just a little boy.”

“No one would guess it,” I muttered, “the way she keeps his hair long and dresses him like the Sugar Plum Fairy. No wonder he wants to bash other kids’ brains out with monster trucks.”

“What?”

“You heard.” I smiled sweetly at her.

“We disapprove strongly of telling lies, especially ones designed to deliberately get other children into trouble,” Patsy said. “This is really quite serious, Mrs Hatton.”

Goodness. Caroline was now a Mrs.

“Well,” she said, “I’m taking him home, and he won’t be coming back. Come on, Dominic. Mummy’s going for a massage now, and while I’m there we’ll buy you some cream for your dry scalp. I know it’s $50 but you’re worth it. I can’t have a child of mine with dandruff.”

She tried to push past me with Dominic, and as she did so, I looked down at her son’s head, with its mat of long curls. There were white flakes, sure, but —

“Take him to CVS instead,” I said. “That’s not dandruff. That’s headlice. I’ve seen them before, at playgroup back home.”

Patsy’s face was horrified, and I remembered what Maggie and Anna had said about her aversion to things like impetigo. She came out from behind her desk and peered at Dom’s head.

“Definitely headlice,” she said with a shudder. “Perhaps you should consider getting his hair cut. And check your own hair. The health spa you go to on Main Street isn’t renowned for its hygiene, you know. When you’ve lived here as long as I have, you learn these things the hard way. My husband caught scabies from one of their towels after a sauna there.”

Poor Caroline. I had to bite my lips to stop myself laughing as she flounced out of the room.

“Libby,” Patsy said. “I am so sorry. What can I do to make this up to you, in any way at all?”

I stared at her. She really thought she could make this up to me?

“A refund of the weeks Jack hasn’t attended would be a good start.”

“Of course. Consider it done. In fact –” She pulled out a chequebook, scribbled one, ripped it out and handed it to me. “There.”

I glanced at it, nodded, and put it in my pocket.

“And how was the test today?” she asked. “Not pleasant, I imagine.”

“It was fine. I have to have lots of tests, of course, because of –” I broke off. She didn’t know about the twins. What else did Maggie say? Something about her loving twins in school for the publicity? “Because I’m expecting twins,” I finished.

Patsy clapped her hands together. “How wonderful! I love to have twins in the school. My husband is one, you know. You must bring them in when they arrive, and we will have a photograph of Jack with his siblings. My relative at the Woodhaven Observer will be thrilled to have the story in the paper.”

Big story. Small town news. I suddenly appeared to have joined Patsy Traynor’s club of Elite Moms.

She opened the office door for me, and I stepped into the classroom, where quite a few parents still milled around, gathering up paper plates and cups.

“Now that the, um, cause of Jack’s distress is no longer here,” Patsy said in a low voice, “I hope we will see him again next week.”

She held out her hand, and I took it. Held it. Looked her warmly in the eye.

“Patsy,” I said, raising my voice so the other parents could hear, “I would do a three-hour glucose test every day for the rest of my life before I brought my son back to your school ever again. Goodbye.”

I squeezed Jack’s hand. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get some ice cream.”

.

Next post: LIBBY’S LIFE #40 – R&R: ABBA style

Previous post: LIBBY’S LIFE #38 – The battle of the tigers

Click here to read Libby’s Life from the first episode

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Image: Travel – Map of the World by Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigit

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Talking with former expat Meagan Adele Lopez about travel, romance & novel/screenplay writing

16 Comments Posted by on February 22, 2012

Earlier this week I caught up with Meagan Adele Lopez, actor, world traveler, blogger and now a first-time author. She self-published her novel, Three Questions: Because a quarter-life crisis needs answers, in October of last year. It was featured on The Displaced Nation’s post Best of 2011: Books for, by and about expats.

Meagan — who is also known as MAL and the Lady Who Lunches (after her blog of that title) — may have just three questions, but I had quite a few more! I wanted to find out what inspired her to write her book, which she is now attempting to turn into a screenplay — the story behind the story…

Here’s what she had to say.

Meagan, I think it’s fair to say that you’ve been around a bit — I mean that in the nicest possible sense! Would you mind telling us a bit about your background — where you grew up, what you studied?
Do you mean I’ve been around as in I’ve lived for a long time, or do you mean I’ve traveled loads? (I won’t bother going to the other possibility!) Actually, I am getting up there in age — just six more months of my twenties; but there’s no need to rub it in, Tony! Just kidding. I think I’ll be relieved to be out of my twenties. What a crazy ride they were!

No, of course I wasn’t referring to your age — I’m an English gentleman, remember? I meant, you’ve lived in quite a few places — and that was before you moved abroad.
By the time I was 12 years old, I had lived in 12 different houses, and four different states. I pretty much grew up in a suburb of Baltimore called Towson. I say “pretty much” because I also lived in Tennessee and New Jersey for two years in between. But Towson is where I call home.

You have a passion for acting. When did you develop it?
Since I was eight years old, acting was all I wanted to do. For high school, I auditioned for a conservatory arts school called Baltimore School for the Arts (it boasts Jada Pinkett, Josh Charles and Tupac as students), where I was lucky enough to be trained by professional actors everyday.

Funnily enough, I wanted to be an actor, too. What drew you to the profession?
I had this fear that my life would pass too fast, and acting was somehow a way to slow down time, and be “in the moment.” Nowadays I find that writing is what does this for me. I am able to record thoughts and moments forever. Very existential, I know.

But you haven’t completely lost your passion for acting — I see you’ve instilled it in your main character, Adele (“Del”), in Three Questions. And I noticed there’s a mention of a horror film in your author’s bio — could you tell us a bit about that?
About the horror film? Oh no, you really don’t want to know about that (wink). But okay, my first starring role was in a horror movie called Sleepy Hollow High, about students who believe that the legend of Sleepy Hollow is real. It’s one of those films that is so cheesy and kitschy that it might be considered entertaining at some level. At the time, I was just excited to be in something, but it certainly wasn’t Oscar-worthy — ahem — at all. 

And you also got into some major motion pictures?
My first speaking role in a big Hollywood movie was as a cocktail guest in Traffic, with Catherine Zeta Jones and Michael Douglas — now there’s an Oscar worthy film. Unfortunately, my lines got cut — but you can still see me shaking Michael Douglas’s hand. I got my Screen Actors Guild card from acting in small parts in Enemy of the State, a spy-thriller starring Will Smith, and The Replacements, a college football film starring Keanu Reeves. Numb3rs was my first TV show.

Wow — you gave all that up to become a writer?
I got disillusioned with acting after working in casting for four years. I saw how completely random and superficial some of the choices can be for who gets cast. I’d gotten into acting for a much more altruistic goal — I wanted to make a difference in how people see the world — but ultimately realized that the place where I could make a real difference, because I have control over my own success, was with writing. Without great content, after all, actors couldn’t do their job!

Well you’re having plenty of success with writing. In addition to the book (which we’ll come to, don’t worry!), you started up a popular expat blog, A Lady Who Lunches, while you were living in the UK. Now that you’ve repatriated, and are living in Chicago, are you still keeping it up?
When I got to Chicago, the blog went through a bit of an identity crisis. Even though I’d never lived in that city, writing about the adventures of a newbie Chicagoan didn’t really interest me. Especially since I was no longer lunching — I was working, hard. Though I still have the same URL and twitter handle (@theladylunches), I now call the blog by my own name, and I’m glad I’ve kept it up. It’s a built-in fan platform that has helped me to sell my novel.

You’re also something of a social media guru. Are there any secrets you can impart to other bloggers about building an audience?
I didn’t set out for the blog to become popular (and thank you for saying so). It was a lot of ground work, as well as trial and error. You can’t expect results from a blog unless you’re updating it frequently, creating a community with other similar, like-minded people, and engaging with them on a consistent basis. My biggest piece of advice to other bloggers is to take a course in SEO. I never really paid attention to SEO, and it wasn’t until I took a course that I realized the importance of knowing the basics. Simple things like: are people even searching for the topics that you’re writing? Are you wasting two hours of writing time on a topic that gets only 100 hits per month?

Now let’s turn to Three Questions, which follows the developing love between two young people — who have only met each other once, by chance, on a night out in Las Vegas. The love interest, Guy, is from England, as is your real-life boyfriend, Jock. So what I’d like to know is, just how much of the book is autobiographical?
This is a question that Jock and I dodge quite often! I would say that about sixty percent of the book is autobiographical. There are many similar personality characteristics between Guy (Del’s boyfriend) and Jock, and between Del and me, Even the outline of the story conforms quite closely to what happened to Jock and me. Jock and I did meet in Las Vegas before his trip to Africa, and we did write letters back and forth to get to know each other. Hey — they always say to write about what you know, so that’s what I did! However, “how” things happened — and obviously the ending — are all very different.

One of my favorite aspects of the book was the use of the three questions in each email between Del and Guy, which the couple used to get to know one another during their long separation. It’s genius! Where did the idea for that come from?
Thanks, Tony! It came from Jock, actually. He used to play a questions game with his mates in England when they were out at the pubs. They were quirky questions like “If you were an animal, what would you be?” When Jock went traveling through Africa and we had only met that one night, he decided to take a slightly different spin on it, and ask me three VERY different questions to get to know me. It was such a great way to get to know someone, and build up the intensity and connection. I highly recommend it for anyone who has a long-distance relationship.

Tell us about the screenplay for the novel.
At the end of last year, I raised some money through a Kickstarter campaign to take the novel to the next level, which hopefully will include turning it into a movie. I’m working on the screenplay now, and then I’ll pitch it to Hollywood. What they do with it after that is up to them.

To give you a taster, Meagan has just released this movie-style trailer for the book, which is awesome!

Right, here’s something your fans will be keen to know the answer to: are you writing another book, and can you share any juicy details with us? Is it about travel again?
I’m now working on a second novel, which — particularly as a citizen of The Displaced Nation — you’ll be interested to learn is about someone who is forcibly, not voluntarily, displaced. It’s about a Cuban teenager who was torn from her homeland and true love in the early 1960s — and the struggles, ghosts and eventual success she faces in the United States leading up to today.

Love is a recurring theme in your writing, and one we’ve been looking into recently at The Displaced Nation. So, post Valentines Day, do you have an advice for the singletons out there, wherever they are?
My only advice is to figure out who you are first, and what you want before worrying about finding someone. I really believe that the right man or woman will come when you finally decide that you’re the most important person in your life, and you are taking care of you.

And I have to ask this of someone who has written such a beautiful and memorable love story; tell me about True Love. Does it exist? Is there one person for each of us?
Wow — that’s the kind of question that years ago, I always used to ask everyone else. I never thought I’d be on the receiving end. (Maybe I am getting old?!) I come from a family where love comes multiple times in their lives, so for a long time I never believed that there could be only one person for me. What I’ve come to learn is that with a mixture of timing, chemistry and hard work, true love can certainly be created. How else do I explain running into Jock in a bar in Vegas on Easter Sunday, and thus creating a life out of it, despite our different backgrounds, cultures and nationalities?

Yes, how does a girl from Towson get together with a bloke from Portsmouth? Can I ask, how is Jock coping with the transition to life in Chicago?
Ah… besides the constant yelling at the way we drive, the lack of manners that Americans have when opening doors, and absolutely hating the egos and pompous attitudes of our politicians and media? I would say he’s adjusted much better than I did when I was in England! (I did a lot better in Paris!) Luckily, Chicago has a variety of cultures. He has actually started a business with another Englishman, and found another good friend who’s English. Plus, I think he secretly loves the attention that his accent brings him.

And will your love story have a traditional ending — any plans to tie the knot?
He has one more year before he has to get down on his hands and knees. I gave him five years not thinking he would take the entire five! But we’ve had a few cross-continental moves in the past four years, which has made it challenging to find the right moment.

In Three Questions, Del describes her perfect future as “living by the water in a big city, traveling as much as possible.” You’ve traveled and lived in France and England, and now you’re living in the Windy City, presumably somewhere near the lake… Have you found that perfect future yet? Or is your dream different from Del’s?
Perhaps when I first started writing the book, that was my dream. But success is very important to me as well. I want to leave this life with a feeling that I have left a significant mark on people’s lives. I don’t think I will feel satisfied until that happens, which means I may always be striving to better myself, to make a difference… On a more practical note, I can see myself back in SoCal or having a flat in Paris eventually. That’s not too much to ask for, is it??

Thanks very much, Meagan! It was great chatting with you.

* * *

So, what do you all think? I loved Meagan’s book Three Questions and I’m not normally a fan of love stories and chick lit. I strongly recommend you all give it a read. Three Questions is available now on Amazon.com for the Kindle and, most excitingly of all, is now in paperback!
Three Questions on Amazon Kindle
Three Questions in Paperback

And luckily for you lot, Meagan has also agreed to participate in a giveaway, just for Displaced Nation readers!!!

She’s agreed to give a free ebook to the first 15 people who tweet: I want a free copy of @theladylunches’ new romance from afar novel, #ThreeQuestions via @displacednation

AND, she’s offered to give away a free copy of the paperback to the best comment in the comments section.

So what are you waiting for? Let’s chat 🙂

STAY TUNED for tomorrow’s episode from our long-running expat soap, Libby’s Life. You can look forward to a battle with tiger-mums, a three-hour glucose tolerance test, one suspected case of galloping dandruff, and the crowning glory of a Valentine’s Day party for three-year-olds. (What, not keeping up with Libby? Read the first three episodes of her expat adventures.)

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Images: Meagan Adele Lopez; Three Questions book cover (designed by Kathleen Bergen).

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10 expat books ripe for movie adaptations

5 Comments Posted by on February 21, 2012

Those who have been following this blog for some time are probably all too aware of my unhealthy preoccupation as to what constitutes an expat or travel book.

Is it, as often seems the case when I browse the expat blogosphere, that expat books must occupy themselves with the oh-so-amusing hi-jinks of expat life? The result almost invariably of such approach is that we are depressingly left with another third-rate knock-off of Bill Bryson for us to throw on the bonfire.

So when considering which expat books are ripe for movie adaptations, my first thought is that the film world, not to mention the world in general — at least, the one I want to live in — really doesn’t need any more travesties such as Under the Tuscan Sun, A Good Year or — most horrifying of all — Eat, Pray, Love. So with that in mind I will nominate the following 10 expat books as being ripe for interesting adaptations.

10. A Moveable Feast (1964, revised 2009)

Author: Ernest Hemingway
Synopsis: Hemingway’s posthumously published memoir detailing his years as a young American expat in Paris socializing with the likes of F. Scott Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein and Ezra Pound.
Film pitch: Perhaps now is the perfect time for an adaptation of A Moveable Feast. The surprising success of Woody Allen‘s Midnight in Paris will perhaps have whetted Hollywood’s appetite for a more serious take on the same subject matter.

9. One Fat Englishman (1963)

Author: Kingsley Amis
Synopsis: Inspired by a year Amis spent teaching at Princeton, One Fat Englishman follows the badly behaved Roger Micheldene with Amis’s typical brio. An English gentleman who is affronted by everything on the American scene, Roger fails to see how his presence might adversely affect Anglo-American relations.
Film pitch: Cast Timothy Spall as Roger and watch the fireworks.

8. A Burnt Out Case (1960)

Author: Graham Greene
Synopsis: A man named Querry arrives at a leper colony in the Congo. He assists the colony’s doctor, who diagnoses him as suffering depression. It is revealed that Querry is in fact a world-famous architect, though he is hiding other secrets, too.
Film pitch: Perhaps Greene’s bleakest work — which may explain why it hasn’t been filmed previously despite being optioned twice by Otto Preminger (Greene was said to be thankful that it was never made). I would argue, however, that it has all the material for a fascinating film.

7. Travels through France and Italy (1766)

Author: Tobias Smollett
Synopsis: After the sad death of his daughter, Tobias Smollett and his wife left England for a tour of France and Italy. Detailing the quarrels Smollett has on his journey with those pesky Continentals, this is a very funny book.
Film pitch: Yes, I am suggesting that someone should make a movie based on an 18th-century travelogue. If Robbie Coltrane and John Sessions can turn Boswell and Johnson’s tour of the Hebrides into a delightful TV movie then I think the same could be done with this.

6. The Long Day Wanes: A Malayan Trilogy (1956-59)

Author: Anthony Burgess
Synopsis: Burgess’s first three novels are concerned with the character of Victor Crabbe, a teacher in a village in Malaya (now Malaysia). Based upon Burgess’s own experiences as a British civil servant in Malaya, the three novels that make up The Long Day Wanes detail the death of Empire and the birth pains of a newly independent nation.
Film pitch: Other than A Clockwork Orange, whose adaptation Burgess had strong misgivings over, Burgess’s work often seems overlooked for movie adaptations. It really shouldn’t be.

5. The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet (2010)

Author: David Mitchell
Synopsis: Until Commodore Perry in 1853 anchored four warships off the Japanese coast and so opened up Japan to western trade, Japan had been a “locked country” (sakoku) where it was illegal for a foreigner to enter Japan and for a Japanese subject to leave. The exception to this was at Dejima, in Nagasaki, where trade with some select foreign powers was allowed. This fascinating piece of history is the basis for David Mitchell’s latest novels. Set in 1799, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet details a young Dutch trader who has come to Dejima to make his fortune though he discovers a lot more.
Film pitch: The book has all the makings of a wonderful historical epic.

4. Up Above the World (1966)

Author: Paul Bowles
Synopsis: Dr and Mrs Slade are an American couple touring Central America. A chance encounter with an elderly woman leads to a tense and gripping chain of events.
Film pitch:A disturbing and intense work typical of Bowles, it would make for a deeply compelling thriller.

3. Burmese Days (1934)

Author: George Orwell
Synopsis: Similar to Burgess’s The Long Day Wanes, this novel is concerned with the dying days of Empire. Orwell, who was himself an officer in the Indian Imperial Police Force in Burma, paints a depressing picture of expatriate life that is based around the stultifying social hub of the European club.
Film pitch: Orwell’s first novel and while certainly not his best work, even a bad Orwell novel is still worthy of consideration.

2. Henderson the Rain King (1959)

Author: Saul Bellow
Synopsis: Eugene Henderson is a rich American with an unfulfilled desire. Not knowing quite what it is, he hopes he will discover it by going to Africa. Through a series of misadventures Eugene Henderson finds himself away from his original group and in the village of Wariri in Africa. After performing a feat of strength, Eugene is adopted by the villagers as the Wariri Rain King.
Film pitch: Bellow’s funniest book, Henderson the Rain King could be pitched as an intellectual Joe Versus the Volcano (or maybe not — that’s a terrible pitch).

1. Turkish Embassy Letters (1763)

Author: Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
Synopsis: An important writer in her own right, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu was the wife of Edward Wortley Montagu, who was appointed as the ambassador at Constantinople. Accompanying her husband just after recovering from contracting smallpox marring her famed beauty, Lady Wortley Montagu wrote about her observations in numerous letters. These letters form a fascinating look at the Ottoman Empire — from how they inoculated against smallpox to the zenanas, special areas of the house reserved for women — as observed by an aristocratic English woman of the time.
Film pitch: Just think what a great biopic you could make about her.

Note: If you click on the book titles in the above list, you’ll be taken to Amazon, where the books can be purchased — except in the case of Tobias Smollett’s travelogue, which goes to Gutenberg, where he can be read FOR FREE!!

STAY TUNED for tomorrow’s post, an interview with first-time novelist Meagan Adele Lopez, and her plans for turning the book into a film.

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LIBBY’S LIFE — A technical malfunction

4 Comments Posted by on February 16, 2012

LIBBY:

Well, this week I fully intended to tell you about my battle with certain tiger-mums, a three-hour glucose tolerance test, a suspected case of galloping dandruff caused by the dry weather, and how all that fits into the context of a Valentine’s Day party for three-year-olds. And I shall still do that — next week.

But here’s the thing: just as I was sitting down to write this week’s episode, Oliver comes home early from work, and says, “Come on, Libs — get packed. I’m taking you away for a couple of nights. Then throw some stuff in a bag for Jack, because Maggie’s having him while we’re gone.”

It’s just so easy when a bloke puts it like that, isn’t it? “Throw some stuff in a bag for Jack” indeed. I mean, I hadn’t done the laundry or anything…and then I look in Jack’s chest of drawers, and found that someone had done the laundry. We have a laundry fairy I didn’t know about!

“Maggie,” Oliver said. He looked all smug.

“Did you ask her to do it?”

“Well…no,” he admitted. “But when I asked her if she’d have Jack because I was planning a romantic surprise weekend, she said something about surprises being one thing, and nasty shocks being quite another, especially in your condition, so I’d better give her a spare door key if I didn’t want another surprise trip to the hospital.”

So there we are. If you remember, Oliver promised me a trip to a spa as compensation for his mother putting me in hospital before Christmas, so that’s where we are going.

“Do they have seaweed wraps?” I asked him, thinking about Caroline’s bony ankles and comparing them to my somewhat waterlogged ones.

He looked puzzled.

“They have white towelling dressing-gowns, from what I can tell from the brochure. Or do you mean wraps like those crispy chicken ones from McDonald’s?”

Ah, bless him. He tries so hard. I’m sure we’ll have a lovely time.

I’ll tell you all about it week after next.

KATE:

Libby is being far too nice and neglecting to mention that I was writing her diary this week, not her — as she said, it was about her “battle with certain tiger-mums, a three-hour glucose tolerance test, a suspected case of galloping dandruff caused by the dry weather, and how all that fits into the context of a Valentine’s Day party for three-year-olds.”

It was a really interesting episode, too.

Such a shame that something malfunctioned somewhere in the bowels of my computer, and despite having saved many times, I lost 2200 words of the episode just when I was about to click Publish.

Oh well. When I’ve finished banging my head against any convenient hard surface, I’m sure it will seem very funny in retrospect.

See you next week. :-/

Meanwhile, here are some links to my own favorite episodes:

#34:  Shadows on a screen – I wrote this one because a good friend who’s a Libby fan wanted to hear more about the pregnancy. When she asked me to do this, I didn’t know at the time that Libby was expecting twins. It was a surprise for everyone.

#11: Neither more nor less than a pig – This episode introduces Carla Gianni. The pig thing, while a surprise, was not entirely unexpected. I’ve known Carla, Frankie, and the Maxwell Plum for a long time. They all came into existence in my half-written novel, which has the working title of “Back to the Green.” Billy Joel fans among you may be able to read something into that — also, why there’s a village green in Woodhaven, an Italian restaurant, and why there are so many flashbacks to the past in Libby.

#5: Decaffeinated sherry to toast a Royal Wedding – Written in a befuddled, sleep-deprived state on the morning of April 29 last year, having got myself up at an unholy hour to tweet about the wedding with ML and Anthony. It was the first time I’d met Sandra, the mother-in-law. I blame Princess Beatrice’s hat for the way she turned out.

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LIBBY’S LIFE #38 – The battle of the tigers

Leave a comment Posted by on February 9, 2012

Two weeks with Jack at home all the time, and I’m climbing the walls. I’d got used to three hours of freedom a couple of times a week while he was at nursery, and this makes me even more apprehensive about how I will cope when the twins come. Maggie said she will help, and I’m grateful, but there’s only so much I can ask of her.

My due date is getting ever nearer, I need reinforcements – so this afternoon Jack and I are going out.

In other words, I’m braving the coffee morning posse again.

Today, though, it’s not a coffee morning but a pot luck lunch at Anita’s place. I’m going armed with a big plate of egg mayonnaise sandwiches and some Lays Salt and Vinegar, and with a bit of luck, Caroline and her devil child won’t be there. The lunch coincides with Patsy’s nursery school schedule. I can relax, and Jack can let off steam with other children and make a mess in someone else’s house.

If only it was Caroline’s house he was making a mess in.

* * *

I don’t know why I didn’t like these women before. They’re actually quite nice, once you get to know them and find you have things in common, like a love of American Idol and complete bewilderment at the rules of the game that Americans call football.

For total bonding, of course, there’s nothing like having a good bitch about an absent member of the coffee morning posse while leaning against the kitchen counters. The kitchen is always the best place for a cozy chat.

And it seemed I wasn’t the only one who wasn’t keen on Caroline or young Dominic.

“Isn’t it lovely and peaceful without them both?” Anita said. “Last time they came here, that child decided to cut open the beanbag in our basement. Polystyrene beads all over the place, sticking to everything. I had to empty the vacuum cleaner five times, and I’m still finding those sodding beads. So when it came to my turn to host again, I announced a pot luck lunch instead of coffee morning. While Dominic is at school, Caroline has serious me-me-me time, and the promise of chips and brownies won’t tempt her away from her weekly massage.”

“And she won’t do a thing to discipline Dominic,” Charlie said. “When we were at Julia’s house once, he clobbered Julia’s little girl, Sadie, with a Barbie doll. Really hard, too. Poor Sadie.”

“On Sadie’s head, mind. She had a big lump for quite a few days.” Julia, the tiger-mum who had given me a lift to my first coffee morning back in July, joined the conversation. I was surprised, having always assumed she and Caroline were friends. “And Caroline didn’t say anything to Dominic, apart from asking him if he thought he’d made a ‘good choice’.”

“That sounds familiar,” I said. “He picks on Jack at school, and it’s got to the stage where Jack won’t go any more. So I’m paying for his place, because Patsy Traynor has this rule about giving two months’ notice, and it’s a total waste of money.”

Julia and Charlie exchanged glances.

“And let me guess – Patsy Traynor is turning a blind eye because Caroline has given her a big backhander?” asked Julia.

I almost choked on my egg sandwich.

“How do you know? Does Patsy make a habit of this?”

“I couldn’t tell you about Patsy,” Anita said, “but Caroline thinks money will get her out of any situation. Dominic had a bad habit of biting at one time. Well, OK, a lot of kids do, but Dominic would draw blood. And instead of putting him in time out–”

“Or biting the little bugger back,” Charlie murmured.

“— on one occasion, when he did it to some poor child at playgroup, she offered the mum fifty dollars.”

“Why?” I asked, confounded.

Julia shrugged. “The only apology she knows how to make?”

Anita snorted. “That’s too charitable. It was hush money. Except that it didn’t stay hush. The mother made a real hullabaloo and told Caroline she didn’t care if she was the boss’s wife or not, it didn’t give her brat an excuse to take chunks out of other kids, and she could keep her stinking money, and she’d see Caroline in court.”

“And did she?”

“She might have done – she watched an awful lot of Judge Judy – but instead that woman and her husband and two kids were on the plane back to Milton Keynes two weeks later.”

I was silent.

“It could have been coincidence, of course,” Julia said, “but if so, it was a very convenient one. So, Libby. I don’t know what you’re intending to do – but let me suggest that whatever it is, you do it carefully. Unless you actually want Oliver to be a victim of the next round of redundancies, of course.”

I shuddered. “We can’t afford that,” I admitted. “Not with this on the way.” I patted my stomach.

“Do you know what it is yet?” Charlie asked. “Do you want a boy to keep Jack company, or a girl to even the numbers up?”

Oliver had been very good at keeping this news quiet, I thought. Or maybe men just didn’t talk about stuff like that at work. Perhaps the men he worked with didn’t know I was pregnant at all.

No matter. Time to drop the bombshell myself.

“It’s the best of both worlds, I suppose,” I said. “We’re having one of each. A Megan and a Sam.”

It wouldn’t stay secret for long now. Want to spread news or a rumour in expat mum world? Dish the dirt at coffee morning. Or pot luck lunch.

The reaction was gratifying. Everyone gathered into the kitchen as Anita and Charlie shrieked the news, and women I’d never met before offered congratulations. Suddenly, there I was: a local celebrity, a major fish in our little paddling pool.

“If you need anything at all…” they all kept saying. “It’s tough, being far away from your family. You’ve only got to ask, if you need help. Just say the word. Just shout.”

Julia nodded. “Honestly, we mean it. We all pitch in and help when anyone here has a baby. You know – organise a meal delivery rota, that sort of thing. You’ll need more help than anyone has before. No one else has had twins over here.”

I felt quite teary. Hormones, no doubt – but I hadn’t expected this level of affection and camaraderie. I hugged Julie, feeling guilty that I’d disliked her so much when I first met her.

“Group hug? That isn’t usually on the pot luck menu.”

Caroline’s crystal tones cut across the estrogen-fuelled scene. Or whatever hormone was rampaging around me right now.

“The masseuse was ill, so I thought I’d come here for half an hour, and call in at the jeweler’s to have a look at the earrings Terry said he’d get me when the baby’s born. Only three weeks to go, girls! But what’s all the fuss about? What have I missed?”

Julia shot her a sideways smirk. “We’re celebrating. Libby’s just told us she’s having twins.”

Caroline had been spray-tanned quite recently. Very subtly, so as not to look like a Jersey Shore cast member, but perhaps it was a bit too subtle. It didn’t hide the way her face turned pale green at this piece of information.

“Twins?” she said, as if she’d heard the word before but couldn’t quite remember what it meant.

“Yes, twins.” Anita turned to me. “Isn’t it funny? Caroline thought she might be having twins at one time, but of course, she isn’t. And you are instead.”

“I suppose Terry won’t be coughing up for the big earrings anymore, will he?” Julia asked, with a huge false smile of sympathy.

I’d been watching them all talk, my head swiveling back and forth, not quite understanding what was going on – until Julia mentioned the earrings. Then I remembered the coffee morning back in July. The one-upmanship competition. Caroline had said her OB/GYN thought it might be twins, and in that case she, Caroline, was going to look for some four-carat rocks.

Caroline coughed. “Probably not. I expect Oscar will buy them for Libby instead.”

“Oliver,” I corrected. “But no. He won’t. He has this funny way of thinking that a baby or two is gift enough for both of us.”

Well, it might be what he thought.

“And he’s quite right.” Charlie put her arm round my shoulders. “You’ve got family, friends, love – why would you need anything else?”

Actually, I’d love a pair of earrings or something like that, but it wouldn’t occur to Oliver, and it seemed a bit shallow to suggest it to him. So for now I could take the high ground. And what was wrong with a nice bunch of flowers anyway?

Caroline had a bright smile sort of stapled to her face. “Well, Terry sees things a little differently, so I still have to pick something out at the jeweler’s. Call it a memento of the occasion.”

“Memento?” Anita echoed. “What the bloody hell do you need a memento for? You’ll have a nine pound boy – isn’t that and a few stitches reminder enough of your two days in hospital?”

Julia said, absentmindedly, “Libby’s having a boy and a girl. Sam and Megan. Pretty name, Megan, isn’t it?”

Caroline pressed her lips together and hoisted her Coach bag higher on her shoulder. “Must be off,” she said – and left.

Everyone was silent until the front door had banged shut.

“Bad Julia,” said Julia. “Bad, bad, bad. Stay behind after school and write five hundred times, I must not torture Caroline. She wanted a girl,” she explained to me. “She’s always wanted a girl. That’s why Dom’s hair is so long still. She treats him like a girl, poor child. I’m all for not imposing stereotypes, but really – buying him a Snow White costume for Halloween? She should be arrested for child abuse.”

“You look tired, Libs,” Charlie said. “Why don’t you go home and have a sleep, and one of us will drive Jack to you in a couple of hours?”

“I’ll do it,” Julia offered. “I’d be glad to, even if you hadn’t just made my day. I’ve been waiting for that woman to get taken down a couple of pegs ever since we arrived in Woodhaven.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I think I will. I’m really grateful, Julia.”

And don’t get me wrong – I was.

But I was also a little troubled. If I’d taken on one new role as expat mum celebrity, it seemed I’d also taken on another – that of human shield in the battle of the tiger-mums.

Yes – I was troubled, all right.

.

Next post:LIBBY’S LIFE #39: Sugar and spice, and all things lice

Previous post: LIBBY’S LIFE #37 – Plots (and waistlines) thickening

Click here to read Libby’s Life from the first episode

STAY TUNED for a round up of top Valentine posts!.

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LIBBY’S LIFE #37 – Plots (and waistlines) thickening

Leave a comment Posted by on February 2, 2012

Having uncovered corruption in the most unlikely of places, Libby is seeking advice from those around her.

As always when in need of advice, encouragement, and a bit of vindictive support, I went to see Maggie.

I tried to get advice and support from Oliver, but he’s a bloke. Nursery school dirty politics don’t interest him. He was concerned that someone else’s brat was picking on our son, however, so he took Jack aside for some man-to-man words of wisdom. The gist was that if Dominic caused any more grief, Jack was to beat him to a pulp, and Dominic wouldn’t do it again. Then I informed Oliver that Dominic was the son of Caroline, and Oliver turned a little pale and told Jack that Daddy was only joking, because violence is never the answer.

Caroline is the wife of Oliver’s boss, you see.

So, slightly disgusted with my turncoat husband, off I went to visit Maggie. No double standards from her.

When Jack and I arrived at her house, a strange car was parked outside, and I hesitated for a moment. Maggie doesn’t normally have guests, and I didn’t want to interrupt, but while I stood on her porch deliberating whether or not to knock, the front door opened.

“Hi, Mag—” I started to say, before realising it wasn’t Maggie who had opened the door, but the exotic woman I’d met in the Maxwell Plum at the Christmas party.

“How wonderful to see you again!” Anna Gianni exclaimed. “Come in and sit down –  we just made coffee.”

So Jack and I sat on Maggie’s squashy blue velvet sofa and watched two squirrels playing tag around the trunk of the maple tree outside the window, while Anna and Maggie crashed around in the kitchen. Call me possessive and silly, but I felt my role of Maggie’s adopted daughter had just been usurped. Crashing around in the kitchen with Maggie was my job.

Anna carried a tray into the living room and set it on the wicker trunk Maggie used as a coffee table.

“I’ve been meaning to call you ever since New Year’s,” she said, handing me a white china cup with violets hand-painted on it. “But the restaurant’s been really busy, and Frankie’s mother hasn’t been well. I always try to follow through with my promises, but sometimes life gets in the way. Know what I mean?”

I thought about my own January, the news from the ultrasound, and the problems I was having with Patsy Traynor.

“I know what you mean.”

Maggie emerged from the kitchen with a plate of brownies, and Jack looked up hopefully. She sat down in her rocking chair and beckoned him over.

“No school today, Jack?” she asked, handing him a brownie.

Jack crammed half the brownie into his face and shook his head, chewing. Then he crammed the other half in. Brownie juice ran out of the sides of his mouth.

“Gross, Jack.” I patted my pockets for clean tissues but found only a Snickers wrapper. Anna got up from her armchair and headed for the kitchen. “We’ve got a  little B-U-L-L-Y-I-N-G problem at the moment, I’m afraid,” I said. “By another child, I mean.”

“This is at Patsy’s school?” Anna called from the kitchen.

I nodded.

“And what is dear Patsy doing about this little problem?” asked Maggie.

Anna returned with a pile of paper napkins, and used one to scrub the chocolate from Jack’s face.

“That depends on who the child is, doesn’t it?” she said. “The fact that Jack is at home suggests to me that Patsy has done nothing. The troublemaker is still at school, and therefore the mother of the troublemaker is someone Patsy feels she must suck up to.”

I stared at her. “How do you know all that?” I asked at last.

“Patsy might have got rid of the teenage zits, my dear, but she never changed her spots.” Maggie held her arms out to Jack, and he climbed on her lap. “Anna knows her of old.”

“She used to be best friends with your landlady,” Anna said. “Patsy is still the same suck-up as when she was sixteen. Anyone rich, influential, slightly different, and she was all over them, hoping for a piece of reflected power or glory. At one time you might have qualified because you’ve got a British accent, but the town is overrun with Brits now. You need to either win the lottery or do something out of the ordinary.”

I said that since I was “ordinary” personified and we’d never bought a lottery ticket, that probably meant I should start looking around for a new nursery school for Jack.

“Unless I can make it known that she takes bribes. Would Wikileaks be interested? Could I write an anonymous letter to the Woodhaven Observer?”

“You can write it by all means,” Maggie said, “but they won’t print it. The chief editor is Patsy’s uncle. And he co-owns the nursery school.”

I was shocked. “Does this kind of thing go on a lot round here?”

“All the time,” Anna said. “Woodhaven is simply a microcosm of every government in the world, with bribes and abuse of power running riot. You think this is bad? You should have been here twenty-five years ago.”

“What happened then?” I asked.

Anna hesitated. “I think that’s Maggie’s story to tell.”

Maggie looked down into her lap, and I knew this was another piece of Woodhaven’s history that I wouldn’t hear just yet.

“The only way to get by in this town,” said Anna, “is to beat them at their own game.”

I thought. “I’m not sure how I would do that.”

“You have to make your presence at Patsy’s school more desirable than this other woman’s. What’s her name?”

“Caroline. And she’s Oliver’s boss’s wife,” I added.

Anna and Maggie both sucked in their breath. “Tricky,” they agreed.

“Patsy’s a germ-phobe.” Maggie nodded at Anna. “Always was. I don’t know if we can do anything with that.” I wondered what she had in mind. A vial of anthrax? Smallpox? Typhoid? “Remember the boy with impetigo a few years ago? Banned him from the school for weeks, and when the mother finally brought him back, Patsy had given his place to someone else.”

I wondered how Patsy reconciled her germophobia with her dust-laden office, then decided that you didn’t have to be rational to be phobic about anything.

“I heard about that. And the replacement mother was expecting twins. Patsy’s husband is an identical twin,” Anna told me. “When they were first dating, he had to study for some midterm exams, so he sent his brother to take Patsy out for dinner. She never noticed the difference, she says. I often wonder about that date. Bet her husband does, too.”

“I feel that’s taking sibling devotion too far, don’t you?” Maggie murmured.

“At least ours won’t have that problem,” I said. “Not with one of each.”

Anna stared. “You’re having twins?”

“Didn’t Maggie tell you?”

“It’s not my news to broadcast, Libby.”

“Because,” Anna said with enthusiasm, “you could use this to your advantage. Patsy loves having twins at her nursery school. She gets her uncle in from the newspaper, and they do a big feature on how many sets of twins there are in one year. Local nauseating news kind of thing. And then they call in Local Fox News, and they do a piece on it, and Patsy gets a shitload of publicity and gets booked up for the next three years and can charge what she likes.” She paused to reach over for another brownie. “But you see, the thing is, there are more schools in Woodhaven now. The twins are diluted, and Patsy can’t charge what she likes any more.”

“So she just takes bribes instead,” Maggie chimed in. “But it doesn’t really help Libby. The other child, this Dominic, he has to go. Tell me, Libs, does he have impetigo? Recurring conjunctivitis? Feet covered in verrucae? She hates those in summer, when all the children run around in the wading pool.”

I shook my head sadly. “None of those, as far as I know. He’s quite lovely to look at, actually, a Little Lord Fauntleroy. He even has the blond curls. I guess she can’t bear to get his hair cut yet.”

I remembered when I finally had to take Jack for his first haircut, and all his little baby curls fell to the floor. He looked like a shorn sheep, and I cried all the way home. So I couldn’t blame Caroline for wanting to keep those curls for a while longer.

“Shame.” Anna checked her watch, then jumped out of her chair. “Jesus H Christ, I told Frankie I’d be home a half hour ago.” She bent down and pecked Maggie on the cheek.

“I’ll give you a call, Libby. Really. I promise. Don’t let Patsy Traynor get you down, OK?”

I started to say No, I wouldn’t, but she had already gone.

“You don’t often hear people curse like she does in this town, do you?” I said.

Maggie laughed. “You’d never guess her father was a Pastor in Woodhaven at one time.”

“No! What’s the story there?”

But Maggie just smiled and said nothing.

Another piece of Woodhaven history I would have to figure out myself.

.

To be continued next week

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Next: LIBBY’S LIFE #38 – The battle of the tigers

Previous: LIBBY’S LIFE #36 – Filthy cash, dirty deeds

Click here to read Libby’s Life from the first episode

STAY TUNED for Mary-Sue Wallace’s advice on matters of the heart.

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LIBBY’S LIFE #36 – Filthy cash, dirty deeds

Leave a comment Posted by on January 26, 2012

Having discovered that another child is making her son Jack’s life a misery at nursery school, Libby has decided to consult Patsy, the nursery school owner. She realises, though, that this Consultation will actually be more a Confrontation.

“Have a seat,” Patsy says, waving at the hard wooden chair on the other side of her desk.

I’ve been in Patsy’s office only once before, when I enrolled Jack at the nursery school. It’s a small room with a big smeary window and dinosaur print curtains drawn back, offering no shade against the afternoon sun that dazzles the occupant of the chair opposite Patsy.

On the wall to the right, nestling among framed finger-paintings by star students, hang assorted certificates from universities and the Commonwealth of Massachusetts – proof, presumably, that Patsy and her staff are competent to impart knowledge to our offspring. A cork board on the other wall is littered with coloured posters advertising local events and fundraisers. Many posters are several months out of date, the paper sun-faded and curling at the corners.

It’s a pretty depressing chamber, with its stegosaurus curtains and floating dust motes. Sitting here, opposite Patsy in her Chair of Power behind the coffee-ringed desk, reminds me of squirming in the office of my old GCSE English teacher, trying to explain why I hadn’t done my homework. Though my English teacher had better dress sense. She would never have come to school in Patsy’s red sweatshirt, home-decorated in acrylic paints with a spotchy picture of what looks like a psychedelic T-rex, but isn’t. “Happy 2012 – Chinese Year Of The Dragon!” trumpet the clarifying words under the T-rex.

Patsy forfeits dress sense for seasonal attire in a big way, I’ve noticed over the last couple of months.

“Is Jack sick?” she asks. “I noticed he wasn’t here today.”

I drag my eyes away from the Chinese T-rex, wondering uncomfortably if Patsy thinks I’ve been sizing up her boobs.

“He’s not sick, no. He didn’t want to come,” I say, and pause for a second. “I think he’s being bullied. By Dominic,” I add, and wait for her reaction. This is going to be a difficult conversation.

You see, Patsy doesn’t — or won’t — believe that three- and four-year olds are capable of bullying each other. This much I learned last week from overhearing her dialogue with Dominic’s mother. The child had been chucked out of a rival nursery school, allegedly for harassing his little classmates. Patsy had been sympathetic toward Caroline, the tiger-mum mother, and I’d heard her opining that bullying didn’t exist among toddlers – it was all the fault of overprotective parents’ imaginations.

I know I am not overprotective, that there is nothing wrong with my imagination, and Dominic’s ex-pre-school probably had a point. When my three-year-old refuses to get in the car to go to a place he’d previously enjoyed attending – coincidentally, before Dominic’s arrival – I know something is wrong.

Patsy, as I had anticipated, is in denial that something unpleasant should happen in her Lilliputian Utopia, and shakes her head at me patronisingly. I just bet she’s been to see that film with Meryl Streep as Margaret Thatcher.

“Oh no,” she says. “No. No, no, no. We don’t have bullying in our school. Some children are more confident than others, of course, and the, er, more sensitive souls such as Jack sometimes feel a little intimidated by the confident ones. We try to work with children like Jack, to raise their self-esteem—”

“It’s got nothing at all to do with Jack’s self-esteem!” I splutter. “He’s got plenty of self-esteem! He’s just not very keen on spending time in a place where undisciplined little sods ram toy strollers at his legs for the hell of it and the people supposedly in charge stand around and waffle on about self-esteem.”

Patsy winces. Whether it’s at my accusations or at the word “Hell” (a very bad word in Woodhaven, I’ve discovered) I don’t know. It won’t be the word “Sods” because she won’t know what that means. It’s what Oliver calls “High-frequency swearing” along with other choice British words that make their way past the censors on TV. Kind of funny really – they’ll bleep out most of Gordon Ramsay’s vocabulary, but the word “Wanker” is allowed to remain because it’s foreign and unknown.

She draws in a breath and folds her hands carefully on the desk, making a steeple out of her index fingers. Definitely Maggie Thatcher.

“As I said. At this age, we do not have a bullying problem. Bullying in pre-school years is entirely in the eyes of the beholder. But rest assured, I will monitor any bad behavioural choices by Jack’s classmates.”

My mother used to monitor my own bad behavioural choices with a couple of slaps on the leg, but I doubt this is what Patsy intends. Sometimes I long for the dark ages of the 1980s.

“And how do you intend to deal with any ‘bad behavioural choices’?” I ask. “Punish the child by not calling them ‘Honey’ at the end of a sentence?”

Pointless to use irony or sarcasm on Patsy. She’s spent too many years with small children, and interprets everything literally.

“Yes. We will speak kindly but firmly with the child – whichever child it turns out to be who Jack is distressed by.”

” ‘By whom’,” I mutter. You can’t pretend to be Maggie Thatcher if you don’t know the difference between Who and Whom.

I put my hand on the seat of the chair and carefully lever myself into a more assertive standing position.

“If I can persuade Jack to come next time, then of course I will. But frankly, Patsy, I’m not reassured by your plan of action. If this child is causing Jack distress, I’m sure he will be causing distress to someone else as well, and I don’t understand why you’re willing to put up with it.”

I hold my hand out to shake Patsy’s, and as I turn slightly, I catch sight of the cork board and its faded posters. One of them is for a fundraiser dear to Patsy’s heart – the Nursery Improvements Fund, currently raising cash for a new jungle gym in the playground. Patsy sends home requests for donations every week. They always go in the recycling bin at home – in my view, what Patsy charges every month should be enough to pay for a new jungle gym, heated swimming pool, and an indoor ski slope – but I know some other mothers donate regularly, holding bake sales and coffee mornings and what have you. Mothers with cash to throw around. Mothers driving Porsche Cayennes. Mothers wearing big diamonds in their earlobes…

“It’s the money, isn’t it?” I say softly, releasing her hand. “You’ve taken this child on for more motives than just out of the goodness of your heart. Getting near the total you need for the new swing set, are you?”

Patsy’s face goes a little pink.

“No, you’re quite wrong if you think I’d—”

“Am I? Am I? I bet if Jack was displaying ‘bad behaviour choices’ you’d be chewing my ear off about it before I could say ‘Supernanny.’ How big a donation would I have to make to your Nursery Improvements Fund before you’d overlook the fact that Jack was making another child’s life a misery?”

Patsy’s silent.

I nod.

“Thought so. Goodbye, Patsy.”

I walk out of the room.

The dust was making my eyes water anyway.

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To be continued next week

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Next: LIBBY’S LIFE #37: Plots (and waistlines) thickening

Previous: LIBBY’S LIFE #35: A big piranha in a small pond

Click here to read Libby’s Life from the first episode

STAY TUNED for Friday’s post from Charlotte Day — where is the ultimate spiritual destination for a TCK?

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Image: Travel – Map of the World by Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigit

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