January
Sunday January 1st
New Year’s Day began with the sound of a ranting Irishman. Actually, this is how most of my days have begun recently.
‘Phoebe, did you purposefully buy the ugliest potatoes you could find or were these all the shop had yesterday?’
I heard the blinds being sharply pulled open as I drowsily checked the clock radio on my bedside table.
09.17 – Jesus, even the winter sun has only just surfaced. Why did I have to?
‘Potatoes?’ I enquired, watching little specks of dust caught in the daylight float past the clock display. ‘Oliver, what are you talking about?’ I rubbed my right eye which refused to open fully and tried to sit up, but he was waving a huge bag of spuds in front of me, unintentionally blocking my attempt.
‘These, Phoebe!’ he said, holding them aloft. ‘Po-ta-toes. I specifically said I wanted baby potatoes for the meal today. These are clearly fucking elderly.’
‘It was all they had!’ I exclaimed. ‘Itwasfive minutes before closing on New Year’s Eve, Oliver. It was them, a box of Smash or frozen chips. I’m pretty sure your family won’t give a shit what form their potatoes take.Because they’re potatoes.’
Tutting, he examined the bag again, before sitting on the edge of the bed, defeated. I’ve had many, many absurd conversations with Oliver but this was just silly. I started to giggle.
‘What’s so funny?! Just because I—’
‘Oliver, you’re Irish and you’re ranting aboutpotatoes!Come on!Even you must—’
‘Forget it.’
‘What, you’re in a huff now? Really?’
He stood up and stomped towards the bedroom door, leaving me half laughing, half wondering what the hell just happened. As he pulled open the door, grumbling about having to make ‘bastard mash’, a second voice bellowed from the direction of the bathroom.
‘I NEED TOILET ROLL!’
Oliver carried on walking towards the kitchen. ‘Ask your mum, Molly. I’m carrying really heavy, reallyuglypotatoes.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘If you say potatoesone more timeI’m—’
‘MUM . . . MUUUMMMMMMMYY!’
I threw back the covers and grabbed for my dressing gown. Gone were the days when New Year’s morning was spent nursing a gruesome hangover in a hotel room with my best mates Lucy and Hazel before traveling home to lie in bed for the rest of the day, hoping for some hangover sex when the nausea subsided. It appeared that this particular New Year’s morning would be spent arguing about potatoes, pacifying my noticeably stressed boyfriend and assisting my pooing daughter.
Wearing the green, fluffy M&S dressing gown I got for Christmas, I grabbed a toilet roll from the hall cupboard and threw it to Molly who caught it triumphantly from her porcelain throne.
‘Is Auntie Megan coming today?’ she asked, placing the new roll on top of the holder. ‘What about Granny and Grandpa?’
Louise and Brendan (Oliver’s quiet, moderately religious parents), moved to Glasgow in 1993 for Brendan’s job but returned to Ireland in 2006 to retire. And they retired hard. Pottering around the house soon turned into never leaving the house, separate beds and an in-depth knowledge of every person seen coming and going from their neighbours’ houses. They had flown into Glasgow yesterday and it was only the second time they’ve stepped back on Scottish soil since Molly was born. We’ve always had to go to Dublin. Oliver calls themthe reclusesand although he’s not particularly close to them, I can tell that their unwillingness to make more of an effort with Molly, or anyone else, troubles him. On the other hand, Megan, his older sister, is besotted with Molly – perhaps partly because she’s Oliver’s double, down to the curly brown hair and wrinkled-brow scowl.‘She has a much better nature, though. Oliver was a little smart arse. He still is to be fair.’Megan shares the curly hair gene and looks like she was made in the same factory as The Corrs. I’m very fond of her and her stupid beautiful face.
‘Yes, Granny and Grandpa are coming; they’ll all be here at two,’ I replied, admiring her cute pyjamas. ‘You should wear the puppy t-shirt Auntie Megan bought you! She’ll be thrilled to see you in it.’
She frowned. ‘I hate puppies.’
‘Just for today, Cruella,’ I responded, laughing. Molly hates a different thing each week. Last week she announced her loathing of books, yet she appeared to have two on her lap at that very moment. ‘Um, are you finished? Do you need any help?’
‘No. I’m almost five, Mum. I’m not a baby.’
‘You’re not five until July . . . and you’remybaby.’
‘Ugh, youalwayssay that.’
‘Sure do,’ I replied. ‘And please swap over the old toilet roll because it will drive me mad otherwise.’ Closing the bathroom door, I stopped for a moment and listened as she fiddled with the toilet roll holder, muttering ‘kittens are much better’ under her breath. Even on the toilet she’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
