Sharon works shifts in Smiley Burger, so you never know when she’ll be around, whereas Joan seems to swan to and from her job at the salon whenever it suits her and unlike either of her daughters, actually has a social life and occasionally goes out the odd evening. Usually only as far as the Swiss Cottage pub down the road, but at least she’s out of the house.
‘If anyone rings looking for me, you’re not to say I’m in a bar, you’re to say I’m out at a wine tasting,’ is her invariable warning to me as she clatters out the door, looking like a perfume ad from the 1970s. Blue eye shadow, flicked hair, the works.
Maggie, on the other hand, is always home first. She finishes work at 5 p.m. and has her bum on the sofa by 5.30. Could set your watch by her. So generally, the first big humdinger row of the day will tend to be with her. Anyway, one particular howler went something along these lines:
Maggie (plonking onto her favourite armchair and cracking open her first tin of Bulmers of the night): ‘Why is my ironing only half done? What the feck have you been doing with yourself all day?’
Me (in the middle of hoovering): ‘Why Maggie, how lovely to see you too. How kind of you to inquire so politely about my day. I’ve been out riding unicorns in Never Never Land. Can’t you guess?’
Maggie (lighting a cigarette and sprawling herself out on said armchair, like an uncoordinated hippopotamus):
‘Listen, you. I work for the Inland Revenue. I’m in the suspicion business. And right now, I suspect that you spend the whole day sitting on your bony arse watching my DVD box set of Dancing on Ice.’
Me (knowing I shouldn’t rise to the bait, but not able to help myself): ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve actually spent most of today changing your bed sheets, washing your industrial strength tights, then picking up the empty tins and pizza boxes that you left strewn all over the floor last night. Now, I’m sure that you meant that last remark to be brimming over with gratitude and deep appreciation, so I’ll just assume that some of it got lost in translation.’
You’d want to see the pair of us squaring up to each other. Honest to God, we’re like a full-length episode of Jerry Springerjust waiting to be Sky-Plused. But then, as I constantly remind myself to prevent me from losing my temper and flinging a scalding hot iron into her face, my stepsister has a heart condition. She doesn’t have one. I’d also like to add that, in my defence, I only did her disgusting gusset washing job once and then only because I was out of my head on the Zanax. But never again. Because, come on, even desperados like me have to draw the line somewhere.
Anyway, back in my old life, I would change outfits a minimum of three times a day. Funky designer jeans for work, something dressier for lunch and then I’d pull out all the stops for a night out with Sam. Which usually ended up being approximately six nights out of seven. Now I find it’s far easier to stay in my pyjamas all day. And if it gets chilly, I just throw a sweatshirt over them. Practicality and comfort all in one. In fact, if they made giant baby-gros for adults, then I’d just stay in one of those all day. Yes, the garage is stuffed full with bin liners and boxes full of clothes that I could shoehorn myself into if I wanted, but I frankly couldn’t be arsed. Waaytoo much effort involved. Besides, who sees me now anyway? So, in other words, this season the devil’s wearing Primark.
In my old life, I was rarely home except to sleep, change, then run out the door again. On and on with the never-ending whirlwind. Now, I’m starting to think there’s agoraphobics out there who have better social lives than me. I hate this horrible house, I hate the polka-dot wallpaper, I hate the elephant ornaments on top of the TV, I hate the patterned cream Axminster carpets everywhere, I hate the peach festoon blinds in the revolting kitchen and I reserve special hatred for the people who live in it, but the funny thing is…I can’t bring myself to leave.
Weird, that this place I despise so much has now become my hideaway and sanctuary. So weird in fact, that I sometimes wonder if I’m suffering from depression. I even run a check list in my head just to be on the safe side. But no, I don’t feel like self-harming, and I don’t think that life’s not worth living any more. I’m just deeply sad, irritable and so, so unaccountably tired all the time. Like having flu but with no symptoms. Anyway, going outside the front door = meeting people = exposure to comments such as ‘Didn’t you used to be someone?’ = more misery, humiliation and heartache. No, total isolation from the outside world is a far, far better idea.
In my old life, my house was so ridiculously, ludicrously vast, that I had whole rooms dedicated just for storing all my shoes/handbags/coats etc. Now I’m reduced to having a sofa to sleep on and, get this, my own shelf in the fridge which Maggie allocated to me, telling me in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t allowed to touch anything on anyone else’s shelf. Like I’m a flatmate that they’re all dying to get rid of. Her exact words, I recall, were, ‘Ever wondered what it would feel like to live somewhere where no one wanted you? Well, now you do know!’ Dear Jaysus.
Funniest of all though, is that in my old life, even though I made TV for a living, I never watched it. Ever. I’d see Jessie Wouldon tape, of course, but only a few days after a broadcast and always on a big TV monitor in the production office, along with Emma and Liz Walsh. Then the three of us would critically analyse every little detail of the show to flush out any gaps where there might be room for improvement, notebooks on our knees and constantly hitting the freeze frame button. But somehow that only ever counted as work, never entertainment. But now that I’m living in a house where the shagging TV is never off, I’ve become a complete addict. It fills a void. And frankly anything that stops me obsessing about Sam can only be a good thing.
By now, my days have settled in a kind of pattern, entirely revolving around the TV schedule. It usually starts at about 7.30 a.m., when Maggie comes into the living room and wakes me up by switching on breakfast TV while she eats a brekkie fit for a builder, wolfing it down in seconds. A truly astonishing sight to behold, take it from me. Then, she flings my day’s instructions at me, but the minute she’s out the door I drift straight back to my second sleep of the morning, thinking, Great, only another two hours to go until Jeremy Kyle.By mid-morning, Sharon and Joan will usually have surfaced, depending on how late Sharon’s shift was the previous night and how sozzled Joan was when she staggered home from the boozer. Sorry, I mean the ‘wine tasting’. Then we move on to the morning repeats of last night’s soaps, which to be honest, I’m actually starting to get hooked on. So, after they’ve both left for work and when the bulk of my chores are done, it’s on to all the afternoon shows, magazine programmes aimed at a target audience of grannies, that kind of thing. Grannies or else people on sedatives like me. Not forgetting Oprah,which is fast turning into the highlight of my whole day. Then as soon as Maggie gets in, we watch the evening shows like Xposeand repeats of Friendswhich at this stage I’ve seen so often, I’m starting to say the words along with Jennifer Aniston.
What passes a lot of the time too is working out all the mini-civilisations that go on within families. Take Joan for instance. From the minute she stumbles down the stairs each morning, wearing the kind of fluffy dressing gowns that Barbara Cartland used to wear on her book covers, it’s a crap shoot trying to predict what her mood will be. You might as well try to predict the Euromillions lottery numbers in next Saturday night’s draw. Some days, she’s actually great company and will cook a big fry-up breakfast for myself and Sharon, while chatting happily away about whoever is on the cover of this week’s Heatmagazine, required reading in this house. Well, that or else her second favourite topic of conversation: the neighbours on our street and whatever gossip happens to be going on with them.