Diary of a Mummy Misfit #1 (26 page)

Maybe Colin’s right about Manor House Mummies being another breed!

Saturday 20
^th
September

Seedling Class Dinner

How many times can one mother need to call a restaurant to change their booking?  Well, if you’re dealing with Manor House mothers, seven.  I’m sure the Orangery must be sick of me by now.  Either that or they think I’m some kind of nutter.

I just can’t get over the way some of these mothers operate with their trademark disregard for anyone but themselves.

Gestapo called me at 8.30 this morning to say that she wouldn’t be able to make it to the dinner tonight.  She then called Fenella at midday to say that her plans had changed and she
would
be able to make it after all - talk about complicating things.

The Gnome then called to say that as Gestapo was now going she would also be there - clearly she can’t function without her evil (if less vertically challenged) friend.

This, combined with assorted additions and cancellations, resulted in me having several very embarrassing conversations with the restaurant.

Just hope it’s not
my
food they spit in.

Sunday 21
^st
September

Well that’s a lesson learnt!

Never, ever, ever, ever, will I organise a class dinner again.  Fenella agrees and we have a pact to eat our own heads if either of us so much as suggests it.

Last night the table was booked for eighteen of us at 8.  There were still only eight of us at 9!  By this point I think the restaurant had decided to bar any ‘Manor Housers’ booking at the restaurant again - and who could blame them?

Gestapo insisted on ordering several bottles of Champagne and when we did eventually get to eat (gone ten) she wore our poor waiter out by demanding to know every ingredient in every dish.  “Simply can’t have carbs or salt or my system will be shot,” she delighted in informing practically the whole restaurant.

I was lumbered with Letchy Dad who spent another happy evening talking to my breasts.  I suppose he’s harmless enough and it beat sitting next to any of the banker bores.  Poor Ned was stuck with the Gnome and looked thoroughly comatose. At one point I thought he’d fallen asleep so texted him by fiddling surreptitiously under the table, while trying not to give Letchy Dad the impression I was getting excited by his advances.

Olga’s employers, Lydia and Roger, had decided to join us for the evening - even though it should actually have been Olga’s night off.  Lydia was complaining that she was sick of Olga’s inability to think for herself. “She knows that she has to collect Henners from tennis and Wills from algebra at 5 every Thursday and she’s always bloody late for one of them.”

Considering one’s in Putney and one the other in Hammersmith - 45 minutes in the rush hour, at best - this wasn’t a difficult one to work out.  She could probably do with a little extra maths tuition herself.  What’s wrong with the woman?  Clearly thinks if you pay someone they should be able to do the physically impossible.

Actor-Wankor then cut in with, “Well at least she doesn’t fancy Roger.  Anneka is making our life hell because she’s got the bloody hots for me.  It’s driving Mel mad, isn’t it Darling?”

Mel nodded and gave the kind of smile that said, ‘Dear God.  Why did I marry such a wanker?’  Think it could be that hubbie
believes
poor Anneka is after him.  Just a case of badly inflated ego, I think.

The evening went from bad to worse with much finger-clicking at waiters, tutting at the service and loud complaints about the quality of the food.

Fenella and I escaped outside on far too many occasions for sneaky fag breaks (yes, we’ve officially slipped) and to escape our embarrassment.

“Lordy, Lordy Lib.  Can you believe we’re spending a Saturday night with such obnoxious toss-pots?” Fenella slurred at one of our many ciggie sojourns.  “I actually heard Gestapo say to our waiter that she didn’t intend to pay for her main course because there was a pubic hair in it.”

Oh, so they don’t deal in
spit
as revenge here then - original!

“Well it certainly wouldn’t have been one of hers,” I chuckled, “Because I’d heard her telling the Gnome about the incredibly painful Brazilian she’d had done at a new salon.  They’d wanted £75 for the ‘pleasure’ but, surprise surprise, she refused to pay on the grounds that it had traumatised her and she may well have to suffer from ‘hairy muff syndrome’ until her dying day.

Hmm.  Think I could be getting the knack as to how these people hold on to their money.

This was made even more apparent when it came to a few couples leaving.  Gestapo and hubbie, the Gnome and Letchy Dad had decided they’d had enough and along with Actor-Wankor and Long-Suffering Mel, Lydia and Roger they made a big show of setting off to a Champagne Bar.

At this point we hadn’t calculated the bill but Fenella and I were astonished to discover that they’d left only twenty quid a couple at their end of the table.  Gestapo had consumed about three times more than that in Champagne alone - just as well we weren’t paying City prices.  OK so the pube had got her off part of the bill but there was no way they could have expected to have a three course meal with Champagne and wine for the kind of money they’d left.

Fenella was beside herself with fury - I was more contained because I really didn’t want to disclose my true feelings in front of the remaining parents.   Let’s face it we’ve all been there before - meals with people where you just know you’re subsidising them but it’s just never happened on such a grand scale.

Anyway, we had yet another fag meeting outside and left Ned and Josh to work out how much the bill should
actually
have been per head.

Fenella was wildly poking her cigarette in the air saying, “I’ll send them a bloody email in the morning.  There’s no way they’re getting away with this.  Off to an effing Champagne Bar?  Yeah, on
our
money!”

One of our waiters looked at us through the window and smiled, obviously reinforcing his mental note never to let any of us darken their doors again.

When we got back inside Josh had gallantly settled the remainder of the bill, with the rest of us paying what should have been the correct amount per couple.  “It’s only money, girls.”  He was saying.  “I wouldn’t show myself up by asking them for it.”

“Show myself up, my arse!”  Fenella spat.  “We’re not bloody paying for them to sit there quaffing bubbly all night and being hateful to the staff.  I’ll have that money from them first thing Monday morning.  Just see if I don’t.” And with that she hiccupped and refilled our glasses.

She then got unsteadily to her feet and said, “A toast to our first and last class dinner.”

Think I heard the manager mutter, “Thank the heavens!”

Monday 22
^nd
September AM

Fenella sent an email to the offending couples yesterday after she’d sobered up, but no responses yet.

Fuelled by this, we set up an ambush at school drop-off but it seemed they’d all used nannies, au pairs or car shares so we had no joy.

We were just having a bit of a moan when we spotted Gestapo.  Fenella made straight for her and I followed in her wake like the little wimp I am.

Gestapo continued towards her car, “Oh hi, gels.  Just come from a meeting with ‘Hinge and Bracket’.  Mia’s so terribly bright, I’ve asked that she be given homework.”

Fenella wasn’t prepared to enter into educational discussions but merely said, “We just wanted to let you know that the final tally for the meal, per couple, on Saturday was ninety pounds.”

Gestapo looked slightly quizzical.  “Gosh, that seems rather steep for the kind of slop they fed us.  Anyway must dash, late for my personal trainer.”

One of the few occasions Fenella was left speechless as she watched Gestapo speed off in her Merc.

PM

Call from Fenella - still no response from the other couples.  Amazed by their rudeness.

Fenella is now at fever pitch and baying for blood.  Josh had paid an additional two hundred and eighty pounds and was unlikely to see it back.  It didn’t seem to bother him but she’s not prepared to let it lie and I agree with her.

“God Lib.  It’s the principle of the matter.  That money could buy me another hat to stick in the cupboard.”

The logic of the woman!

Said goodbye and both agreed to come up with ways to secure her hat money back.  Coffee and fags at 09.00 hours.

Tuesday 23
^rd
September  AM

What a hoot!

We’d just settled for our coffee and moan-in, when Olga knocked at the front door.  Somehow she’d been roped in to deliver invites to Mia’s party.

“Oh no.  It doesn’t matter zat I don’t actually verk for de bitch.  I just get pimped around like bit of Bratwurst.  Lydia-Boss-Lady, she just say, ‘Oh you go do job for Araminta today’ and I expected to get off butt and go like slave girl to vichever vitch needs me!”

We offered her coffee and biscuits and then Fenella let rip about our restaurant fiasco.  “Your bloody boss was one of them.  Tight fisted old hag!”

Olga nodded, “Yes, zis is most true of Mrs Lydia.  Vunce she forgot to pay me for almost four veeks.  How much de old buggers owe you?”