Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband (18 page)

Thursday 24 April

It turns out that the Sincocks only live half an hour
away, so I'll be able to come back home after each day
of filming. Thank God. I hate staying in hotels on my
own, no matter how nice they are. When I used to travel
around a lot because of work, I stayed in some great
places, but without someone to enjoy them with, they
seemed pointless. Luxurious hotel rooms are for having
lots of sex and room service, and whenever I'm in one
on my own, I just feel a little depressed.

Saturday 26 April

Sally back v. late again last night. Says that things are a
little better at work, but that's only because people have
got used to the idea of the crisis and are adapting. She
was shattered, and I let her sleep in until 11 o'clock,
when I decided that she might actually want to get up
and see the children etc. She looked a million times
better, but had to spend until lunch working at her
laptop.

The day was rescued by the weather, and we went for
a lovely spring walk along the river. Well, it was lovely
until Daisy insisted on being carried after we had gone
about four hundred yards.

''ummy 'ill u carry me?'

'No,' said Sally, 'you've got legs, you can walk.'

Daisy held her arms aloft, ignoring the answer.

'Carry me!' she whinged.

'No,' said Sally.

Daisy then transferred the request to me.

'Carry me Daddy!'

'No,' I said. 'You heard what Mummy said. You can
walk.'

'But I tired.'

She then made a great show of rubbing her eyes. This
was complete playacting, as she had slept well.

'Come on Daisy, you can walk.'

Daisy then went into full diva mode. She repeatedly
screamed out that she was to be carried, and stamped
her little green frog-eyed boots.

'Let's keep walking,' I suggested.

Sally looked uneasy at leaving her, but as the river is
fenced off, and we were in the middle of a cow-free
field, I told her that it wasn't a problem.

Now began a game of Willpower Roulette – fun for
none of the family. The rules are simple and timeworn.
The players are divided into two teams – parents and
children. The opening gambit is for one of the children
to throw a strop. The second move is played by the
parents, who then walk away. The game real now begins.
Who will give way first? The child, fearing permanent
abandonment by parents? Or the parents, fearing the
child may come to some bad end if left unattended?

After twenty seconds, Sally came close to breaking.
She was walking backwards, which is technically a
breach of the rules, but I wasn't about to tell her.

'Come on Daisy!' she shouted. 'We can't leave you
there!'

'Turn round,' I said. 'Otherwise she'll win.'

'What do you mean, win?'

'She's got to learn that she can't always have her own
way.'

'I quite agree, but abandoning her in the middle of a
field is hardly going to teach her anything.'

'Trust the WonderHubby.'

'What? You are joking.'

I was, of course, but it did occur to me that 'Trust the
WonderHubby' might make a great catchphrase for the
show. Who knows? Perhaps it would become one of
those comedy phrases that everybody repeats ad
nauseam. 'You wouldn't let it lie.' 'Only me!' Etc. Yawn.

Meanwhile Daisy was still rooted to the spot,
screaming loudly.

'Why are we leaving Daisy behind?' asked Peter, who
looked genuinely concerned.

'Because she has to learn that she can't be carried,' I
said. 'Come on, let's keep walking. She'll come along –
you mark my words.'

Sally reluctantly took a few more steps.

'Sam, this is ridiculous.'

'It's not. This is the time when we need to fight these
battles. The older she gets, the harder it'll be.'

'The expert speaks.'

'Trust the WonderHubby.'

'Please stop saying that.'

Daisy continued to cry out.

'Mummy! Mummy!'

'Sam, this is just cruel!'

'It's not cruel. And if it is cruel, it's because we're
being cruel to be kind. Come on, let's keep walking.'

We did so, and Daisy's bellows grew more faint as we
got around 50–60 yards down the field.

'Sam! This is miles away!'

'It's not! What's going to happen to her?'

'I'm just worried that she's frightened.'

'She's not frightened – she's just being wilfull.'

'Daddy?' asked Peter.

'Yes?'

'I am going to carry Daisy,' he said.

'That's very sweet of you,' I replied. 'But Daisy needs
to learn that she can't be carried everywhere.'

'But she is only two.'

'Exactly. She is a big girl now.'

'Daddy?'

'Yes?'

'The other day you said I was a little boy and I am
bigger than Daisy so how is Daisy a big girl now?'

It was an interesting point. Sally laughed, a little too
loud.

'Touché,' she said.

I didn't know what to say, and mumbled something
about size being relative.

Daisy was really roaring now, and Sally started to walk
back to her.

'Don't!'

Sally ignored me and continued walking.

'Don't!'

'For heaven's sake, Sam!'

And then Daisy fell over. Not a massive tumble, but
enough to cause Sally to run. (Is it just our children who
fall over a lot?)

'She'll be fine!' I shouted.

Sally ran at warp speed, and within a few seconds she
had picked Daisy up.

'Is Daisy OK?' asked Peter.

'Yes – she's just fallen over.'

'Maybe she would not have fallen over if she was with
us.'

'Maybe not.'

Sally drew closer. I soon noticed that Daisy was
covered in mud.

'I'm going back home,' Sally shouted. 'She fell in a
cowpat.'

'Oh shit,' I went.

'Oh shit,' came a little echo down to my right.

'You mustn't say that,' I said.

'But you said it!'

'Daddy was naughty to say it.'

Sally didn't wait any longer, and shot off with a poo-splattered
screaming Daisy. I don't know how to judge
the result of that particular game of Willpower Roulette.
A draw? The biggest loser will be me, because I will hear
no end of this from Sally.

Sunday 27 April

I was right. No end to it at all. Comments included:

'She could have got hepatitis.'

'I should never have listened to you.'

'You should never leave children on their own.'

'Or lock them in their rooms for that matter.'

'I fear for those families you're going to look after.'

In fact, so do I. The Reverend Sincock and family
beckon tomorrow. I've just been looking at ADHD on
the Web – apparently there is no cure. Great. So what
the hell am I supposed to do?

Trust the WonderHubby. Hmmmm.

Monday 28 April

I have neither the time or energy to write up what
happened today.

Tuesday 29 April

Same.

Wednesday 30 April

And again. Suffice to say, it's been exhausting and
bizarre. I shall write it all up at the end of the week.

Saturday 3 May

Where to begin? All I know is that this week has been
one of the most eye-opening of my life. And that
includes Richie's stag in Warsaw. Although Dom,
typically, was delighted, as far as I was concerned the
whole thing was an unmitigated disaster.

Naturally, it all started off well. The Sincocks were the
model of middle-classness, and when we arrived Mrs
Sincock (Ginny, naturally) offered us some tea and
biscuits, which we ate in an immaculately clean kitchen,
featuring no less than seven mug trees. The vicar –
Norman – was charm itself, and for the first ten minutes
the children were pretty well behaved (although they
did seem to fidget quite a bit). The boy was called
Michael and he was nine, and his sister Mary was six,
and as they munched their Rich Tea biscuits, they
seemed fine.

'How much do you know about ADHD?' Mrs Sincock
asked.

'I've read about it on the Web,' I said, hoping my
look of sensitivity and concern appeared as sincere as I
felt.

'How about you?' she asked Dom.

'Same,' he replied. 'Gather it means your children
behave like sh— behave very badly.'

'Yes, well, there's a little bit more to it than that.'

'Can you tell us more?' I asked.

'Well, they're both what is called "predominantly
hyperactive-impulsive".'

'Uh huh,' Dom and I went.

'Which means that they never seem to relax. They're
always on the go – running around, jumping about,
climbing up this and that, and they never stop talking.'

'They seem pretty mellow at the moment,' I said.

'That's because they're doing their best for you,
aren't you, kids?'

The children nodded furiously. Nevertheless, their
fidgeting was getting more pronounced, and the table
was shaking as they constantly bashed into it with their
swaying feet.

'It's as though they've got motors inside them,' said
the Reverend Sincock. 'Out-of-control lawnmowers is
what I call them!'

Initially I thought it slightly strange that the children
should be spoken about as if they weren't present, but I
was to get used to that during the week. By now the
shaking of the table was growing acute, but the Sincocks
didn't seem to notice or care. Again, I would later learn
that this was small beer. Had this been Peter and Daisy
doing it, they would have got a rocket, and quite
possibly been sent to their rooms. This, however, was
Michael and Mary's idea of keeping still.

'And, um, do you, you know . . .' I started.

'What?' asked Mrs Sincock.

'Give them medication?'

'Oh no!' said Mr Sincock.

'No?'

'We do not believe in drugs,' he stated, and folded his
arms.

'What do you mean?' I asked. 'Do you not believe in
them the same way as I don't believe in God?'

Cock. Fuck. Poo. Toss. Bugger. Balls. Wank. Shit.
Cock again and a bit more fuck. Why did I say that? Was
it the lack of dog collar? Or was it because God was on
my mind, knowing that Sincock was a vicar, and in my
conscious attempt to tread carefully and not mention
God, my subconscious had rebelled and decided to
have some fun? Yes, probably.

The Sincocks nodded. Dom looked skyward, or
rather heavenward (if there is a heaven of course, which
I don't believe, as should now be somewhat obvious).

'Christ,' I said. 'I'm so sorry.'

'Just because you are an atheist, Mr Holden, it does
not give you the right to blaspheme.'

'Did I?'

'Yes. You just said "Christ".'

'Oh shit, I'm so sorry.'

Mr Sincock stood up. The children were now
cackling away, and Mrs Sincock stared nervously into
the endless brown pool of her tea.

'He said shit! He said shit!' shouted Michael.

'You're not allowed to say shit!' said Mary.

'Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!' went Michael.

'Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!' went Mary.

'Quiet!' shouted the good Rev.

They ignored him, and then the table-kicking got
worse, and soon our tea was slopping out of our mugs.

'Keep still!' he shouted.

After a few more kicks the earthquake under us slowly
died away, along with the 'shits'.

Sincock then turned his attention to me.

'Mr Holden,' he said. 'You have been invited into our
home in order to help us. While you are here, I expect
you to behave with respect to our beliefs and our
feelings. Do I make myself clear?'

'Of course,' I said. 'And I sincerely apologise. I assure
you that it will not happen again.'

Sincock studied my face.

'I pray – literally – that you are right.'

'Sorry.'

'Your apology is accepted,' he said, and I breathed
out.

We spent the rest of the day observing and filming the
children. I kept my mouth shut, although as the
behaviour of Michael and Mary left me speechless, I
hardly needed to adopt much self-control. I had never
witnessed such scenes of childish Armageddon. Not a
minute passed without the children:

a) shouting

b) screaming

c) running

d) climbing

e) knocking things over

f) fighting each other

g) fighting their mother

h) fighting their father (when he was around)

i) all of the above

j) oh yes, and throwing things

But there was worse. Not only did they behave – just as
Sincock had indicated – like lawnmowers on the loose,
but they also refused to listen to their mother. No
matter what order she gave out, whether it was harshly
put or gently put, they simply ignored it. When she
asked them to come to the table they would lie on the
floor feigning sleep, or they would lie on the floor
having a tantrum.

By the middle of the afternoon, I was beginning to
feel that my nerves were shot to pieces. The constant
screaming and disobedience had got to me, and at one
point I even joined one of the location assistants for a
cigarette. That succeeded in making me feel lightheaded,
but I certainly felt a lot more mellow, too. God
only knew, literally (although not literally if you're an
atheist), how Mrs Sincock coped. It was either the
power of prayer, or of a secret stash of Valium that she
had hidden away from the vicar.

But teatime was the crunch. Teatime was the
nightmare. Mrs Sincock tried to make the children
come to the table, but they refused. Instead they stayed
in the playroom, doing one of the few things that kept
them relatively peaceful.

'I wanna watch TV!' shouted Michael.

'I wanna watch TV!' shouted Mary.

'I'll take the TV away if you don't come to the table,'
said Mrs Sincock.

Mary started screaming.

Michael started whining in the same way as Peter
does, despite the fact that he is twice his age.

'I'll give you ten seconds!'

'No!'

'Ten!'

'Nine!'

'Eight!'

Still no movement from the playroom. Toby the
cameraman poked his lens in, and as I could see from
the VT later (notice how quickly I am picking up these
TV words), the children just sat on their beanbags.

'Seven! Six! Five! Four! Three! Two!'

Nothing!

'One!'

Blast-off. Mrs Sincock, perhaps because the Valium
was wearing off, stormed into the playroom and
dragged the children away. They kicked and screamed,
and then Mary took a savage, feral bite out of her
mother's left forearm. Unsurprisingly Mrs Sincock cried
out, and let go, at which point the children started
laughing and ran back into the playroom.

It was tempting just to pick Mary and Michael up by
their collars and help haul them out, but I heeded
Dom's words that the observer should not react with the
system. Funnily enough, Dom only follows this rule
when things are going particularly badly.

I looked at Mrs Sincock's arm. The little beast had
actually drawn blood.

'Are you all right?' I asked.

'I'm fine,' she said. 'It's not the first time. Can you see
the scars?'

And sure enough, all the way up her forearms was a
network of little white lines.

'Chri— Blimey,' I said. 'You should wear gauntlets!'

'I know!'

'But how do you manage to keep so calm?'

'I see it as a test,' she said.

'A test?'

'That's right. From the Lord. I know that he wants to
test me, to see if I am worthy of his love.'

'Why you?'

'Who knows?' she said. 'As even you should know, the
Lord moves in mysterious ways.'

I always thought this was a bit of a cop-out by the
religious, a rather too easy way of explaining why crap
has to happen. Naturally I refrained from expressing
my thoughts.

'Quite,' I mumbled.

Eventually the children were sort of seated at the table.
Mrs Sincock had cooked a nice-looking tea for them, and
I was rather tempted to snaffle one of the sausages.

'I don't want this!' shouted Mary. 'This is poo!'

'It's not poo, dear,' Mrs Sincock replied. 'These are
Fairtrade sausages and organic peas and potatoes.'

I must confess I'd never heard of Fairtrade sausages,
but they looked bloody good. Michael thought so as
well, although his method of eating them was positively
Cro-Magnon, or perhaps Neanderthal, whichever is
worse. He grabbed each sausage with his fist and just
shoved it into his mouth. The peas, naturally, were
flicked around, which Mrs Sincock ignored. I had
thought that serving them peas was asking for trouble,
but I suspect, like all good Christians, she wanted to give
peas a chance.

Mary was eating nothing, and Mrs Sincock tried to
feed her like a baby.

'I don't want it!'

Nevertheless her mother continued, despite the fact
that each mouthful was spat out, or in the rare event of
it being swallowed, was regurgitated in a semi-masticated
lump back onto the table. I caught Dom's
eye, and he gave me a covert thumbs-up, as I knew he
would. He was merciless.

After a few more minutes the children simply got
down from the table and ran back into the playroom.
Mrs Sincock chased after them, and gave them an
almighty rocket. My attention, however, was caught by
the deliciously plump sausage that Mary had left on her
plate. Reckoning that it would only be going to waste,
and motivated by greed, I removed it and started
chewing it.

'You can't do that!' hissed Dom. 'You're on a diet!'

I noticed that he had no moral problem with my
small act of larceny.

'Shh!' I went. 'I'm bloody starved.'

The sausage tasted delicious, and I was delighted that
Mary had left it.

'I'm definitely going to get some of these Fairtrade
bangers,' I said. 'Damn good!'

Of course, that was the moment that Mrs Sincock
walked into the room.

'I give up,' she said.

I tried stuffing the sausage into my mouth as quickly
as possible.

'What are you eating?' she asked.

'Nothing,' I lied, my mouth clearly full.

'Is that . . . is that a sausage?'

'Er, yes.'

'Where from?'

'Um, from Mary's plate. I thought she had finished.'

Mrs Sincock looked stunned. (It's just occurred to me
that I've been referring to her as 'Mrs Sincock'
throughout. It just feels right – some people don't need
first names.)

'You took food from my child's plate?'

'Um, I didn't want it to go to waste.'

'But that's outrageous!'

'I'm, er, terribly sorry,' I said abjectly. 'Just a terrible
misunderstanding. It's kind of what I do at home, you
know, when the children have finished their food. I was
feeling a bit peckish and just thought, you know . . .'

'No I do not! And how did you know my children had
finished?'

'Well, they, um, got down.'

I sensed Dom was brewing the most massive 'church
laugh', and his whole body was shaking as he tried to
control that paroxysm of giggles that was surely about to
break out.

'Just because they had got down, Mr Holden, does
not mean that they have finished eating.'

'I see. I'm sorry.'

I felt like a schoolboy being chastised by head
matron. Mrs Sincock must only have been a few years
older than me, but I might as well have been nine.
Blimey, I thought, it was only a poxy sausage, which her
daughter would have spat out anyway. She looked at
me, no doubt evaluating some sort of punishment.
What was it to be? Sent to my room? A talking-to from
Father? Six of the best?

'Mr Holden, the whole idea of inviting you into our
home was for you to help us with the difficult task of
disciplining our children. I cannot see what hope we
have if you yourself require that same discipline.'

Dom's shaking was getting worse, and it was
infectious. Toby the cameraman was shaking as well,
and soon I found myself starting to make bizarre
snorting noises in my throat. There was something so
absurd about being lectured by this woman about my
pinching a sausage, when the children had spent the
entire day behaving like tearaways. On reflection, there
was no doubt that she was venting all her frustration on
me, but at the time I was too dim – and a little petrified
– to appreciate that.

'I'm, er, terribly sorry,' I repeated.

I could see her weighing up her options. Would she
throw us out for sausage pilfering? If she did that,
there would be no money for the church roof, which
would be a disaster. On the other hand, why should
she have to endure these sniggering thirtysomethings,
who were hardly helping make her children behave
better?

'Apology accepted,' she finally said, albeit with
marked reluctance.

'Thank you,' I said.

Then, out of the playroom:

'Fuckity poo fuck!'

'FUUUUUUCK!!!'

It was inevitable that this high-octane outburst of
childish swearing would cause the release of our church
laughs, and out they came, our stomachs aching as we
doubled up with mirth.