Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband (7 page)

Thursday 14 February

Valentine's Day today, and guess who forgot? Both of
us. It wasn't until halfway through the afternoon that I
remembered. So when Peter got back from school, we
called Sally at the office. The children wished her happy
Valentine's in unison, and then I got on the phone.

'I'm so sorry,' I said, 'I totally forgot. I haven't even
got you a card or anything.'

Sally laughed.

'No problem. In fact, I have to confess that I forgot as
well.'

'So we're both in the doghouse,' I said.

'Yup,' she said.

'Have you got people around?'

'Yup.'

'OK, love you loads.'

'Me too.'

I think we should just give up Valentine's Day from
now on. It's such a bunch of crap, it really is. It's just an
excuse for card companies to make a fortune selling
their crappy wares, complete with naff rhymes and
quilted pink covers. And it's a racket for restaurants as
well. When Sally and I last went out on Valentine's night
(a long time ago), we were treated like cattle, and sat
mooning at each other as the wrong dishes arrived and
the champagne was warm and the bill was £134.89 not
including service and fuck that for a game of soldiers we
said as we waited in the rain for a cab that didn't come
because they were all being used by similar mugs who
felt obliged to go out on Valentine's bloody night.

As an act of rebellion against all this, after supper, I
got Peter and Daisy to make a couple of cards for Sally,
which were actually pretty good. Peter's drawing skills
are now almost as good as mine, and he drew Sally a
lovely soldier killing some aliens. With a giraffe. Daisy
sort of scribbled something pink, which she said was
'The Night Garden', so I believed her.

Although Sally got back late and tired, the cards
certainly cheered her up. There's still a coldness in the
air after our row about
WonderHubby
, which we have
unspokenly (is there such a word?) agreed not to
mention. She knows that I am too pig-headed not to
give it a go, and I know that she will never agree to it.
Therefore no point in arguing.

Something else which there was no point in telling
Sally about was Emily's behaviour the other day. It
would only have ruined the couple of hours we had
together before we went to bed, and I certainly didn't
want to jeopardise any Valentine's night action. (I do
sort of believe in Valentine's.)

Sunday 17 February

I do hate being in limbo. It's not that I'm expecting
anything from Dom immediately, but I just want to
know whether I'm going to spend the rest of my life as
a freelance management consultant or a TV star.

Nevertheless, a nice weekend, and both Sally and I
behaved ourselves. No arguments. No mention of
WonderHubby
/Emily/Work/Money/Jobs, all of which
are topics that bring us both out in a row. Even the
children behaved, sort of, although there was one hair-raising
moment, when Peter thought it would be
terribly good fun if he pushed his sister in her buggy
into the river. I just managed to save her before she
joined the ducks, although not without stepping in an
enormous dog shit.

Sally and I were livid with Peter, and I came near to
smacking him. I've smacked him before, and have
always regretted it, because I had done it in anger – but
then he had run into the road despite me yelling at him
not to. However, I vowed never to do it again, and today
was emphatically not going to be the day in which he
felt a sharp thwack to his derrière, but instead we
withdrew his normal Sunday night 'treat' TV watching.
(Sally thinks Peter and Daisy only watch TV at the
weekends, a secret the children are miraculously
keeping to themselves.) The removal of privilege
engendered an enormous tantrum, which nearly did
earn him a smack.

While he was at full pelt, Sally asked me, 'What would
WonderHubby do in this situation?'

At least she was smiling about it. The truth was, I had
no reply. There is nothing in the tenets of management
consultancy that tells you how to deal with a client who
is not allowed to watch TV. If
WonderHubby
ever
happens, God knows how I'm going to wing it.

Tuesday 19 February

5 p.m.

Oh my God. I'm going to have to wing it.
WonderHubby
is happening! Well, a pilot is happening, at least. Dom
has just this minute phoned me. He said that the TV
station went mad for the idea, and said they loved the
way it tied up all the elements of business (which is now
sexy, he says) and childcare (which needs a televisual
revamp apparently).

'It's incredible,' I said, 'that they've gone for it
without even seeing me.'

'Well, I showed them some video of you.'

'What video?'

'Your spiel in our conference room the other day.'

'You were filming that?'

'Yes – didn't we tell you?'

'No!'

'Sorry about that,' said Dom, sounding as apologetic
as Peter does when he's done something bad (i.e.
utterly remorseless).

I was tempted to chew his ear off, but then thought
better of it.

'What did they like about it?'

'I think they liked the way that it was so boring that it
was funny.'

'Thanks.' I laughed a little, assuming this was some
kind of joke. Dom's tone suggested that it might not
have been.

'Don't worry,' said Dom. 'The fact is they love you
and they love the programme. However, there are a
couple of glitches.'

'Oh yes?'

'They want the pilot ready in a month.'

'That sounds like a long time.'

'Sam – you've much to learn. A month is fuck all. A
nanosecond.'

'Oh. And what's the other glitch?'

'They've given us sod-all money, so I'm afraid we
can't give you that much.'

'Oh.'

'Just a couple of grand I'm afraid.'

'Oh.'

'I know. But it doesn't matter, because when the
series is commissioned, then the money will be decent,
don't you worry. See it as an investment.'

'Oh.'

'Anyway, we'd better start as soon as we can. Can
you come in tomorrow for a brainstorming at the
channel? The commissioning editor really wants to
meet you.'

'Sure!'

I'm thrilled, basically. Fucking thrilled. OK, so the
money is rubbish, but I believe Dom when he says it's
going to get better. Now all I have to do is to give Sally
the hard sell. Oh joy.

11 p.m.

Sally is in the bath, and I'm sitting at my desk and
there's a very bad odour in the air. I've told her about
the pilot, and her first reaction was 'Oh God'. Her
second reaction was to pour a glass of wine, and her
third was to drain half of it in one gulp. (I know I joke
that Sally is turning into a dipso, but I'm slightly worried
about it.)

'I can't believe this is actually happening,' she
said.

I tried to play everything down.

'It's just a pilot, sweetheart, and it probably won't
come to anything.'

Raised eyebrow.

'You're really going to do it?'

'I'd really like to, yes.'

'And who's going to look after the children?'

'We'll have to get a nanny.'

Sally took a deep breath.

'This wasn't the idea.'

'I know, but we've been over this. It's not as though
we're filming all the time.'

Sally drained the glass and then poured herself
another.

'OK,' she said. 'You do it. But don't expect me to get
involved.'

'Um . . .'

'What?'

'Well, I'm sure they'll want some shots of us as a
family.'

'No way.'

'Please Sally, come on.'

'No way. Anyway I don't think work would be exactly
thrilled about it.'

'It would only be for a few seconds.'

'In that case, they can manage without me.'

'It's not the same.'

'I'm sorry Sam, but I really don't think I have an
option.'

I left it, and we prepared and ate supper almost in
silence, both of us flicking through magazines.

I hate all this. I hate the rowing, the bickering, the
constant feeling that we're on edge. Perhaps I should
chuck in the whole
WonderHubby
thing. Perhaps Sally is
right – it is just a waste of time, and could be seen as
simply something to massage my ego. And if I chucked
it in, would that put a smile on Sally's face? I doubt it.
The damage has already been done, and besides, she's
still having a rotten time at work.

And then again, why should I give it up? It IS a good
idea, good enough for one TV station and one
production company to spend time and money making
it. How wrong can they be?

Wednesday 20 February

This time, I decided to leave the children at home, or
rather with Emily. Despite her pass – and I'm sure there
will be more – we're still on good terms. I think Emily
probably makes passes at so many men that she's pretty
unabashed about the whole thing. Mind you, I would
have left the children with just about anybody, as,
predictably enough, the train was delayed and
overcrowded, and I couldn't face a repeat of our last
little outing.

The channel was a pretty impressive place – huge
marble atrium, trees, waterfalls etc., and the normal
plethora of flatscreens and incredibly attractive women
walking around. Why does the media attract such good-looking
females? In all my years as a management
consultant I came across about three women whom I
found remotely appealing, and yet today I must have
seen at least twenty in the space of three hours. Maybe
my taste has declined as I have aged, but I'm not THAT
old, and I like to think my standards are pretty high.
After all, my wife has never had even the slightest tickle
with the ugly stick.

The commissioning editor was called Dave Waldman,
and he was one of these immensely enthusiastic people
who must be infuriating to work with. His catchphrase
was 'dig', which he said often, and was emphasised by
clicking his fingers with a supple throw of the wrist.
Also, he was bloody young – late twenties perhaps – and
had I not known him to be in a position of authority, I
would have taken him to be some sort of junior in the
graphic design department.

He didn't really ask me many specific questions, but
one thing he was concerned about was the families we
were going to use.

'How are you going to get hold of them?' he asked.

I didn't have an answer to that, and I looked at Dom,
who didn't seem particularly flustered.

'Shouldn't be a problem,' he said. 'We've already
started looking for them. There are thousands of these
oiks— I mean people, who are desperate to appear on
shows like this.'

'Dig,' went Dave. 'And do you have a plan B, if the
people aren't coming good?'

'Sure,' said Dom. 'The normal plan in these
circumstances.'

'Dig,' said Dave, this time a little more conspiratorially.

'What's the normal plan?' I asked, doing my best not
to sound like a naïve schoolboy.

Dom and Dave looked at each other with a little smirk.

'We like to call it "blending the truth",' said Dom.

'Dig,' said Dave.

'Blending the truth?' I queried.

Dom took a 'why do I have to explain this to you
again?' breath.

'You know when you take notes of a conversation?' he
began. 'Well, you don't write down all the ums and ahs
and whatnot. You clean it up, in many ways, make the
speaker appear more eloquent. You're doing them a
favour. And that's all we do, except in a televisual way.
Sometimes we'll ask people to say things again because
we didn't capture it first time round, or they said it with
too much swearing . . .'

'Or not enough!' interjected Dave.

'Dig,' said Dom somewhat greasily in imitation,
although when he tried to click his fingers in the same
way he merely succeeded in hurting his wrist, because
he let out a slight wince.

'Anyway,' he continued. 'Sometimes we find people
who are good for the programme, but we just find that
they lack a certain something. So we get in others to
recreate real events and conversations.'

'You mean you get in actors?' I asked. 'I know you
said you made things up, but I didn't think things had
got this bad.'

'It's accepted practice,' said Dom, looking at Dave.

'Dig,' he went. 'And we don't call it "making things
up". We call it "reality enhancement". Anyway, we only
use it as a plan B, and I'm sure we won't have any need
for it. We're spending a lot of money making these
reality programmes, and it'd be idiotic to rely on reality
when we can manufacture reality so much better
ourselves. Dig?'

'Dig,' I said, somewhat flabbergasted.

On the way back home, I wondered what I was getting
myself into. Despite my moaning about how long it was
taking, it occurred to me that less than two months ago
the whole thing had been a dinner-party joke, and
already it was becoming a reality, or at least a reality of
sorts. And, although I wasn't expecting to be in control
of the whole thing, it was clear that Dom and Dave saw
me as just another stooge. I'm curiously down about the
whole thing. The truth about TV is that there is no
truth. These are thoughts I won't be sharing with Sally.

Emily said the children had been very well behaved
(wow) and that they had all got along together. Her
twins had entertained Daisy, and had organised some
teddy bears' picnic for her, which Daisy loved. While
she was telling me all this, Emily detected that I looked
a little pensive, and it annoyed me when I reflected that
she seemed far more sensitive than my wife to my
moods.

Thursday 21 February

Spent the whole of today trying to find a nanny. Sally
said last night that finding a nanny would have to be my
department as she a) didn't have the time and b) wasn't
in agreement with it anyway. So much for marriage
being about compromise.

Ideally, I'd just like to get an au pair, but according to
the schedule that Dom has already sent me, my
timetable is going to be packed. We have to have the
pilot ready at the end of next month, and Dom tells me
that I shall be needed full-time from 1st March onwards.
As au pairs aren't really allowed to work full-time, we
have to have a nanny, which is a pain, and an expensive
one at that. Any money I make will go straight into the
nanny's pockets. I hate the poor woman already.