Memoirs of an Unhinged, Single Mother.

Faking It.

Memoirs of an Unhinged, Single Mother.

March 18th.

“ The name’s Kipper. I’m here from the Television Licence enforcement office.
Looking for a Sharon Long-bottom. That you is it?”

He peered at me from behind his National Health reject type glasses.
as mouth found itself doing that huge ‘o’ shape; the sort that I usually only
do when alone and tipping the remains of a bag of Walkers Cheese and Onion
into it.Bet he wished he’d gone to Spec-Savers. And the poor sod had the misfortune of
being born with a name that sounded like he was some kind of Captain Birdseye
family throwback. Good job all I had to worry about was my tele licence! Well, and all of the other bills too of course. And maybe the
excess roll of flab that had made itself at home around my waist since munching
more than my quota of ’ March cut-price mince pies’.

“So, are you Sharon Long-Bottom then?” He was staring at me with that big, posh
clipboard of his when all I could think was he probably suffered from some kind of
inferiority complex. Well, he was only about five feet tall; (and I know what people
have always said about short men), especially the likes of those with big cars!

“Oh no! Heck! She moved out aaaages ago!” I did my most convincing voice

“Oh! She did, did she?” Fishy-face obviously didn’t believe a word of it.

“Well, it’s not on you know! She owes us a lot of money and she can’t just go swanning off leaving honest people to pick up the cost of her debts…”

“ Now just you hold on a minute!” I interrupted.

“I’ll have you know, if it wasn’t for the likes of having to pay for the increase in the kids, ‘let’s all get hung up about Jamie Oliver type school dinners’ and the inflated
cost of Limousine hire for our Stacy’s ninth birthday party, I wouldn’t be in half of this mess!”

“So! It is you!” Fishy face pointed a bony, ‘I’ve just come back from a late retirement’, finger in my face. Well, now I’d gone and done it! Blown me own flamin’ cover! But I wasn’t putting up with the likes of him telling me how and
where to spend my money. Did he think that just because I was a single mother of three, we should live an inferior- like existence? Probably back in his day, he would have gone to school with cardboard stapled to the soles of his shoes!

Panic over took me as I slammed the door in his, ‘I crossed picket lines in Maggie

T’s day’, face.

“And don’t expect me to send my kids to school with cardboard stapled to the soles of their shoes!” I yelled through the letterbox, behind him.

“Even if we do live in Bleak-dale!”

That told him!

Made note to self not to open door to anyone with posh clipboard or official sounding- knock. Drilled this into kids and made them recite it back to meeight times. Lucky for Max being only one, he can’t reach the door handleand just stared vacantly at me whilst driving his plastic truck through his egg-custard.

March 19th

My brother Pete called round for tea. Told him about Kipper-man trying to
force the last pennies out of my pockets.

“Thing is,” He began,

“People like that are usually as bent as they come. It’s the likes of them who are trading knock- off D.V.D s in the pub of a weekend! Even those judges sit and have a big, fat reefer when they get home at night-times! And it’s them that want to take the food out of an innocent mans mouth for selling a bit of weed here and
there.”

Our Michael’s mouth fell open, half-filled with reduced pork sausages.

“Do judges really smoke weed?” His thirteen year-old eyes all wide and excited.

“Don’t say things like that around the kids Pete!” I moaned

“Course they do, son! And I heard that half of them are signing on too!” He continued, spilling his mushy peas down his front.

“What’s ‘signing on’?” Piped up Stacy.

“Never you min…” I began as my brother interrupted.

“It’s getting money from this corrupt government when you can’t be bothered being paid peanuts for doing a decent days graft! Take me for example. They wanted me back at work ages ago but what did I manage to do? I skilfully avoided one of their
‘Helping those who can’t help themselves’, back to work schemes. And here I am.
Giro’d up once a fortnight!”

Stacy looked more confused than she had before she asked as Eastenders was beginning on the T.V. Max was just happy crashing into the furniture in his walker.

Keep meaning to oil his wheels.

And as the images flickered across the screen and Pauline Fowler moaned in that manically-depressed was she always does about her life at the launderette, I could relate to her. Well, almost. My own was no more than dull. Hum-drum. I went
nowhere, did nothing, except run around after the children and try to scrape together enough money for food each week. As well as that, the only mail that arrived these days was court dates for another C.C.J or some bailiff or other wanting his share of my benefit money.

‘Pauline, I know where you’re coming from’. I thought.

Made mental note to self to never get a job in a launderette. Or have blonde,

‘I’m trying to hang on to the threads of my youth, when I am really well into my

sixties’, bob haircut.

March 20th.

Barbara from number fifty- three dropped in this afternoon to show off her new, ‘Do it yourself’ tan. With that and the bleached blonde hair going on, couldn’t help thinking she looked somewhat like a forty-seven year old lap-dancer.

And she’s got bingo wings!

“So, what do you think Sharon? Takes years off me don’t you reckon?”

She twirled around in her stone-washed mini skirt as Max chuckled away in the corner. At least someone knew how ridiculous she looked! Between her and Pauline,

I was beginning to think there was something in the air. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that her cellulite made her look like an over-processed tangerine in dire need of detox.

“Well, yes,” I began, never having been good at lying,

“I can see how it could work.” looking the other way, so that she didn’t meet my gaze.

“Great! Knew you’d love it! I’ll pop round at about seven and do yours for you!”

My whole life flashed before me, in a bedazzling glow of peachy bikini lines and salmon coloured cellulite.

“Oh noooooo! I mean there’s no need…”

“Oh I insist!” She waved a tangeriney arm in the air.

“Besides! It’s about time we stopped you looking quite so frumpy!”

Frumpy? Is that what she thought? I thought I just looked hard up (and manically-

depressed) and now I was being told by a forty-seven year old ‘ I wish I was bornas Jordan but was conceived twenty years too early’ woman on H.R.T, that I was frumpy!

All of my baggy jumpers, single parent trainers and anything remotely- connected to nineties block-heels has to go! Note to self to remind me never to buy stone-washed denim.

Checked mirror from all angles to see if even slight sign of getting bingo wings.

Couldn’t see any. Thank God!

March 21st.

Resemble someone who has had an accident whilst working in the localorange tie-dye t-shirt factory and fallen into a vat. (Not sure if there is one locally but made note to check on Google later). Bad enough, but on top of dodgy false tan, had to endure hours of Barbara’s droning on about how she could have married a millionaire but then discovered he was a bigamist wanted in three counties by various police authorities. Couldn’t help wishing she had married him. Maybe I would not be facing the trauma of having
to descend upon Stacey’s school with bizarre ‘Honey Monster gone wrong’ skin condition going on.

In bid to preserve self dignity / conceal identity, borrowed Michaels balaclava for school run.

“Mum! Don’t be stupid! No Mum, you can’t go out in that!” Must be his hormones making him think all about himself and putting others last. Can’t wait until it passes and he becomes a more Aled Jones refined type of lad. I bet Aled never
wore balaclavas and stared at his teachers breasts! The sheer thought of it takes
something away from, ‘Walking in the Air’

Did get some funny looks from the people at the bus-stop. Still, very cunning plan that balaclava of our Michael’s, I feel. I know now how James Bonds latest beautiful side- kick must have felt as he rescued her from some terrifying (grossly
inconceivable and life-threatening) predicament and she borrowed some of his togsto slip past the enemy clothed in an effortless camouflage.

Was relieved no one recognised me until,

“Hiya Sharon. Are you not feeling so good today luvvie?” Old Mrs. Cuthbert piped up, blowing my cover. Has she no idea of discretion?

“Shouldn’t you be at home waiting for Meals on Wheels?” I wanted to say.When ever did old people start going out in the mornings, apart from to collecttheir pensions? Aren’t they all supposed to be afraid of being mugged?
I do hope the bus company realise what a potential hazard she is to herself and seize her pass. Very soon.

Decided to get trim and learnt top tip about how you can use the iron instead of a set of expensive weights. May try some iron-lifting later. (Making sure to jam all curtains tightly shut in case of being seen by passing neighbours who may think I have had a Pauline Fowler type breakdown ( or was it Arthur?).
Reminded myself to keep count of how many lifts done with each arm so as not
to end up with wonky arms condition. Bad enough having one boob slightly bigger than the other!

March 22nd.

Yet more final demands piled onto the mat this morning. How the heck I am going
to pay off all thirty thousand pounds out of one hundred and thirty two gets me.The stress is mounting though and everywhere I look, someone is asking for money.Still, I have a plan! I am going to get myself one of them very posh jobs. –Somethingthat involves wearing a suit;-with one of them fancy linings, too! Just need to brush
up on me eleven times tables and learn a few big words. –What’s good for Carol
Vorderman is good for the likes of me too! (Even if she has got a figure resembling
that of a woman of twenty- three and earns a million pounds a week!) I bet she
doesn’t have to put up with people keeping her waiting in the Benefits Office when
she has to go in for a Crisis Loan!.

Would apply for a credit card (they are of course a sign of being a real grown up and remotely worthy of anything adult). But I think the ‘Total DisposableIncome Box’ of five hundred pounds per month, might not cut it somehow for American Express. Still, it is worth a try, so scribbled little note on the back of the

envelope;

‘P.S. Ignore the ‘Disposable Income’ box in this application as this will be changing to, (at the very least), three thousand pounds a month. Well, I mean, when I have secured a very posh job ( maybe something like a stock-broker). Or something equally as important which involves using very up- to- the- minute gadgets (a bit like the sort they would have shown on ‘Tomorrows World’ if it was still on the Tele).

P.P.S. If not a stock-broker, then something very similar which means I will also be wearing very expensive clothing and food shopping regularly in Marks and Spencer, (and not only at Christmas to impress any long lost relatives that might
suddenly rear their ugly heads), instead of Asda.

It goes without saying that living in the lap of such luxury means that we’ll be eating out at all the poshest places, no doubt those frequented by thelikes of Kylie. And quite possibly Gwen Steffani too.

P.P.P.S When you send my card, please could you send me a girly-looking one?(Quite like bubblegum pink but I am not too fussed if it has a hint of violet somewhere) Thank you.

Sharon Long-Bottom (Soon to be very rich stockbroker)’.

Hoped they did not notice the re-used stamp on the envelope glued on with the kids,
‘Crazy Kidz blue glitter’ dabber- stick. (Well, it did only seep over the edges a bit).

Took Max for a walk to the corner shop and splashed out on a magazine to drownown sorrows in someone else’s misery. Those, ‘my husband left me for a three-legged alien from Mars’ stories do have a habit of perking me up. My own life never
seems nearly as bad, even with my boredom, Pauline Fowler type manic depression
and dodgy tan; (which is now patchy and making me look like I am some kind of human-reptile highbred that needs to shed it’s skin).

In desperate need of very expensive (but worth every penny; ‘I-am-a-woman-with-a-very-high-self-
esteem,’ body scrub). Chanel (or similar) would probably suffice. Need to make
urgent call to their head office to see if you can pay on ‘the weekly’.

Managed to get through to Chanel. Don’t think I will bother shopping in their store
ever again! Well okay; I admit that I have never actually shopped there, but I have
been planning to (very soon when I am loaded!). Sure I heard the woman laughhen I asked if I could ‘pay -off ‘something nice and lovely’
to cheer myself up/get rid of orange looking reptile skin. Second thoughts, I might
shop there again, but only on MY terms! Think the part about asking her to ring
me back before I ran out of credit didn’t help any.

I will have to take this matter to the press (once I am dining in restaurants with Kylie
and the likes of Gwen). Could make a few bob for the ‘exclusive’ too’.

Any rode! It’s high time them lot stopped thinking they’re all a cut above!
Just ‘cause they have swanky decorations on their Christmas trees, doesn’t mean they’re any better than the likes of me! Even if mine has only got two legs!

Wonder if Jordan ever has days like this when her tan has gone wrong. If she did, she
would probably get her p.a. or someone to cancel all public engagements until she managed to get her St. Tropez tan back under some sort of control.

Then it hit me! If Pauline Fowler had a decent looking tan going on, maybe some of her problems would disappear owing to her new found self-esteem.She might even become really popular and bag herself a decent man! Genius!

Made note to write to Eastenders producers about my entrepreneurial idea.They might snatch me up realizing I am what the soap has needed for the last ten years. Maybe they could bring back Tiffany in a Bobby Ewing ‘back from the dead’ storyline too. Can’t get over how the ideas are just flowing without me even trying.

Discovered there is no factory in the whole U.K dedicated to tie-dying only orange t-shirts. Maybe there should be. I can see a market for them.

March 23rd.

“Mum! Muuuum! It’s some bloke who says he’s come for the furniture! Mum!”

Stacy was yelling me from downstairs as I changed Max’s nappy in my room.“Don’t let him in, whatever you do! Do you hear me?” Was all I could think of saying on the spur of the moment, yelling in a loud whisper.

Couldn’t Max have waited until a more convenient time to fill his nappy with vile-smelling, yellowy-brown stuff?

Of course, I’d heard all about how those bailiffs can’t touch your possessions if they’ve never been over the front door step with Barbara
having filled me in during one of her late night rantings.

“Mum! He’s sat on the sofa!” I was already thundering down the stairs by now.

And there he was; posh clipboard in hand, the lot. I stared at our Stacy, eyes like
tiny, blades of steel.

“You stupid bugger! He could have been anyone! And you’ve opened the door to a complete stranger and let him into our living room! You silly….”

But before I could continue, my life flashed before me in the blink of a bag of
half priced Brussels Sprouts. The bailiffs had landed! And I was about to become a woman who needed to take radical action.

‘Faking your own death’ popped into my mind.

Need to learn more about how to be dead (and get away with it). Maybe can fakedramatic heroic-like death, still talked about for decades to come. Possibly something to do with tragic boating accident or attack by suitably ferocious

animal at nearby zoo. (On half-price single-parent day of course).

Must get on to council to see why they never have built a zoo in Bleak- dale!

(An excerpt from my novel to be released in 2010)