

## The Return of Trudy McKendrick

## Book One

##

## CJ Daniels

Dedicated to all of my wonderful, beautiful Trudy's, past and present.

You know who you are, and I Iove you all very, very lots.

And to my Jonas – you know who you are too.

I think.

Husband...it's you...I mean you.

I love you quite a very lot too.

xxx

# 1)

If only I'd known this was how I would die.

I really should have worn better underwear, my mother would never forgive me for dying in period week knickers. Squatting repeatedly like a fat chicken on crack, holding in a fart that had wanted to come out for twenty-five minutes, while some kind of exercise dominatrix called Finn (pretend name, definitely a Trevor) held his hands on my waist to make sure I 'stayed aligned'. The reality was that I was not remotely aligned and his hands had drifted suspiciously from my waist. To all intents and purposes we were having really quite energetic sex, fully clothed and without the penetration, closely observed by a lot of spectators on hill climbers not even pretending not to watch.

Recommended by my (soon to be ex) friend Lou, I'd signed up for personal trainer time at the gym, regretting it the instant I realised they actually made you workout. I could see why _she_ liked it, mind you, as 1) she was all bendy and limber like the gymbot cyborgs I detested and dreamed about hurting, and 2) her personal trainer was Jonas, who was muscled and tall, looked like Jamie Dornan and spoke like George Clooney. He held the door for me once and I couldn't thank him because I forgot what you're meant to do with your tongue when you talk - so I just kind of blew a strange raspberry and pretty much came in my pants. I suspected there might be some actual penetration when his cyborgs are squatting. They're probably really well aligned too, I should imagine.

'Quick break', Finn/Trevor barked at me, '30 seconds, go get a drink'. I would swear he also slapped my backside but since I had no feeling from the neck down it was honestly quite difficult to tell. Thirty seconds does not constitute a break when it takes you that long to turn your broken body in the direction of the water cooler. I picked up my towel in the stunted style of an unbending Thunderbird, silently let my fart out and sidled off. Brewing for twenty five minutes...really nasty...let that be a lesson to you, Trevor, you pervy little fucker.

Waiting in line at the water cooler I cast my eyes around the gym. It was only just coming to my attention how much I stood out in this place. I was dressed in an old vest and leggings with a greying sports bra from 1997 strapping the girls down - gym attire, in my tiny mind. Everyone else appeared to be preparing to go out to a bar or club. Full make up, hair styled, expensive looking sports bras and layered tops over fitted, flattering knee length running trousers with funky looking footwear that my school issue trainers from 5th year PE didn't really stand up to. Plus various electronic gadgets – watches and straps and wiring - that appeared to direct them to go faster/higher/longer until absolute perfection was achieved. I was going to die in a place where I simply didn't belong, taken down by a well-groomed army of fitness freaks. Wearing period week knickers.

Having left enough time to clear the air, I wandered back to the mats to find Finn/Trevor had vanished. Perhaps the potency of my highly fermented pump gas had disintegrated him, I fantasised grimly.

'Hi'!

Oh shit.

'Finn's had to step out and deal with another client for a moment, so he's asked me to finish up your session if that's ok'? Jonas asked me, smiling, in his gorgeous 'I'm trying to shag Carol from ER' voice, while a little bit of dribble slid out the corner of my mouth.

'Plllllbbbbbrrrrr', (sound of me blowing a raspberry), I replied, smiling manically while contemplating my panic exit options, gingerly sniffing to see if my fart smell had dissipated and wondering who our children would look like.

'Smiling'! he said, 'That's good'!

Smiling stopped.

'Where were you up to in your plan'?

'Pppffffbbrrrrr', I responded, looking and sounding like I was having a stroke while pointing at the unticked boxes on my sheet with shaking hands and surreptitiously sucking the dribble back up into my mouth.

'Right, lunges. How's your balance? Do you want to brace against me'?

I'm sorry?!

I tried to forget that I had already been at this for half an hour which meant my hair was frizzy, my face had mutated into a beetroot and there was probably a little sweat patch on my arse that made it look like I'd widdled. I adopted the lunge position confidently, while pondering internally what the lunge position actually was. Jonas stepped forward, so my outstretched hands rested on his chest.

On his pecs.

His pecs.

Then he put his hand over mine and said (in the George Clooney voice), 'ready'?

Oh. Holy. Jesus.

Suddenly the sweaty widdle patch was the least of my wet knicker worries.

I lunged (I think) repeatedly. He quietly told me I could do more, and because I didn't want him to ever stop talking to me or touching me, I carried on until my leg muscles detached from my knees, collapsed down into my ankle area, and died. Which might have actually made the whole thing that much easier, who knows.

'Well done', he glanced down at my sheet, 'Trudy'. God, I hated my parents for lumbering me with that name. Not even Jonas could make it sound anywhere close to sexy.

'Next is sit ups, shall we crack on'?

Really? We weren't done? But...but...but...

I collapsed (no leg muscles), in as ladylike a fashion as I could muster (like a dead walrus dropping from a very great height), to the mat to do some sit ups.

'Ok, lie flat on your back, widen your legs and bend your knees'.

I pushed all inappropriate interpretations of that sentence to the back of my mind and lay flat on my back. But sadly, as I had no thigh muscles now, the leg moving bits of those instructions had no hope of being followed. He laughed quietly, 'A few too many lunges maybe? You have to say when you need to stop, or you'll get an injury'.

'I will', I whispered.

Oh. Progress. Sounds that could be words came out.

'Ok', he slid his legs under mine so we were facing each other, each with our legs stretched out quite widely, though he was sitting up and his legs had raised mine higher. I tensed and watched him warily, silently panicking about the visibility of the widdle patch. I recalled this in 'position of the fortnight' in More magazine when I was fourteen. And they weren't doing sit ups.

'Don't worry', he smiled, 'It's just to watch your positioning and check your abdominals while you work'.

I nodded, all my well-honed, professional communication skills coming out now. I'm not a journalist for nothing you know. Communication is my thing.

'Ready for ten'? He asked, placing a hand gently on my lower abs.

'Mmmmmff'. See. No probs.

He splayed his fingers gently on my tummy fat, patiently waited for my orgasm to subside, and nodded at me before he started counting....

'One...'.

I left the gym by walking down the stairs backwards as my legs wouldn't behave properly when I asked them to go down in the usual way. Then I collected Grace from the crèche, and Lou called me while I was strapping her into her car seat. Or trying to. She was currently adopting a helpful, rigid, ironing board position.

'He was unbelievable'.

'He's good isn't he, I think he's one of the best they have', Lou replied, totally seriously.

'Yes, yes', I agreed, realising she meant Jonas' skills as a personal trainer, 'Very good at.....motivating.....and stuff'.

'Stella is good too, you know', Lou said distractedly, 'She can show you how kettle bells work best for women'.

'Mmmm', I replied, pretending I understood any of the words in that sentence, 'I better go and get _Grace_ ', I said her name through gritted teeth so with her 2 year old brain she could understand she was in bother and start to defer appropriately to my supreme parental authority, 'in her car seat'. She took the hint, stopped doing the ironing board thing and dropped to the floor of the car like a dead body. Marvellous. 'You coming out on Saturday with the girls'?

'Yes, looking forward to it', Lou replied, 'See you about half seven'.

'See you later'.

Gracie is my daughter. Light of my life, my reason for living, fills me with pride every second of every day. Currently pulling furry Haribo off the car floor and eating them.

We're a team me and Grace, it's just the two of us. Her father was never going to stick around when she accidentally got created after a brief liaison with a guitarist who didn't see the merit in monogamy, never mind parenthood. Not my finest hour, and the last of any kind of action of that sort in my life. Entirely, entirely worth it because it gave me my Grace. Three years ago, that was. You can see why Jonas touching my muffin top was all it took these days.

'Hi there'. Speak of the devil...

'Hi', I squeaked, in old jeans that hung too low and a tee shirt that was really quite tight now, hair still wet, no make-up on and daughter in a state of collapse, eating hairy, expired jellies.

'Having car trouble'? He strolled over, smiling.

'Well, if by car trouble you mean forcing a two year old into her seatbelt...then yes, a spot of car trouble'.

Hello? Get me, making funnies with Jonas. It was funny, right? It was meant to be a joke, I hope he...

'Ha'! He laughed, all deep and rumbly (phew), 'Do you want a hand? What's her name'?

'This is Grace', I said, hauling her from the floor of the car at which point she appeared to dislocate both of her shoulders so she slid through my hands like a jellyfish, her t-shirt came up over her head and she started running round the car park looking like the half-naked back end of a very small pantomime horse – or something else which has legs but no head. I made a grab for her and yanked her t-shirt back down.

'Hi Grace', Jonas said, ruffling her already ruffled hair.

'Hewwo', she answered warily from behind my legs.

'Have you been in the playroom with Annette'? He asked her kindly.

'Yes', Gracie nodded and wiped her snot on my jeans. Endearing. Still, I suppose if he saw the widdle patch earlier and/or smelled my 25 minute trump, this was small fry by comparison.

'She's great Annette isn't she, I always have fun with her'.

I hate Annette.

Who is she?

'Did you have fun'?

'Yes', she nodded again and started delving in her nostril for the bits that my trousers hadn't dealt with.

'Well', I stopped her before she found something and either ate it or flicked it, 'We'd better get going Grace, can you pop in the car for me please'?

I was such a good, patient mother.

In front of other people.

Grace looked militant for a second, and just at the point where I thought a rebellion was imminent, Jonas said, 'Do you like treats? I can get one from my bag if you pop into the car for your Mum'?

She eyed him suspiciously as he walked to his car and pulled a snack bar from his rucksack.

'Awight', she nodded very seriously and climbed into the car. When I'd clicked her into place, Jonas reached past me and handed her the bar, 'Now don't open this until your Mum says you can, ok'.

'Ooh! Pleeeeease!! Now, now, now'!

'I think now is the time', I laughed pathetically as I handed the opened bar back to Grace, who pulled a furry fried egg off her t-shirt and discarded it in favour of the new treat, 'Thanks', I said to Jonas.

'No problem, Trudy', he said, walking back to his car with a smile that, if he hadn't completely obliterated them earlier, would certainly have made my leg muscles quiver, 'See you soon'.

He remembered my (ridiculous) name, I swooned, limped to the driver's door and just sort of fell in sideways. Well, that would probably earn some forgiveness for giving my two-year-old an energy bar an hour before bedtime. Just about. Now then, how does one operate a motor vehicle when one cannot lift one's feet from the floor?

I did eventually get Gracie off to sleep, and settled (collapsed in total agony) onto the sofa with a large medicinal gin and my laptop to earn my keep. I mostly worked from home now which often required more discipline than I was capable of and today meant I'd be burning the midnight oil with a column to write and a deadline of eight o'clock tomorrow morning. I'd covered current affairs for the Journal until I had Grace, but was lucky enough to have an open-minded editor who signed up to my idea of a weekly column in one of our magazines, sharing real stories of a single parent getting back into adult life.

I smiled as I typed the column for this week. It was quite freeing to tell the world your little foibles and fumbles, and you wouldn't believe the response the paper got. Clearly there were other Trudy McKendricks out there, struggling along like me and surviving by the skin of our arses, through good friends, good humour and bloody good gin.

# 2)

I did make my deadline of 8am in the end, though it was 2am by the time I hit send on the submission. As much as Facebook, Twitter and the likes have progressed modern communication, I do think they need to take some responsibility for what I can only assume are plummeting productivity levels of the current working generation. It is all but impossible to do internet research for actual, real work, when Facebook strongarms you into clicking on articles showing what 1980s child stars look like now. They reel you in with a photo of someone like Kevin off the Wonder Years, but the other 7000 photos are all just 'extra number 4 in episode 12 of the Cosby Show' or the kid off the Werther's original advert in 1989. But you can't just give up half way through. You're hooked, just in case it shows you a photo of Hoby from Baywatch or Zack from Saved By the Bell, old, fat, bald and leaving rehab/prison/a den of iniquity. Then when you eventually get into bed, you just have one last trawl through to make sure you haven't missed anything critical that's happened in the last fifteen minutes to people you knew twenty years ago and didn't really like. But you get inexplicably pulled in by the 'How much do you know about Harry Potter' and 'Only a Genius will get all of these right' quizzes which take until 3am. Then you think you should offset your own childish gullibility and make yourself feel more grown up and well-adjusted by reading BBC news for at least a second or two to be very mature and informed about world politics and current affairs, but get quickly distracted by stories about dogs who sing along to Coronation Street and a Korean kid doing a rubix cube in under a minute, blindfolded.

So, when the phone alarm goes off, you want to throw it against the wall. But instead you look again at Facebook to see what unmissable, world changing events have taken place in the brief seconds while you slept, revoltingly but inevitably continuing to look while you sit on the loo, only realising when your feet start to go to sleep that you have been on there for half an hour. Next ensues a five minute inner conversation about whether you have the time to wash your hair, or more importantly, the mental capacity and personal commitment to dry and style it afterwards. It is generally at this point in my life, whilst holding onto the bathroom radiator to keep my balance until my feet wake up, sniffing my hair to assess how dirty it actually is, that Grace wanders in. And then the decision is taken out of my hands. It's going to be _another_ dirty hair day.

I always assumed that body issues stemmed entirely from women, and men, comparing themselves to unachievable, airbrushed photos in magazines, movie stars and what have you. Or from wanting to be like the popular girl at school, who you thought was the most beautiful creature you had ever beheld. Only now when you look back on photos, she looks fairly normal and you only found out later her popularity had more to do with going down on the majority of the boys in 5A than it did with perfectly symmetrical fringey bits.

Once you are a parent, however, body shaming starts to plumb new depths. Your self confidence deserts you somewhat once you've had a 15 month old squat down to toilet height so they can observe the poop exiting your body, then try to help you wipe afterwards. Or stare relentlessly and unblinkingly at your once pert boobs that now, having fed said child, resemble a modern art installation consisting of very long socks with oranges in the bottom. Or in my case, since I wasn't short in that department, football socks with melons in the bottom.

And today was no different. As always I tucked Grace into my bed with my mobile phone, putting paid to any hopes I had of progression on Candy Crush, and as always, by the time the water had run warm, she was sat on the floor staring at me unapologetically.

And here our daily conversation began.

'Why them there'? She asked, pointing at my boobs.

'You need them to feed babies when you're a mummy', I said out loud. 'And to get served faster at a bar when you're 19', I said inside my head.

She nodded sagely and, as always, I hoped this was the end of it. But, as always, it wasn't.

'Why they wobble'?

With little feeling in my feet; trying to work fast; attempting to turn slightly away from the judgemental gaze of my offspring; suffering a complete absence of thigh muscles from yesterday's insanity at the gym, I managed to get a foot stuck in a leg of my onesie and an arm of it hooked around the radiator knob. So yes, the football sock melons were wobbling as I frantically tried to escape from my pyjama prison and hide in the somewhat more private area of the shower cubicle.

'They didn't wobble before you', I said quietly under my breath and through gritted teeth. But not quietly enough.

'My make wobble'? Gracie asked, doinging one with her hand to test the accuracy of that statement.

'My _do_ make wobble', she reflected, quietly wondering at her abilities.

She pulled the neck of her Spiderman PJs out and looked down at her own front.

'Where mine'?

'Yours will come when you are older', I shouted from the happy, happy sanctuary of the shower.

'When my is free'? She hollered back.

'More like thirteen', I shouted again, wondering if anyone else in the entire universe conducted conversations like this every sodding day.

'When that'?

'Quite a long time'.

I sighed, pondering if elsewhere in my street, mothers were serenely reading The Times whilst drinking Fairtrade filter coffee and selecting a slice of wholemeal toast from their Habitat toast rack to spread with locally produced marmalade and cut into fingers for their well-behaved toddler sitting quietly in an eco-friendly driftwood high-chair in clothes made from hemp or seaweed or something.

Meanwhile, back in my life...clearly feeling like she'd had enough of this shit, the shower door was flung open, letting in cold air and putting Grace's head directly in line with my front bum.

'How many sleeps til my is furteen'? Said whilst staring, horrified, at my pubes.

'Too many to count right now', I turned away a little and tried to wash the creases and folds under the watchful eye of a disgusted toddler.

'How many minutes til my is furteen'? she said quietly, as she looked quickly up at my face, then immediately back down to my pubes.

'Even more to count right now......Gracie McKendrick, can I not even shower alone'?

She pouted and looked away from me, so I took the opportunity to step out and grab a towel. Almost instantly I felt a pat, pat, pat on my backside.

'This wobble too Mummy'.

After unceremoniously dumping Grace at nursery, I rushed into work past a predictably unmanned reception desk. Jenna was our new, twenty year old receptionist, but her entire list of duties seemed to consist of avoiding both reception and Isabella (the boss), gaining a piercing and/or tattoo every day, but losing an item of clothing. My assumption was that eventually she would turn up naked looking like a human charm bracelet, but no one would notice because she wouldn't actually be on reception. I ditched my bag under my desk, plopped my gym broken body into my chair and retrieved an old bottle of perfume from my bottom drawer, sniffing at a strand of my unwashed hair gingerly.

'Morning'! This was Sally, digital editor, 'Oooh, get you, who you trying to impress wearing perfume'?!

Seeing me spray it liberally around my scalp, she rolled her eyes and leaned her bum on the edge of my desk.

'Woman, you have got to stop trying to Febreeze yourself and actually bloody wash'!

'Shhhhh', I peeked around the rest of the office, 'You bloody try it with a pervert toddler on the loose, see how far you get'!

'Do it when she's asleep, you dirty bitch'. She smiled and leaned in, though not too close, I noticed, 'Loved the article on gym cyborgs, it's already on the online edition and getting some hits'.

'Ah cool', I replied happily, wondering if Sally ever actually left this office, 'If I'm going to mortify myself publicly then it's nice to know people can relate to it, I suppose'.

'For sure', she stood up again, 'Coffee'?

'I'll come with you', I said, 'I need to forage for some breakfast'.

She rolled her eyes at that, 'You need to get organised, Trude, and get some proper food in the house for you and that girl of yours. You'll fade away'!

'Yes mother', I chuntered, 'I'll get right on that. And believe me, no fading, my daughter conducts a daily physical to confirm it'.

I slid to the end of the chair and put my hands on the desk.

'You ok'? Sally asked, watching me struggle to get up, groaning when every single inch of me objected, 'You're making sex noises'.

'I'm old and broken', I replied sadly, mentally calculating how many steps it was to the coffee pot.

While Sally made coffee, I pulled some ancient, dried out mascara out of my bag and used the stainless steel of the microwave as a mirror to try and make myself look less like a dead body.

'McKendrick'! Isabella barked as she marched in, 'Most people dress before they get to work you know'.

I grimaced at her and carried on. She was only really terrifying in the middle quartiles, a newly divorced cougar who dressed like her teenaged daughter in ripped jeans and off the shoulder tops, and went clubbing til all hours with the students and younger staff. Rumour was that she was sleeping with Jamie from the sports section but any comment I had about that would be born of pure envy. I'd be happy to have a spark of interest from hot, sporty Jamie with his tanned, strong arms and a backside born of the number of lunges I could only dream of. Depressingly, at work, indeed anywhere on planet Earth, the only opposite sex interest I had recently achieved was to be asked out by hairy Phil from the politics section. Repeatedly.

And on that note...

'Morning Phil'! Isabella always yelled as if you were in another room. Or country.

I slid my chair back as quietly as I could and tried to pretend I was part of the wall.

'Morning all', Phil said cheerily, the hairs on his gorilla arms waving gently in the breeze of the air con like some kind of weird man-beast shampoo advert. His eyes swept around the room brightly then landed on me, changing his expression in an instant to the one Grace gives me when I won't let her push her fork into a live plug socket.

'Trudy', he said darkly, flaring his nostrils and pursing his lips, I suspect trying to look intimidating but failing really, quite spectacularly.

'Phil', I responded with a professional, mature nod of the head.

'Get over it Phil', Isabella patted him on the back, just about knocking him through the cupboards as she walked out with her soy chai glitter sparkle hoopla latte, 'It's been a year, man'!

I backed out of the kitchen while Phil muttered under his breath and slammed the cabinet doors looking for his Earl Grey that he kept in a padlocked box with his name and next of kin contact details on.

In my defence, he asked me out and I gently and politely said no at least twenty times before he pretty much cried and asked me what was wrong with him, so I gave in. Then he took me to an old mans pub where it smelled like old mans ale and old mans wee and old men stared at me while hairy Phil talked at me about his mother and why the Green Party was in with a shot in the local election. There was, of course, no second date and after a suitable amount of time to soften the blow, I wrote an article called 'Don't Dip Your Nib' about dating people from work. It went down a storm with Isabella, but like a ton of shit with Phil who, correctly, assumed it was mostly about him.

Anyway, I wasn't physically in the office much these days, but today was a staff meeting, which takes place once a week and is generally a waste of time but a good excuse for Isabella to physically caress the majority of the young hotties and then plan an impromptu night out. This usually meant the office would be deserted from about two o'clock and they would all be on their beer scooters heading home by half five. With the likely exception of Isabella and Jamie from the sports section, who had other motivations.

The boardroom was rammed as all the interns and students piled in with the contracted staff who sat round the table. Again, it suddenly dawned on me that I was not a cool kid anymore. Here, just like the gym, everyone looked as if they were about to enter the after party of...someone who was currently hip. Ladies in full make up with significant, majorly attended to eyebrows that seemed to be the thing these days and thick, curled lashes that I doubt they had cultivated themselves. Cool, cropped haircuts with shaved bits and long bits and coloured bits, either straightened or curled into waves that consistently fell exactly where they were meant to. Skinny designer jeans that I couldn't fit one leg inside, heels that added at least 3 inches to their height and probably cut off the circulation to their toes, tight shirts, crisply ironed with not a single crease. Chunky statement jewellery and, of course, the latest fitbit. And the men, I reflected with more than a little alarm, were not so different. Eyebrows that could not be the shape God gifted them with, eyelashes that exhibited a hint of something that might have been clear mascara, well-trimmed beards and fingernails that did not spend their weekends fixing up old cars or riding dirt bikes. Skinny designer jeans that, again, I couldn't fit one leg inside and which were probably ending any hopes they had of producing offspring. And tight fitted tops which showcased impressively large biceps and impressively flat abdominals. Massive designer watches and, of course, the latest fitbit. There were also a large number of fancy protein shakers with a variety of weird coloured blended contents, presumably because the majority of the room were elite Olympic athletes who needed their electrolytes and major vitamin groups replacing after their five a.m. training session with Mo Farrah.

I fidgeted nervously with my messy bun that I had tried to make look carelessly done, but which in reality took 20 minutes, in order to ensure a superglued bit of Grace's breakfast flapjack was safely tucked away in the centre section. My hair was auburn and mega long, for no other reason than I never had any bloody time to get it cut, but it was always tucked up for health and safety reasons following the stickle bricks incident of 2017. Looking down, I gingerly assessed my flat ballet pumps and jeggings, oversized white shirt over a vest, small ish plain silver hoops in my ears that had probably been in there since Grace was born and a watch from Argos that was reluctant to maintain the accurate time. Plus dead or dying bottom-of-the-handbag mascara, hastily applied in the microwave mirror. Not, not good. I let my body sink a little lower in my chair and hoped no one would pay any attention to me. Sally caught my eye and looked at me quizzically, so I straightened a little, but crossed my internal fingers that this meeting would not involve me one little bit. I really needed to get myself sorted. There was a time when I could look half decent, but I genuinely couldn't remember how I had ever achieved it.

Sometime later, having successfully stayed under the radar...

'Facebook's dead', Eli (uber cool newbie, well inside Isabella's inner circle) told us, waving a hand casually, 'No one cares anymore, it's just for women over thirty to talk about their kids and their pets'.

I bristled inwardly at the 'women over thirty' comment, painful to the extreme because it was most likely true and because I fell comfortably into that age bracket. Plus, we've already established my Facebook addiction was still a very current affair.

'We've got to get ahead of the game', he went on in obscure-speak, with something that could have resembled enthusiasm, if enthusiasm was still something cool kids were allowed to show, 'Think outside of the box, we could sprinkle some major magic dust around here, but it has to be really _now,_ you know'.

I almost let a pig snort laugh out. Was I in a staff meeting at work, or the Great Hall at Hogwarts? I slid a smile behind my hand and looked up, expecting to catch a knowing look on one of my more experienced colleague's faces. My smile vanished swiftly when I realised they were all listening intently, nodding and taking notes....whaaaaaat???

'It's an interesting thought to end on', Isabella said standing up and squeezing Eli's shoulder, 'Shall we sort out our loose ends and continue this line of thought over drinks at Bedlam'?

'Not Bedlam', Sasha from advertising piped up, swooshing her long blonde hair out of her jacket as she stood, nearly decapitating a quivering intern behind her, 'It's had its day. Maybe Homestead'?

'Marley's', a voice from the back of the room, 'Hot in there on a Friday'.

A rumble of consensus went round the room, and even gorilla Phil nodded and got up to get his coat. I'd never heard of any of these places and the last time I went drinking in town I ended up with a Grace growing in my girl parts. I glanced at my attire, fiddled with the flapjacky bit again and checked my timepiece. I had to be on the bus to nursery in 50 minutes, assuming Argos wasn't steering me wrong. Time for one very quick drink. If they let dirty old Facebook users in these places, that is.

'One more thing'! Isabella raised her hand and people sat down again and went quiet, 'Tonight is the Media Ball at The Harvey'.

Rumbles and murmurs around the room and the keen bean arse kissers were sitting up a little straighter in their chairs.

'We only have the one ticket as the number of publications in this region has grown so much this year, fucking digital age, so not fucking journalism', she ranted, conveniently forgetting we had our own digital section and ignoring Sally's pouty frown.

There was a general height reduction in the room as people slumped back down to their usual slouchy levels.

'But I can't go'.

Ping! Little meercats sprang back up to attention immediately. It was quite funny, really, like a boardroom version of splat the rat. There was only me who remained motionless and uninterested. Media Ball? My idea of hell with no homework, probably naked with my teeth falling out too.

'I need someone to go and show their face, network a bit, keep us up there in the sector with colleagues and competitors'. She was looking right at me with focus and intent, so I drew a picture of stick man being hanged on my notebook and pretended it was Pulitzer prize winning writing that I simply couldn't keep inside any longer.

'Trudy'! she shouted, and I know I didn't imagine the aftershock which rippled around the room at my name being announced.

Trudy? Ancient, unwashed, flapjack haired, flat shoe wearing, normal eyebrowed, Facebooker Trudy???

'Noooooo', I answered slowly and carefully, 'Let a young one go, good experience', I nodded wisely with an intelligent, thoughtful tap of my pen on my forehead.

'No. You're going', Isabella was packing her stuff up...panic, panic!

'No really, I can't, I need more notice than that', I babbled and stood, trying to work my way past the eyebrows to her, 'I don't have a babysitter'.

'I'll babysit'!

Fucking Jenkins, I was going to kill her.

'Last time you babysat for me, Grace ate a bar of soap'.

'I've learned', Sally said serenely while nodding like a Jedi Master, 'Won't happen again'.

'Go for an hour', Isabella put in, standing right next to me now.

'No'.

'It'll be full of young cock', she flashed her mega white teeth at me and winked.

'You go then'.

'Ohhhh if I could....', followed by quite a few moments of silent contemplation on her part and the bitter mutterings of the slighted eyebrows in the room.

'You must be gagging for it by now, it's been for-frigging-ever since you got some', Isabella said not at all quietly.

'I do ok', I mumblingly lied and turned the colour of a tomato.

'Like fuck you do', she answered decisively, 'You didn't even do Phil. You're going. Starts at seven. Wear something that makes you look like a girl'.

I played with the flapjack in my hair and tried to remember my happy place whilst my brain went into complete crisis mode.

'Try and get an article out of it', Isabella went on not caring that she was by now on the other side of the room to me and all of the eyebrows were staring and listening. She looked at me and wagged her finger, 'An article and a shag or don't come back to work'.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

# 3)

Wear something that makes you look like a girl, i.e. make sure your boobs are out.

'Just wear the black one', Sally Judas Jenkins said from the floor where she and Grace were attempting to build a mega blocks princess castle.

'The black one has a bleach line on it', I yelled from the living room.

'What, from all the cleaning you do?' she asked drily, 'In dresses'?!!

'Last minute panic last Christmas before my mother came over', I grimaced as I entered the bedroom, 'Was a bit too liberal with it'.

I was sporting a purple maxi dress that I forgot I had, 'See if you can do the zip, Sal, I don't think it's going to go'.

Sally got up and tried to pull the sides of material together. Tried again. And tried again.

'Breath in'.

'I already am'!

'Have you got duck tape'? she asked seriously.

'Are you going to fix my guttering'? I eyeballed her sceptically.

'Tape the girls in a bit, up goes the zip'.

'I think you're stupid', I said with no humour.

'Well I think y _ou're_ stupid', she shot back huffily and unimaginatively, dropping back to the floor.

'I'm ringing Lou'.

Half an hour later and Louisa, my hero, arrived at the door. Sally was persevering with the princess castle while Grace tried on my shoes and bras.

'Hiya', Lou breezed in, almost lost under a mountain of clothes, 'You guys ok'?

Sally gave a thumbs up but didn't break her concentration, determined, at the age of thirty nine, not to be outdone by a toy created for the 18 to 36 months age bracket.

'Look! My pretty', Grace told Lou happily, wearing my only pair of fuck me boots, a skanky purple bra she had found somewhere and the matching thong which she thought was a hairband and was sporting as such.

And the stupendous mother award goes to....

So anyway, having tried on a few of the options...

'I actually think the black one might be _too_ sexy', Lou said thoughtfully, scratching her head through her cool, blonde pixie cut, 'You need to keep something for date two, not put it all out there straight away'.

'Uhuh', Sally nodded, 'But you also need to be confident of achieving date one in the first place'.

'Right', Lou agreed, both of them apparently forgetting that I was even in the room, or involved with this at all.

'My like this', Grace helped, holding up the skeleton onesie I had bought for trick or treating with her last year, then bottled out of wearing because I had yet to meet a skeleton with tits and ass like mine.

'Me too, Gracie', I agreed, taking off the black dress to hand to Lou and putting the skeleton onesie on.

Satisfied, she shuffled off in my FMBs and porn star lingerie to peep round the living room door, assessing progress on Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and seeing if the child catcher bit was over.

'It's probably all a colossal waste of time anyway', I huffed, 'All of this trying to make me look shaggable'.

They looked somewhat perplexed.

I elaborated.

'Let's say you get me looking presentable and someone finds it within themselves to consider it. I'm like....like...false advertising, or something'.

Lou and Sally had not had children. They both screwed their faces up and made a joint, 'Meh?' kind of noise.

'I mean, do I have to tell them?' I explained, 'Like customs? Is there a sex customs, like 'anything to declare''?

'Declare what, crazy lady'? Sally asked, still foraging in the pile of clothes Lou had brought over.

I sighed and picked at a thread on the cuff of my skeleton onesie.

'Like the fact that my boobs look ok when scaffolded up, but they drop dramatically when they're free to roam. That my belly button is now a good sized pocket in my stomach where I could genuinely carry my car keys. That I've got stretch marks on my hips that look like Grace has drawn on me with purple Sharpies while I slept. That my foof pushed a _gigantic_ baby out of it and that it might well feel like shagging a welly top these days. I mean, unless he is completely ginormous I might not even know he's in there. Unless of course he hits the gap in my foofal muscles, _also_ knackered by the gigantic baby, and I have to stop him to change angle because it feels like he's poking in my poo hole'.

Horrified, horrified silence.

Tumbleweed blew slowly across my bedroom and Sally looked discreetly away while she tried to get the better of her gag reflex.

Lou turned to her, looking slightly pale and nauseous herself. 'Lock it down woman, quick', she shouty whispered in panic, 'This is serious shit. Retrieve the hot black dress, retrieve the hot black dress!!'

An hour later my taxi pulled up at the hotel. I was sporting the black dress, deemed absolutely necessary now, hair and make-up both courtesy of the super patient and talented Louisa. I fiddled with the up do, hoping the pins did the job with my militant mane and took a quick peek in the driver's rear-view mirror to make sure my face hadn't slid off in the ten minute journey. This felt very weird, going to a party full of strangers dressed like Cinderella, and I was more nervous than I cared to admit.

'Thank you', I said, remembering my manners as I got out of the taxi, only to have it roar away the second the door was closed without so much as a nod or a smile. I stood conspicuously for a moment, noticing that most other people seemed to be arriving in groups, already chatting away like the old friends they probably were. I really wanted to be back in my skeleton onesie at home with Grace, watching the Disney Channel and pretending I could sing like Elsa.

This was so not my scene anymore.

Actually, I'm not sure that this was ever my scene.

'Good evening', a conundrum of a voice called to me from the steps of the hotel. Tiny and squeaky, yet inexplicably loud. 'Are you here for the media ball'?

She was some kind of chief elf welcomer woman, about the size of an 11 year old and carrying a clipboard, plus what looked like a stopwatch that was almost the same size as her head. And she appeared to be addressing me and me alone. In the manner of a Carry On film, I tried to casually look over my shoulder just to be sure there wasn't a more likely candidate for her attention coming up behind me. Best to be sure before I made a nob of myself.

'Yes you! I mean you'! She tiny shouted and started barrelling towards me, helping me make a nob of myself with very little effort on my part, in the end.

'Hello', I stammered, 'I'm from.....'.

'Invitation'? She squeaked/barked rudely.

'Yes, yes', I delved into my tiny bag and produced it, dogeared and squished.

'Humpff', she exhaled with feeling as she tried to smooth the card out on her clipboard, looking at me with disdain as someone who clearly had no respect for the overpriced stationery she'd probably spent a disproportionate amount of time deciding on, 'Go up the steps on the left and hand this in, you'll see the seating chart there. We start in...', she glanced at the stopwatch, '...three minutes! Three minutes! Go, go, go'!

I honestly expected marines to drop down rope lines from silent helicopters with the way she instructed me like a drill sergeant. I wondered why the rest, of what must have been at least fifty other late arrivers, didn't get that kind of attention. I must have looked like I desperately needed the guidance, I thought moodily, further confirming my assertion that I really didn't fit in here.

Taking my somewhat straightened out invitation back from her, I headed into the hotel and up the left-hand staircase as instructed, standing alone and silent in the line while people around me all chatted and laughed happily.

Well, I grumped inwardly, reminding myself of my objectives, 'an article and a shag or don't come back to work'.

Splendid.

Halfway through the main course (which was delicious, perfectly cooked, thinly sliced steak with crushed potatoes and mixed roast veg), I looked around at the people generating a happy buzz of noise and wondered if every single one of their conversations was better than mine.

Mine and Eric's.

Eric Gene Singleton of the something or other Times, twice winner of the snooty self-important award and a million other things he had spent the evening telling me that he really, rather liked about himself.

I envied the possible chit chat occurring in the room. About the current heat wave, the Royal baby, the end of summer sales and whether this whole new President thing was just a massive episode of 'Punked'.

'I could show you the statistics if you'd like to see the evidence', Eric was nodding seriously and enthusiastically at me, making the quiff at the front of his hair bounce manically up and down, almost hitting his glasses.

I moved a hand to my wrist to check my pulse. I hadn't entirely died, which was pretty good news. Only some small, precious parts inside of me, that had curled up and withered away in the worst and longest forty minutes of my entire life.

The other people at my table peeped sideways at us, clearly amused at my predicament of being saddled with the Eric-type-person that must curse every party. But they were all unwilling to take the chance of interjecting and helping me out, lest it should impact on their currently pleasant and/or productive evening.

Eric-The-Magnificent's attention was firmly focused on my cleavage, so I assumed the evidence he spoke of must be in there somewhere, nestled between my trussed up football socks.

Dirty, mind numbing man with the social skills of a long dead halibut.

Was I interested in the evidence?

Was I buggery.

I'd spent the last twenty minutes mentally:

  * drafting my letter of resignation

  * updating my CV with creative half truths

  * rerunning episodes of Silent Witness in my head to carefully and methodically plan how I would kill Isabella _and_ Sally and get away with it

'Maybe another time', I replied to Eric a bit huskily, my voice rusty from not having projected any words during his relentless self-promotion for the last half an hour.

'Right', he dropped his voice lower, completely misinterpreting my tone and sliding his hand along the back of my chair, 'We can talk about that later'.

His finger touched my shoulder blade and I think a little bit of vomit actually popped up for a second. I silently panicked and wondered if I was going to achieve either of my objectives, thus securing my employment for the future. I didn't think Isabella really and truly meant it when she said I would be sacked if I didn't 1) get some gossip for an article, and 2) copulate, but I reckoned she would want some kind of return on her sending me here.

This was bad. I needed an exit strategy.

'Trudy'? I heard someone say my name and sat quickly and excitedly to attention, keen to identify the potential escape route.

'Trudy'?! The voice got more enthusiastic and came closer so I could see who it was attached to.

'Jenny'! I practically launched myself across the table and into her unextended arms for the hug she hadn't actually offered, immeasurably grateful for the excuse to exit the Eric dilemma., 'Jenny, how the bloody hell are you'?!

Calm down Mckendrick, I scolded myself. Don't frighten away your saviour.

I literally hadn't seen Jenny since Uni, we did the same journalism degree but never kept in touch after that, it being stone age pre-social media times back then.

'I'm good, I'm good' she took a careful step back, held me at arm's length and smiled cautiously at me, 'How are you'?

'Happy to escape that conversation', I said through gritted teeth, indiscreetly identifying Eric with a jerk of my head in his direction.

She looked and narrowed her eyes, 'You mean my fiancé'?

Gulp.

'Errr, ummm...no...'.

'Ha! Just kidding, come on', she laughed as she walked me away from my table, smoothly linking my arm through hers, 'we've got a no show at our table, you can join us'.

Angels started singing somewhere in my imagination and I almost did a little happy dance alongside her.

'Have you not been to one of these before'? Jenny asked, 'That's Eric. Same every time, total con artist, latches onto a newbie every year to try and bullshit them and get into their pants. He's the agony uncle for the Gazette, and not particularly good, even at that'.

'What'?! I had politely sat through all of that dribbling on, and it was total and utter rubbish!

'Afraid so m'dear', she winced apologetically at me, 'Come and meet my lot, they'll cheer you up'.

I looked over my shoulder and gave a bewildered looking Eric my most evil stare, while Jenny led me on to a table at the other side of the large ballroom.

'Right people, this is Trudy, I'm rescuing her from Eric and she's coming to join us', she addressed a table of four people, all of whom grimaced sympathetically at the mention of Eric's name. Pretty sure Isabella could have tipped me the wink about him, I thought to myself crossly, if he was as well known as this for his bullshit.

'This is Maggie', I shook hands with a smiling Maggie, 'Anna', I waved at Anna who was at the other side of the table, 'Tony', who nodded but was enthusiastically digging into his crème brulee, though from the leftovers here, he was clearly the only one ingesting any carbs, 'And Mike. Don't talk to him, he'll try and shag you in the toilets'.

'Hey'! the admittedly attractive Mike replied with mock offense, 'She's just jealous because I refuse to shag her in the toilets, Trudy. You and I can proceed to the water closet any time you like'.

Jenny laughed, sat down and indicated for me to do the same while she poured me a glass of champagne.

'Behave yourself', she wagged her finger affectionately at Mike, and I spotted the signs of an undercurrent between the two of them, mentally directing myself not to shag him in the toilets, in the unlikely event that the opportunity actually presented itself.

'So', Jenny sat back in her seat and appraised me, 'What's up with you Trudy, how are things? Married, kids, older, wiser'?

'Older, but never wiser', I grinned, 'Still McKendrick, never married but I have a little girl, Grace. She's two'.

I resisted the urge to get my phone out and subject them all to a twenty minute slideshow of the glory of Grace.

'McKendrick'? Anna sat forwards and leaned her arms on the table, 'Trudy McKendrick? Do you write that single woman column'?

I nodded nervously and waited for her response.

'Oh my God, I love it! You're so funny, I've cried laughing at that before'!

'Well, thanks, glad you enjoy it', I answered, pleased, but noting the rest of the table clearly had no idea what she was on about.

'So hilarious', she continued, 'I loved the one about stretch marks and dangly bits, just fabulous'!

She roared with laughter, simultaneously helping both my professional ego and any issue I might have had with Mike requesting a shag in the accessible lavatories later in the evening.

'What are you guys working on at the moment'? I asked in return, polite but also genuinely curious.

'I'm finance', Anna replied, 'I would bore the life out of you about interest rates and investments. Not a whisper of sex or intrigue in my professional life', said with a wink, a swig of champagne and a pointed look at Jenny.

'World news', Tony said, raising his hand with a smile, 'Bloody chaos, idiots everywhere'!

'Sports', Maggie smiled, 'Just back from formula one world championships in Budapest, off to cover the football world cup qualifiers next'.

'Lots of travel then'?

'Loads', she nodded, 'But I love it, just another bonus of the job, getting to see the world'.

I smiled and then looked at Mike and Jenny.

'Oh Mike and Jenny', Maggie rolled her eyes, 'They're investigative. You don't know what they're working on until its printed, very hush hush'.

Jenny laughed, 'Not quite as intriguing as that most of the time, but yes, that's me and Mike'.

'As a team'? I asked, trying not to raise my eyebrows like my mother does when she hides a trick question within another seemingly innocent one. For example, when she is babysitting, 'will it be a late one'? Should actually be interpreted as, 'are you going to get pregnant or contract herpes?'

'Most of the time', Mike answered me, but was looking at Jenny in a proprietal kind of way.

'Yes, most of the time', Jenny looked away from Mike's gaze and over to me, 'Sometimes we do our own thing though'.

'Right', I nodded, though I wasn't sure if we were only talking about journalism now, or were Mike and Jenny in some kind of vague relationship that they couldn't quite articulate. Something was afoot between them, but I just smiled politely, reached for more champagne and asked, 'What was the latest thing I would have read by you guys, then'?

A couple of hours later and I was drunk. Really, really, really, shitfaced drunk. No real surprise, given the open bar champagne I'd been chugging all night.

But here's the thing. Everyone else was _so_ drunk, that by comparison I was really, quite sober. I sat back in my chair, feeling terribly grown up and sensible, and tried to focus my intoxicated eyes on the tomfoolery progressing all around me in this room full of successful, professional, middle aged people. Who with a very _small_ sniff of a night of being 'out, out' were making very _large_ tits of themselves as far as the eye could see.

Eric was prattling on to the welcomer elf woman at the bar. Probably lying about a huge house in the South of France and a huge penis in his trousers.

Fortunately for her, the welcomer elf woman was actually passed out. Or perhaps dead. Draped over the bar with her knickers somewhat on show and her stopwatch still running.

Tony was crying on the phone to someone I think was called Gertie or Bertie. Or Colin.

A weatherman I recognised was doing Gangnam Style perpetually, no matter which song the DJ put on.

Mike and Jenny thought they were snogging behind a sash curtain, but actually they had slid sideways on the window seat and were on open display with most of one of Jenny's boobies now pretty much out.

The dance floor was like a mosh pit, and I wouldn't have advised approaching the tables at the back of the room if you didn't want to see something you would never be able to unsee.

It was like middle aged mob mentality. Total bloody chaos.

In a haze of alcohol induced inspiration, I started thinking about how a night out, and the activities around it, changed as you got older.

When you're young, and nights out are at the very least a weekly occurrence, they are a chance to be cool. You had all the time in the world to get ready, probably ringing at least three of your friends to check you wouldn't clash, since Top Shop only had so many outfit options. Outfits which were put together to show as much flesh as possible, for the most part. So, you wore what was on trend, danced to the current tunes, drank the hip drinks, leaned with faux nonchalance (all the while on high alert for _that_ guy) in the cool bars and clubs at the correct point of the evening. You might meet someone, experience the pain of the 'will they/wont they call' for the next 72 hours. You might not, hey, whatever, it's all cool. In my day, you spent a maximum of fifteen pounds, might have cadged a quick snog, drank enough to be really drunk, and still had enough money for a dodgy kebab and a shared taxi home.

You'd somehow wake up fairly fresh in the morning, meet your friends for a coffee (even though no one drank coffee yet) to rehash the events of the night before and get ready to do it all again that coming evening.

But when you're over thirty, in some kind of career, likely to have dependants of some description even if it's just your mother hounding you to fix her Wi-Fi because for some reason she thinks you're an electrical engineer. Well by that stage, a night out – I mean 'out, out' - can be pretty rare. And it would seem this meant that when it did actually happen, it was no holds barred.

You have no cool clothes anymore, or if you do you're too old to pull them off now, so you either rock up in your most casual work attire or something far too dressy that you had for a wedding three years earlier. Nothing quite fits these days, so sucky inny underwear becomes part of the 'out, out' dress code. Outfits are now built around hiding specific parts of your body from view. And you've got to perfect getting ready in 12 minute bursts (which is the length of an episode of Paw Patrol) and accept that you're not going to reach the pinnacle of looking your absolute best, but manage your expectations down to looking better than you did three episodes ago.

Two large glasses of wine into the night and all respectability goes out of the window. By the end of the night you've ordered shots for people you've never met before who are your new best friends, demanded that the DJ find some 80s music, rallied the whole population of the bar to do 'oops upside your head', ground inappropriately against the now emotionally damaged seventeen year old glass collector, and tried to convince the bouncers that their watches were wrong at closing time.

In the morning, you wake to realise you are not twenty two any more. That you will now have to suffer a three day hangover, probably in the company of loud, small children who are not bothered that you are on the brink of death. And someone has clearly hacked your bank account because you couldn't possibly have spent £250 in one night.

'I have to go'! I stood up, inspired, and staggered around the table, 'I did not get a shag', stagger, stagger, stumble, 'But I have my story'!

No one was even remotely aware of my existence but as the soberest at the table I took my responsibility very seriously. I leaned forwards and spoke very loudly and slowly, gesturing with my hands and trying to look concerned.

'Are you all ok to get home?'

No one noticed a thing, continuing to cry, gibber, pretty much shag...

'Good'! I answered their silence with enthusiasm, 'Text me so I know you get back ok'.

I didn't have anyone's number and they didn't have mine. 'Got to go now, bye all'!

I was so pleased and inspired with my article idea that I powered through it as soon as I got home, writing it in one sitting and emailing it straight to Isabella.

Very important lesson.

If you absolutely must write drunk, then please submit sober. Especially if you write an article about sex starved middle aged drunkards and send it to your sex starved middle aged drunkard boss.

# 4)

Oh my God.

Ow.

What time is it? Oof, clock too bright, clock too bright.

Check your phone. Agh! Maximum brightness! Someone has been using your phone screen as a lighthouse, the bastards.

Don't move your head, don't move your head.

Just.

Lie.

Perfectly.

Still.

There.

That's ok.

You're ok.

It's going to be ooooooooooookaaaaaaaaaaaay.

Doof, doof, doof, doof, doof, doof, doof. A yeti has broken into the flat and is rampaging towards my door. I'll blind them with beams from my lighthouse phone.

The door slams open, 'Mummmmmyyyyyyyy'!

Bounce, bounce, bounce (vom, vom, vom).

'Mummy! Wake up'! Bounce, bounce, bounce (vom, vom, vom)

'Where's Sally, Grace'? I muttered as I rolled onto the floor to escape the trampolining.

'Gone', bounce, bounce, bounce.

'Gone', a familiar voice repeated from the doorway, 'She headed into work when I got here'.

'Grammarrr's here now'! Gracie informed me happily, too late to be helpful.

Bounce, bounce, bounce.

I had my face firmly in the carpet, but I suspected my mother had pinched lips and folded arms right about then.

I sat up and shielded my eyes from both the floodlights, apparently recently erected in the living room, and the death glare of solar strength coming from my mother.

'Hi Mum', I croaked, closing my eyes again and thinking positive thoughts about not hurling once delicious, perfectly cooked, thinly sliced steak with crushed potatoes and mixed roast veg onto her Marks and Spencer's moccasin slippers that Dad had bought her every Christmas since 1876 and that she apparently carried around in her handbag.

Weird.

'I came to pick you up for brunch at the Dickson's', Mum said, making noises that sounded like the folding of clothes, accompanied by loud exhales designed to carefully and subtly communicate her dissatisfaction with my standard of living, 'I'm assuming you've forgotten about it'.

I was probably still too inebriated to concoct a good enough lie and this woman was like a walking polygraph machine, so I didn't try.

'I did forget', I said honestly, 'I can't go Mum. I'm sorry'.

'Trudy', she huffed, followed by a punishing and pointless eternity of saying no words at all.

Bounce, bounce, bounce, thud. Grace got bored and went back to Peppa Pig.

I opened one eye and thought non-chundering thoughts. Mum was looking away from me, arms folded, tapping her foot like Mary Poppins.

'I can't Mum, I'm sorry, I don't even remember saying I would'.

'You are _expected_ Trudy'.

'I'd be sick in the quiche lorraine'.

Oh God don't think about quiche...eggy, eggy, vom, vom.

'You wouldn't'.

'Your slippers are at risk right now'.

She slid one foot under the other quickly, as if to reduce the target area and minimise the risk of a direct hit to the high-quality suede and laces of delicately and demurely contrasting colour.

'Trudy...', she said taking small steps backwards to the bedroom door.

'I never said I would go Mum'.

'Jonathan will be there'.

'Definitely not going then'.

'He's such a hit with the ladies, Trudy'.

'Then why is he unemployed, single and living with his parents at 40 years of age'?

'He's....well....he doesn't feel the same compulsion you do to absolutely everything on his own! He _likes_ spending time with his parents, he _chooses_ to be in their company'.

'Enough said', I muttered under my breath, making an attempt at standing up.

'What's that'?

'Mum. I'm not going to date him, I'm sure he will be a splendid match for an incredibly lucky, intellectually challenged woman someday. But not me. Not. Me. Please let that dream go, would you'?

She sniffed as I perched on the end of the bed and rubbed my poor, poor liver. Maybe. Where is your liver?

'I worry', she said with a despondent sigh, and I knew she meant it.

'I know', I said, lying back down and deciding not to move ever, ever again.

'I'll take Grace then, shall I'?

'I'll get her things right now', I said, leaping out of bed at warp speed.

Ten minutes later and they had left. I took two paracetamol and valiantly drank a whole glass of orange juice, then sat up in my bed and switched on the TV, listening to the juice gurgle around my pickled innards. The TV seemed even brighter than the lighthouse phone, though, and my retinas just couldn't hack it.

Was I totally ridiculous? I lay back and wondered, thinking about my poor Mum, off worrying that I was going to end up a lonely old alcoholic. Expecting Grace to buy my old lady booze and trim my facial hair while I talked to her about how things happened in 'my day' when we ate carbs, used actual money to buy things and parcels were delivered by vans, not drones, in unnecessarily oversized cardboard boxes. My brain hurt.

I needed to work this sludge out of my system because I was going out with the girls tonight. 'Out, out' again, believe it or not, and Mum had Grace until tomorrow morning. I mean I loved Gracie more than anything, but, woop woop! I would obviously be driving tonight, though, I was so never drinking again.

I packed my bag for the gym, hunting for my one piece swimming costume everywhere I could think of before eventually deciding that no one would be in the pool at 8.30 on a Saturday morning and so my slightly small, slightly bobbly four year old bikini with the saggy bum would have to do. I did a quick shufty of my lady garden etc. and headed out. It was definitely not my intention to do a work out today, I was going to detox in the sauna and jacuzzi and emerge revived and invigorated.

I got there and ran up the stairs faster than I had ever done anything in that building, blatantly to avoid FinnTrev as well as the beautiful Jonas. I didn't want to get talked into any actual exercise just because I couldn't get my mouth to make recognisable sounds.

Now then. Deciding it was ok to put a bikini on felt complexly sensible at home. Alone. On my own, with no one else to compare myself too. First sight when I walked into the changing rooms? A blonde, tanned gymbot, naked apart from a teeny thong, rubbing moisturiser into her legs. I paused for a second and looked around, checking for a film crew and a man with a big moustache and an even bigger erection waiting to join in what was obviously a shoot for a porn film.

'Hi', the gymbot spoke, I assume to me.

'No thank you'! I replied hastily, frightened to be cast as the unsuspecting gym attendee who gets drawn into this kind of weird ass shit. I quickly ran around to the other side of the changing rooms where all the _normal_ people get ready in individual cubicles and generally don't rub anything into anywhere.

Once cubicled and wearing the aforementioned bikini, I needed to make a decision about whether I pulled the bottoms up to contain the muffin top better, but potentially inadvertently expose some lady parts once I started moving. Or ensure complete lady part coverage and let the muffin top hang. I decided that no one had ever been arrested for muffin top exposure, though I could be the first, and opted for complete confidence in the containment of privates.

I wrapped my towel around my bottom half and walked out onto the poolside, trying to subtly and discretely look around the area for the time when the least number of people were looking my way. This was in order to remove my cover and stroll calmly into the pool, full of serenity and practically unseen. Of course, at said time, I hooked my towel up and hastily walked towards the pool, only realising that the towel was actually still tucked into the waistband of my bikini bottoms when I got to such a distance that the piece of shit towel tried to remove them from my body. Of course, I yelped, ran back, wrestled the little turd into submission and turned back to the pool to find every single face turned towards me.

Bright red, not sure if my bottoms were up or down, lady parts contained or not, I just made a run for it and launched myself into the deep end. Serene indeed, McKendrick, nicely done you bliddy loser. Once in, I did try and do a little bit of gentle movement but, oddly enough, there seemed to be a large number of people who had come to the pool at this ridiculous time on a Saturday morning to actually swim. It felt like I was trying to make progress against a tidal wave of their efforts which they were excreting out of the 'proper' swimming lanes to try and drown those of us in the doggy paddle and general chit chat section of the pool. The obvious solution seemed to be the sauna. The lovely, lovely sauna.

And, woopedy doop, it was empty.

I poured some fresh water into the coals and tried not to think about the fact that it was probably other people's sweat that was milling about in all the moisture in here, dripping down the walls and floating about in the air. Regardless of the fact that it might be biproduct from other humans, it felt really, really nice. I rested my head back and closed my eyes, letting all of the stinky alcohol come out of my pores, never to return, as obviously from this point onwards I was going to take much, much better care of myself.

I genuinely think I could have nodded off in there if some selfish person hadn't opened the door and let all the cold air from the poolside back in. I jerked my eyes open and sat up as goosebumps rose up all over my body and my niblets poked out, demanding to be seen.

'Oh sorry', an alarmingly familiar and totally gorgeous voice said apologetically, 'Its closed now. I'll top the coals up, get it back to how you had it'.

Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck.

Just about naked. Nipples standing to attention, but probably pointing in completely different directions - up, down, left, right, who knew. Belly swollen to the size of a cow, both from pie eating and recent excessive alcohol consumption. Probably smelling like cheese and onion crisps like you do the morning after you've had a skinful. And did I mention the just about naked.

'You ok, Trudy'? Jonas asked as he sat down opposite me, all loins and biceps and abdominals and...loins, 'How's Grace'?

'Good' I wheezed out, 'She's good. At her Grandmas today'.

What a bloody legend I am. Half-naked. Talking in complete sentences.

'She's so cute', he smiled.

I smiled back, I couldn't help it when I thought about Grace. She was a beast sometimes, but she was super gorgeous and I loved her so much.

'Thank you, she can be when she wants to be'!

'Louisa didn't tell me you were married'.

When were he and Lou talking about me?

'Oh, erm, I'm not. Trying to survive the single parent thing'! I laughed nervously.

'Oh, good', he said quickly, then coughed and looked around, 'Good, good', he said more casually.

'Well you look like you're doing an amazing job', he said, looking at me again, 'She looks fun'.

I was finding it hard to concentrate with the smaller amounts of oxygen that were available in here. Coupled with the fact that I was breathing my belly in continuously, all the while wondering why humans hadn't evolved to have a second set of lungs in our legs so I could somehow breath my thighs in, too.

'She's great', I was starting to feel lightheaded now, 'I think I had better get out now, though, been in a while'.

I stood up, started to open the door and wobbled more than a little. Jonas immediately stood and put an arm around my waist from behind.

'Woah', he said softly, 'You ok'?

'Mmmmhmmmm', I admirably managed, feeling extra woozy while his front pressed harder into my back as he looked round at me over my shoulder.

'Let's go', he said, pushing the door open but not letting me go, 'Cool down a bit and get some air'.

Right at that second, you could have put me in a walk-in freezer and I wouldn't have cooled down a jot if he still had his half naked body stuck to mine.

He walked me the few steps to the showers next to the sauna, once again attracting looks from every single human in that pool. Arm still around me, holding my bare waist quite firmly, he pressed the button to start it up and adjusted it a little.

'It's cool', he said, pressing me forwards with his body, 'But it's not cold'.

We stood under the shower, together, for a little while.

Under the shower.

Together.

In front of at least a dozen onlookers but let's not split hairs about small details.

'Better', I said, stepping away from him and pushing my now wet hair out of my eyes.

He nodded, looking at me, but saying nothing.

'I better go', I said quietly, 'Erm. Thanks'.

'Yep', he said, still just looking, 'Yep', he repeated in a clearer voice, 'Be careful though, yeah? Bye Trudy'.

I nodded and turned to walk away, oddly enough not giving a shit about cellulite or muffin tops or stretch marks or where the heck my nipples were pointing.

In my head, all I was holding onto from that whole affair, was that I just took a shower with Jonas. Fifteen seconds under freezing cold water, with pool pervs watching the whole time. But skin to skin with a demi god.

Better than any sex I'd ever had.

Ever.

Pathetic.

I know.

Don't care.

I left the gym after a normal, solo, non-freezing shower, feeling clean and awake and...well...really quite turned on. Amazing. The detox (and the unexpected shower incident) had worked, I felt absolutely incredible.

I was never drinking again.

# 5)

'Don't give me that _'all you need to survive is bananas'_ , shit', I slurred and staggered towards the bar in the watering hole we'd just come into, 'Or that potatoes don't count as one of your five a day'.

Well, then. The not drinking plan lasted a maximum of thirty five seconds. Which, if you're interested, is how long it takes your average barman to open a bottle of prosecco.

I raised my index finger, in the way I had seen very clever people do when they are making a very clever point, 'Potatoes are fucking amazing. They give us chips! And vodka!' I paused and considered my words, visibly moved by my own brilliance. 'I mean, chips!'

'And vodka!' Sarah contributed, giggling and raising her arm in a victory salute, nearly taking out a tall, bearded man we were passing, 'Woops! Sorry'!

'Yes!' I nodded enthusiastically, leaning on the bar as we reached it, 'Potatoes bloody rule, their bloody fruit friends need to bloody step up. Bananas....my arse', I grumbled, 'We'll have a round of potato...juices...please barman, the good stuff'!

While we waited for the barman to juice some potatoes, I surreptitiously scanned the bar through my drunken peripheral vision, seeing if I could spot anyone my mother would disapprove of, but who didn't look like an obvious chlamydia risk. However annoying and embarrassing Isabella had been, she got one thing right...it had been quite some time, and todays shower encounter with Jonas had only served to make things more...alert, shall we say.

Even just through a few sideways glances here and there, it struck my inebriated brain that the world may have gone topsy-turvy. Was night now day, and day now night? Because in here, at night, the girls and I were dressed in our best. Hair done, make up carefully applied, heels on, boobs somewhat available. If I dressed like this at work, or at the gym (with the exception of the heels) I would probably fit in rather better than I managed to in my usual daytime attire. But in here, we actually looked way, way overdressed. The men had clearly all been doing the 5 and 2, as nobody's jeans seemed to be able to stay up and I could see almost entire jockey covered backsides in quite a lot of cases. They wore t-shirts, drank beer from bottles that weren't posh Italian names, and had growing patches of unsculpted stubble on their jaws with eyebrows that looked very ordinary. The girls wore jeans and tops too, flat pumps and messy bun hair with minimal make up. Not a fitbit in sight. And they all looked very, very young.

'Oh my God', a dawning realisation was coming over me and I turned to the barman who was now proffering our juiced potatoes, 'Is it under 18s night'?

What a bunch of weirdos, rocking up to an under 18s night, why did they even let us in? Why were they serving alcohol?

Sarah looked around, quickly clocking the same kind of things I had noted. She swung her head back to hear the barman's answer with her jaw hanging and her shocked mouth open wide.

He laughed loudly as he placed our vodkas down in front of us, 'No, we don't do under 18 nights here'.

'Really'? Sarah and I said together, casting our eyes around the room once again, no longer trying to look discreetly as I had been earlier.

'Really', he smiled, looking as under 18 as the rest of them, 'Its student night, that's why your, erm, potato juices are two for the price of one. These fellas are doubles, ladies, handle with care, yeah?' And with an underaged wink for the pensioners in the room, he went off to take someone else's order.

Sarah and I continued to consider the evidence in front of us for a second or two.

'Student night' she repeated, as she scanned the little children in here again, 'So they're all over 18, then? Really'?

I nodded, looking around with interest, lacking any of the bashful awkwardness that would usually accompany me on a night out with the girls in a bar. Which inadvertently led to...

'Hi girls'.

Well, I loved this guy already. Girls indeed!

'Hi'! Sarah giggled, 'I'm the token lesbian in this weird little sitcom', she clarified truthfully, 'You're after this _girl_ here'.

And with a gesture towards me, she grabbed the vodkas and headed back to our booth and the other two girls. Traitor.

'I'm Sam', he said, smiling and offering his hand, which I took and smiled back. He was a cute one. Blonde, tall, bit dishevelled looking but didn't have his underpants out like most of his peers.

'Trudy', I said, trying not to wince as I uttered the word.

'Cool', he nodded, 'Having a good night'?

'When were you born'? I blurted out, alcohol helping me to blunderingly cut to the chase.

'Ninety-nine', he replied hesitantly, 'Why?'

'Holy shit'! That was almost 2000! There would soon be adults who were born in 2000! People voting who were born in 2000! People learning to be doctors and vets and other less useful studenty things, who were born in 2000! People who would never know the excitement and uncertainty of whether the National Grid would die and satellites just plummet from the sky if the millennium bug did its thing at midnight 1999.

'When were _you_ born'? He asked with a grin.

'Ohhhhh no', I raised my hands and stepped back, 'I'm very, very old, that's all you need to know'.

He stepped forward, reducing the space between us back to really, not very much, 'You look amazing', he said very confidently for a child, 'Your hair is awesome', and he twiddled with a strand of it that lay alarmingly close to a nipple.

'I don't think I'm allowed to play out with people who are young enough to say awesome and not sound...', I frowned, not able to think of the next word.

'Old'?! he suggested, laughing, 'Age is just a number', he slid his hand along my underarm to my elbow, 'You're gorgeous'.

'I am _hundreds_ of years old!' I countered, stepping back again, trying really hard not be attracted to this tall, smiling, man-child, but struggling not to like his confidence as well as his craic. 'And age is only ' _just a number'_ when it is a very _small_ number, like _your_ number'. I prodded him in the chest as I said this and he held onto my finger, gently. I think I lost a bit of my alcohol induced sass at that point, feeling the beginnings of a much needed grown up decision on the horizon.

'When it is a bigger number, like _my_ number', I continued more quietly, looking at the floor, 'It is no longer _just_ a number, believe me'.

He took the hand whose finger he had misappropriated, turned it and intertwined the rest of our digits. We were holding hands. It had been a very long time since I had held hands with a grown up. And whilst he had only just entered into that age bracket, I allowed it to count on this occasion. It felt nice. It felt lovely, actually. I stared at our fingers and wished I had stuck to my 'never drinking again' idea. Not drunk Trudy would be totally on top of this situation. Not drunk Trudy would probably have already called his mother and sent him home in a taxi for an Ovaltine. Not drunk Trudy would certainly not be contemplating whether next steps on the current course of travel were a particularly good idea; she would just know that they weren't.

'I have to go', I looked at him a bit sadly, 'My friends are waiting'.

His face fell a little, and even through the multiple potato juices I still registered some inner shock that this young, hot, guy actually seemed interested in me.

Trudy.

Of the flapjack bun tribe.

'My friends are waiting too', he gently gestured over his shoulder with his head, 'We could all sit together'.

'My friends are...'.

'You can't say old again', he wagged his finger at me, 'You don't get to use that twice'.

I smiled, liking him.

'I think _you're_ awesome', I told him honestly, leaning in and looking him in the eye, 'But I have to go'.

'Ok', he let go of my hand slowly and held his up in defeat, 'But if you change your mind we're here'.

And he leaned in and kissed my cheek. Only it was closer to my neck at the back of my jaw, and his mouth was slightly open, his hand was in my hair, and he really took his time.

'That's cheating', I said breathlessly, 'But now I really have to go'.

And I edged past him, feeling his hand slide round the whole of my waist as I twisted round his body to walk away.

I recalled no such smoothness from eighteen year old boys when I was at uni, feeling really quite aggrieved for my eighteen year old self. They were either spotty and terrified, or entirely confident but perpetually stoned. Not one of them had any moves that resembled those I had just witnessed. Maybe this was the future? If so, I wanted to high five all of the female students in the bar and wish them joy at living in a generation of boys who somehow knew what they were doing.

'Ahhh no', said Sarah as I slid into the booth with her, Vonda and Lou, 'I thought we might have lost you for the night, he was nice'.

'Inappropriately tempting', I said, risking a quick glance at Sam who was still looking my way, 'But it wouldn't have been right, him only being ten and all'.

Sarah, Vonda and Louisa were my besties from secondary school and now my besties for life. Sarah sat next to me in form room for five years and the bond was too strong to sever so were stuck with each other. She was a psychologist, on the cusp of marrying her long term girlfriend Lisa, and they were both the most beautiful humans you would ever behold. Vonda and I bonded over ridiculous names and cruel parents at school. She was an accountant, married straight out of school, now divorced with one child, the lovely Matthew who was twelve. Lou was a teacher, resolutely single, complete fitness freak. Tiny little person who, deceptively, could probably bench press a cow at the same time as controlling 30 teenagers brandishing shot putts.

'You could have just had a little fun', Vonda said nudging my elbow and sliding a drink my way.

'I don't know if I could', I said thoughtfully, possibly with a little of the potato juice talking, 'I mean what if he was a virgin? What if my welly top nethers were his first experience of sex. What if he went off thinking that's what all sex was like? It might put him off for life, I could put the continuation of the human race at risk with my broken vagina'!

The girls were laughing hysterically, quite accustomed to my vodka fuelled ramblings.

'You know', I was still going, 'This might have to be the end of sex for me. For the preservation of the species. I'll have to buy a vibrator'.

'You don't have a vibrator'?! Vonda and Sarah said together, clearly shocked.

'It'll have to be the massive black mamba one', Lou managed to squeak out between giggles, 'To have even the smallest hope of filling the void'!!!

'It will'! I agreed, half seriously, but starting to smile, 'I hope they're on Amazon Prime'.

We stayed in the student bar, it was cool, super cheap and served curly fries (of which we had already had about 3 bowls and my spanx were beginning to protest). Plus, our grandma feet had started hurting fifteen minutes into the evening, so having a table basically trumped every other variable. Sam came over to say goodbye when he and his friends left, trying to convince us to join them in the club, but I declined and waved with a smile as he walked past the window.

'Do you not think you're ready to date now'? Lou asked me, leaning her head on Sarah's shoulder with her eyelids closed from the heavy burden of prosecco and vodka.

'Do you, Louby Lou'? I returned her question as another non-dater at the table.

'I think I mostly choose not to for me', Lou replied, opening bleary eyes, 'But you', she pointed her finger at me gently, 'You think you're not good enough. Which is not the same. And which is bullshit'.

'Total bullshit', Vonda agreed.

'Pig manure', Sarah added, nodding, 'Pig manure? That's a thing, right'?

'It's not that...', I started to reply.

'Well stop with the vagina bashing, then'! Lou laughed, but pushed my shoulder to make sure I listened, 'Look at that guy! Young, good looking, totally into you'!

'I think he came over for Sarah but she played the gay card again and escaped'.

Men were always flocking to Sarah, bless them, she was so incredibly gorgeous. Tall, willowy, long blonde hair and massive blue eyes.

'How many times do I have to tell you', she threw a beer mat at me, 'It is not a card! Anyway, you have played the saggy foof card relentlessly, lady, let it go'!

'Ooh', I replied in mock offence, 'I don't think I said saggy'.

The dating conversation came up again and again that night, continuing on as we ingested a late-night curry. It was factored in to sober us up and absorb some alcohol, but so far, really, it was just pushing my spanx to their absolute limits. I had a feeling the curly fries hadn't made it past the waistband and were just sitting there waiting for me to take the control pants off and allow them to finally drop into the stomach area.

'I'm not doing it'.

'But I think that's just how it's done these days'!

'It's all weirdos'.

'It is not'!

'Everything I hear about it is horror stories'.

'Some people end up getting married'!

'Yeah, weirdo marriages'.

'Normal marriages'!

'Karen from down the street tried it and went out expecting to meet a six foot, forty year old single Dad, and wound up with a five foot five, nineteen year old whose mother was on the opposite side of the bar, watching'.

This wasn't the first time the girls had broached the subject of internet dating sites for me to 'get back out there'. It completely terrified me, and I wasn't exaggerating about the horror stories I'd heard. We were all so visible and vulnerable with social media and online dating and everyone thinking they needed to look like Beyonce, trying to fake or fib themselves cool. If you cannot even be sure someone is sporting their own eyebrows, can you really be sure about anything else?

'Well', Vonda said, mid onion bhaji, 'What if we set you up with someone we know'?

'If there are datable people that you know, why are _you_ not dating them'? I asked her flatly, 'You are talking about the dregs. The people who are left over, bless them, waiting for losers like me desperate for a second chance at something. Well I'm still holding out for a first chance, here, so I just don't think blind dates are the way to go'.

There was huffy silence.

I ate my naan bread, feigning a relaxed and comfortable style, throwing in the odd nom nom noise to really show that I was genuinely focussed on my food.

But the silence went on.

I knew what they were doing and I wasn't going to give in. I couldn't stand any confrontation or ill feeling and they knew that, the witches. I would do anything to avoid a difficult conversation, hence the hairy Phil disaster date. I took a drink from my water glass and chanced a sneaky look around the table. They were all pushing their food around their plates, or looking out the window sadly.

I was so bloody pathetic.

'Oh for God's sake, fine!' I relented.

'Yay!' Vonda miraculously recovered, bouncing up and down in her chair and clapping her hands.

'Well done Trude', Sarah said with a nod, 'I reckon that was over two minutes. That's a new record'.

'I hate you all', I grumbled, 'And I'm having the last poppadum'.

# 6)

So, either the curry worked its magic, or drinking two nights in a row scientifically meant the hangovers cancelled each other out. Or I was still sloshed. Whichever was the case, the next morning found me on the bus to my mother's house in surprisingly good spirits. My car was having a wotnot fixed on the drivey-ometer and wouldn't be out of the garage for a couple of days. I was even more delighted with myself that I had managed to be entirely _on time!_ Amazing what you can achieve when you don't have a two year old demanding Coco Pops and Peppa Pig when you're trying to do important things like play on your phone.

Which, I noted, everyone on this bus was doing. Without exception, even the oldies (older than me oldies). No one was speaking to each other at all, or even looking at each other. One person was having a whisper shout fight with what I assumed was her other half on her mobile, and one had assumed we all wanted to listen to some kind of weeky weeky woo woo dance music, and was kindly playing it so loud we could all join in and continuously head bob in the disturbing, perpetual way that they themselves were.

For this particular outing, though, I always deliberately put my phone away. When I was going to my Mums house I loved the journey and the opportunity to reminisce. Mum and Dad still lived in the village and house I grew up in, so the journey took us past all the reminders of my childhood. I usually pointed them out to Grace when she was with me, but purposefully neglected to tell her the full extent of why these places held fond, and less fond, places in my heart.

My tiny village first school that seemed so enormous to me back then. But now I looked at it and wondered how it even fit all of us kids in there. It looked pretty much the same, apart from the fact that the gates were closed and locked and there was high security fencing all the way around the school field. A sign of dark times, I thought to myself in the same words my Grandma used when she first saw me in denim cut offs, trying (and failing) to be Janet Jackson.

The local garage where I proudly and excitedly took £200 cash, withdrawn from my childhood building society account (for which I had an actual bank book with handwritten entries) to buy my first little banger of a car. A clapped out Ford Fiesta I called Henry and loved like a real person. So old that he still had a choke, meaning that you would regularly either see me sitting (im)patiently on the driveway because I had flooded the engine and he wouldn't start. Or you would hear me roaring down the street with so many revs going that I sounded more like a tank heading for battle than a little old car trying not to stall.

The petrol garage right next to it, where the cool boys from sixth form worked. They were actually paid to put your petrol in your car for you and take your cash. So you never even had to get out of your seat and you got to perv on your favourite in the rear view mirror when they walked away. Way ahead of these 'pay at the pump' card machine thingeries.

The farmers field where I had my first kiss with James Johnson. And later, on the rebound from James dumping me for slutty Kelly Masters who let him feel her boobs, the location of some...interesting times...with Craig Porter.

The corner shop where you could get a ten pence mix up with way more than ten sweets included. And Highland Toffee bars that would try and rip your teeth out, ahhhhh yum.

My dance school (which was actually Mrs Sanderson's dining room) where me and my Mum tried to delude ourselves that rhythm and coordination could be taught. For a while a least.

The hairdressers (which was actually Mrs Wilson's dining room) who only knew two styles, both of which involved a fringe so short you had to raise your eyebrows all the time to make it look anywhere near normal. Thereby creating an entire village of women and girls collectively communicating an ongoing look of surprise everywhere they went, until it grew in a bit. Just in time for the next visit.

The leisure centre on the outskirts that caused uproar when it first popped up, its plastic shininess ruining the image of the previously picturesque (backwards, possibly a bit inbred) village. Here was where we spent all of our Saturday afternoons from age 10 to 14, when it was suddenly no longer cool to dunk each other manically and go flying off the inflatable obstacle course, resulting in the mother of all wedgies. We had to pretend we liked smoking instead (although no one even knew how to light one up for about 6 months) and start spending more time in...

The park, where as a small child I happily and innocently played on the swings and the climbing frames. The same park where, as a teenager, I less innocently but just as happily, failed at trying smoking and drank hideous 20/20 and Diamond White with my friends until someone (me) vomited spectacularly and the local bobby chased us along.

All too soon the bus pulled up at the end of my mum's street and I jumped off. There was some kind of front garden war afoot in the village again, I noted, spotting some new water features, tasteful topiary and discreet solar lights in amongst the most perfect borders and raised flower beds man had ever seen. Apart from militant old Mr Swinhoe on the end, who determinedly grew his potatoes and cabbages out the front and sat in his decrepit deck chair in his vest with his mug of tea (that smelled uncannily like whisky) whenever it wasn't raining. I think he was one of my most favourite humans, purely because he didn't see the necessity to change himself for anyone. And of course because he pissed my mother off so much, which was just a happy added bonus.

'Morning Mr Swinhoe', I waved cheerily.

'Yes', he replied, raising his finger like he had something he wanted to say, then putting his cup down and trying unsuccessfully to get out of his chair. I jogged over quickly and offered him an arm.

'I can do it, I can do it', he walloped me away grumpily, flashing his bum crack as he determinedly pushed himself independently out of the unhelpful chair.

'You should get a better chair, Mr Swinhoe', I said slightly loudly, nodding down at it and looking discreetly away while he pulled his pants up and his vest down, 'Even I would end up stuck in that one, it's so low'.

'Its fine', he barked, 'Nothing wrong with it, had it since Elsie was alive, still as good as new. And stop shouting, woman, I can bloody well hear you fine'.

'Sorry Mr Swinhoe', I hid a smile, 'How's things'?

'Yes', he said, raising his finger again, 'Yes. There's a cat'.

'A cat'?

'Keeps taking its shits on my carrots, little bugger'.

'Oh dear'.

'Well I'll get it', he reached back for a box that was sitting on his doorstep, producing a large children's Nurf gun, locked and loaded, 'Got this off Alfie, he's a crack shot, that boy'.

He winked at me and smiled proudly as he described the accuracy of the violent tendencies his grandson apparently harboured.

'Well that's....'. I couldn't think of a word to finish the sentence.

'Been practicing', he nodded, 'Watch'.

He held the gun up and shot it into the garden.

'See'! He said happily, 'Your days are numbered, shitting cat'.

'What were you aiming for', I asked as I went to get the foam pellet thing back for him.

'Depends', he replied honestly, taking it from me, 'What did I hit'?

'Hi', I called as I walked through the perpetually unlocked front door, 'Just a friendly serial killer, letting myself in to end you all'.

'Mummy'! thud, thud, thud, thud and Grace appeared in the living room doorway, 'Hi Mummy'!

'Hi baby girl'. I swung her up into my arms and breathed her in, her own delicious smell ruined by my mothers rose ironing water.

I looked down at her clothes which did appear to have become miraculously uncrinkled, despite my never ironing anything if I could help it. This, coupled with a journey to my mother's house, rolled up with her PJs and toothbrush in a half full Co-Op bag for life (you can't buy class, mind) meant that some kind of intervention had taken place since she arrived here.

'Hello dear', my Mum came into the hall and kissed my cheek briefly, of course also managing to give me her standard up and down assessing look to destroy any lingering shreds of self-esteem, 'Did you have a good night out'?

This was, as previously described, a question holding a secret question. If you had a Mother:English Dictionary, you would be able to translate it quite easily into 'If I shone a UV light on you, would I find sperm'?

'Yes, it was good, just good to catch up with the girls'.

She extracted Grace from me, placed her carefully on the ground and smoothed her clothes down. At which point Grace wrapped herself around my leg, immediately undoing any effect the smoothing might have temporarily had.

I took my boots off, knowing better than to step off the mat still wearing them, and before I had even placed them on the floor, she immediately ferreted them away through the door that led to the garage. God forbid any visitors should expect the McKendrick's to possess footwear of any description.

'Well that's good', she replied, sighing at my wrinkled, imperfect offspring, whose self-esteem I was determined to reinforce with steel girders if I had to, 'And are they all well'?

'Yes good'. Years of pinched lips and sucked in cheeks had schooled me that, if I wanted an easy life, I shouldn't really discuss the divorcee, lesbian and devout singleton who made up the greatest group of girls in existence. Though sometimes I just couldn't help myself, 'Lisa and Sarah are getting married, did I tell you'?

She stopped, her hand still on the key to the garage door, which oddly enough did get locked. 'No', she said lightly, 'How...nice.

'Dad will be back soon', she said loudly as we walked into the kitchen, trying to rise above the unladylike noise of me blowing raspberries onto Grace's neck and her squealing like a rowdy piglet, 'He was at that golf event yesterday and was just driving back this morning'.

'Ok', I said, sitting at the table with Grace on my knee, 'I'll help you with lunch then, shall I'?

Ten minutes later and I was re-evaluating the wisdom of that offer and wishing I was on the floor with Grace. She had wisely made percussion instruments out of every free pot and pan she could find and was determinedly working on getting that last nerve that her Grandmother was steadfastly hanging onto.

'That's not how you chop parsnips, Trudy', Mum sighed and shook her head.

I put the knife down as a safety measure. I love my Mum, I do, I really do. But somehow, within that love, I do believe that I also genuinely have the ability to end her life. And I have to maintain constant vigilance to avoid the scenario which sees her most assuredly dead and me standing there guilty, yet satisfied, with a cast iron skillet in my hands.

'There isn't a right way to chop parsnips, Mum'.

'Don't be so ridiculous, of course there is', she smoothed down her floral apron, 'It's all about surface area, long strips not short chunks Trudy'.

'I don't think that can possibly be the case', my Dad barked as he walked into the kitchen and it took me a minute to realise he was on the phone and not offering his opinion on parsnip geometry.

'Well let him go then...yes we can...of course we can...union my arse...well demoted then, I want him emptying bins from Monday onwards'.

He hung up the phone muttering about incompetency and red tape.

My mother twittered around him. Even after all these years she still swooned at my father, especially when he was being a massive bastard to his employees, which seemed often to be the case.

'Welcome back Frank, would you like a pre-dinner drink, dear'? She fluttered. I had been here for an hour already and not a sniff of any kind of refreshments for me, I could be dangerously dehydrated by now.

'Whisky please Brenda', my Dad muttered, flicking through some papers.

He grunted and put them down on the table.

'Hi Dad', I said, 'Good trip'?

'Oh hi love', he said, only just seeming to notice me but not bothering to get up to greet me even when he did, 'Hours of my life wasted, complete clowns, never had any interest, just rustled up a free game of golf, that's all'.

'Oh well', I said, continuing with the parsnips as my Mum slid a generous glass of whisky and water in front of him, 'Dinner will be ready soon'.

He took a mouthful and swallowed, spotting Grace at the same time.

'Hello trouble'! He bellowed, bending over to be inches away from her face.

She paused in her drumming of the colander with the fish slice and stared in wide eyed terror back at him.

He stared back, neither of them moving for what turned into quite an uncomfortable length of time. Eventually Grace, keeping her head perfectly still, slid her big, frightened eyes to me for guidance.

'Why does she always look like that', he eventually stood and looked at me.

I went over and picked her up.

'Because she's not an army recruit Dad', I ruffled Gracie's hair as she continued to stare at him, 'Just talk to her, don't yell'!

'Say hi to Grandad, Grace', I whispered.

'Hi Ganda', she whispered too.

He half grinned, 'Hi Grace', he attempted to whisper, meaning it came out at about normal ish volume.

'How bizzniss'? She asked, smiling now.

This was the routine they were starting to establish, once Grace got past the initial feelings of terror.

'Booming', Grandad answered with a laugh.

'Velly good Ganda', Grace nodded seriously and reached for his hand, 'Come play drums'.

'Will do', he said, passing by me before he settled down with a frying pan and a potato masher, 'So, what's your mother doing to those parsnips, Gracie'?

# 7)

I didn't want to be here. I wanted to be literally anywhere but here.

I was wearing more makeup than made me comfortable and I felt a bit like a painted doll. My hair was in some kind of gigantic donut bun which Louisa assured me was currently cool, but which made me look like I had a Siamese twin attached up there. And I had heels on that had murdered my toes before I'd even left the flat.

I was standing at the bar in Rosie's waiting for my blind date to arrive. My blind date who, apparently, had the unfair advantage of knowing my name _and_ what I looked like. Whereas I was clueless, nervous, and just hoping Jabba the Hutt didn't slide through the door and dribble in my direction.

And he was late. Twenty minutes late. Whoever this guy was, he didn't have many more nails left in his coffin tonight and he hadn't even walked through the door yet. Oh God, what if he'd stuck his head in already, seen me and thought, 'no chance'! How humiliating!

On that happy note, the door swung open and a group of men walked in, laughing. A group of men, I heart stoppingly noticed, that included Jonas the Gym God. He looked relaxed in low slung jeans and a fitted dark polo shirt.

Whereas I had a second head and a clown face.

I wanted to die.

And then he spotted me. And waved.

I smiled weakly and half waved, focussing my energies on not passing away on the floor of a slightly manky Irish pub.

He said something quickly to his friends, who all turned and looked at me speculatively while I carefully studied the lime in my G&T with great analytical interest. He slapped a couple of them playfully on the back of the head until they stopped staring, and then started sliding between the crowds of people in the bar, heading in my direction and smiling.

My stomach was a mangle roller of excitement and nausea, with the latter maintaining a strong advantage for the most part.

It wasn't him. Was it?

It couldn't be him.

Things like that didn't happen to people like me. I really did date Jabba the Hutt types, spending the evening fending off their slimy, unintelligible, drooling advances. That's how I could write the column! I didn't get fairytales!

'Hi', Jonas said, touching my elbow as he reached me.

'Hi'? It came out as a question, probably because everything really did feel somewhat questionable right now.

He tilted his head, grinning, 'Was that a question'?

His hand was still on my elbow and I worried that my exponentially growing pulse rate was going to bring on a heart attack.

'Are you...'? I couldn't finish.

'Am I what'? he pushed me gently.

'...here for me'?

He looked confused.

'Am I here for you? Ohhhh God, you're waiting for a date, I'm so _sorry_ '!

Just kill me.

Kill me now.

'Oh God', I closed my eyes and put a hand to my forehead, 'Yes, a blind date, unfortunately'.

'Right...', he replied quietly.

He's horrified. I'm a moron. I'm so embarrassed, I thought to myself.

'I'm so embarrassed', I repeated aloud, face the reddest of reds now, unable to look him in the eye.

'Don't be', he squeezed my elbow but let it go, 'I'd best get out of your way then. Have a good night. You look great'.

'Pah', I couldn't help the negative sounding expulsion of air that came out of me at that last comment.

'Trudy', he said, as he started to back away. I let one eye look up at him, trying to hide at least some of my blushing cheeks, 'You look great', he repeated. Then he gave a little smile that didn't quite reach his eyes and turned back to his friends.

I dashed frantically to the ladies to try and compose myself. What a car crash.

And this guy was now half an hour late. That's it, I thought, drying my hands and trying not to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I'm going home.

I walked around the side of the bar I had been standing on so I didn't have to go past Jonas and his friends. I couldn't spot them, though, so they must have moved on quickly, thank goodness.

'Well, well, well', a loud male voice boomed to my left, 'And here she is, eventually'!

I turned and looked into the face of an enormously tall man with even more enormous bright white veneers that he was beaming assertively in my direction.

'Better late than never', he laughed at himself for a minute while I stood there, silent, 'You must be Truuuuuuudy'.

He actually made my name sound more hideous, which I hadn't previously thought was even vaguely possible. His hair was sort of slicked back and he had a goatee which just served to focus your attention more firmly on his tooth coverings. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and blue jeans that didn't quite reach his shoes.

Seriously girls?

Seriously?!

'Well high five for showing up in the end', and he held up his hand in a move that was so incredibly cringeworthy, but I was too well brought up to ignore, 'I'm Keith'.

An hour and a half later and I might have changed my tune on the whole high five thing, which had continued to be a theme throughout the evening.

I really, passionately did want to high five this guy.

Just maybe in the face.

With a bar stool.

I wondered in all seriousness if he was any relation of Agony Uncle Eric, he was so full of shit and so keen on the sound of his own voice. I was knackered already, and I had barely contributed to the conversation, though I could feel a bout of repetitive strain injury coming on from excessive and unnecessary high fiving.

As he continued to wax lyrical about the wonder that was himself, eyeing up every other female in the place as he did, I snuck my phone out and quickly texted Vonda.

My phone rang a minute later.

'Hello'? I answered innocently, but a bit robotically. I was a crap actress. 'Oh no! Well yes of course. Yes, I'll come home right away. Ok, bye bye'.

Keith had, for the first time that evening, maybe for the first time _ever_ , fallen silent, 'Problem'? He asked.

'I need to go home and head to my mothers', I stood, wincing as I remembered my dead toes, 'My little girl needs me'.

'Oh right', he stood too, 'Well...I'll walk with you, then'.

'Oh, you don't need to do that'!

Please, please don't.

'Of course'! He flashed his shiners at me again, 'Wouldn't be much of a gentleman otherwise would I'.

But leering over anyone who passed us, flirting hideously with the bar staff and patting the backside of the terrified waitress puts you firmly in the Mr Darcy bracket, does it?

Pillock.

Still, at least I was leaving. Safe in the knowledge that soon I would be home and tucked up in my own bed, alone, alone, alone.

'You haven't got it in right'.

'I have'.

'It's wonky, I can tell'.

'It's completely straight I just need to twist a little'.

'Don't twist, it might bend it'!

Silence apart from heavy breathing and the odd grunt.

Whispered, 'To the left a little'.

Continued sounds of people trying but not managing to be quiet.

'It's not working for me'.

'I could have told you that'.

Sarcastically, 'Thanks'.

'Let me do it'.

'Don't be ridiculous'.

Sharp intake of breath.

'Mr Shipley's looking'!

'How can he see us'?!

'This is pretty public'.

'Back up a bit, woman'!

'Just please, please finish! He's coming over, hurry up'!

Panicky grunting and breathing now.

Footsteps and a tentative old man cough.

'Need a hand'? Mr Shipley asked warily from a reasonable distance, like he wanted to take a look but maybe not get too involved.

'No thanks Mr Shipley'! I said loudly, not sure if his hearing aids were on at this time of night, 'He's nearly got it in now'!

The sound of feet shifting uncomfortably, 'He needs to do more than get it in, dear', he said helpfully.

'Yes', I answered weakly, mortified and hoping old Mrs Twitchynets from next door was fast asleep.

'How's Mrs Shipley'? I asked, trying not to look as Keith carried on, 'Is her hip ok in this wet weather'?

'Mmm hmmm', Mr Shipley, looked down the empty street at nothing at all rather than look at me, 'Hip is...fine'.

'Done'! Keith shouted in ecstasy.

'Thank God', I mumbled, scrabbling on the ground for my coat, 'All done Mr Shipley'!

'Mmm hmmm', he said again, 'You want to get that lock seen to. Isn't this the third time it's jammed on you?'

He started to walk back up the ramp to his front door, the one covering the steps which Mrs Shipley's hip objected to these days.

'Thanks Mr Shipley', I all but shrieked. If he did have his hearing aids on he'd think I was a total banshee. As would the rest of the street.

Truth be told it was the sixth time the lock had jammed, but really the whole door needed replacing and the reality was I couldn't afford anything like that.

Mr Shipley closed his door muttering something about not putting things off til tomorrow that could be done today. Good advice. For the wealthy door buyers of the world.

'So', Keith leaned on the newly exposed door frame expectantly.

'No fucking way', I said, 'Worst blind date the world has ever known, and you reckon you're in there'?!

Actually, I didn't say that. I thought it with great feeling, but I didn't say it.

'Ummm', I stepped inside and blocked the doorway with my entire being. There was little room for a man the size of Keith to sneak in.

'I did have a nice time'. LIE.

'And I really appreciate you bringing me home'. LIE. I'd have had the bloody door open ages ago if you'd let me do it myself, as women have been doing since well before they got the vote, you chauvinistic pig.

'But I do have to head off for Grace now'. LIE. 'So, I think I'd better call it a night'.

Keith pulled back and inhaled through his enhanced teeth. Not sexy. Not that we were hopeful of finding things which could increase his sexiness at this point. I think we were still looking for any teeny tiny sign of sexiness, to be honest. It was conspicuous only by its absence.

'Righto', he flashed his enormous veneers at me one last time, 'Next time then....'.

He fidgeted from foot to foot and sort of leaned his face forwards a little, waiting to see if I would meet him halfway.

'Goodnight then'! I said brightly, and promptly shut the door.

I couldn't believe my friends and what they had just put me through.

'Just a bit older than you'. 18 years older than me.

'Very successful'. He runs a bike shop and could tell you _everything_ about gears and inner tubes. Believe me. I know.

'Really quite attractive'. Looked disturbingly like a seven foot tall version of Count Duckula.

Vonda was dead meat.

# 8)

Grandma brought Grace back early, as agreed, so I could get her off to nursery and get back here for a skype meeting I had with the big boss who was based in America.

Ever the dutiful mother, she scanned me for semen residue, completed her usual barracks inspection, engaged in confidence stripping mind games and then headed off for her weekly trim and set in Mrs Wilson's dining room.

I had already drafted and sent a carefully crafted message to my WhatsApp group that I had with the girls, explaining in detail what terrible accident would eventually befall each and every one of them as a consequence of last night. They had all replied with questions instead of sincere, heartfelt apologies and sacrificial offerings of their first born children, so I was choosing to deny them the gory details a little longer as part of their penance.

'Mummmmeeeeeeee', Grace was kneeling up at the table having her second breakfast. It's possible she really was a hobbit, given her father's dubious heritage. Either that or my mother had tried to feed her All Bran again and she was bloody starving.

'Yes baby', I sat next to her and stroked some hair back which had escaped from Grandmas no nonsense bun.

'My no like hoops'.

Here we go.

'You liked Cheerios yesterday Grace', I sighed.

'My no like them today', she pouted and pushed them away from her, slopping mess everywhere as a Cheerio tidal wave escaped the confines of the bowl and swept down the table.

I glanced at my watch. Terrible parent that I was, the strength of my backbone was directly correlated to the available time I had to participate in a painful joust with a two year old. A joust that I knew I would inevitably lose as she patiently ran the clock down and watched me cave.

I sighed again and rolled my invisible inner eyes, developed to perfection in my teenaged years.

'What is your question then Grace'? I asked, speaking in a serious, parental tone that conveyed I was not giving in immediately and pathetically. I was still the master of this situation because my voice was slightly deeper and louder than usual, and I had made her ask nicely before I completely and entirely let her get her own way.

'Please my have coco pops'? She asked, equally seriously.

'Yes of course', I nodded, 'You should have just asked for them in the first place, silly'.

'Sorry Mummy', she said quietly, puppy dog eyeing me with precision and expertise.

She knew exactly what she was doing, the clever, cute little tyrant.

'Eat them quickly', I said, putting them in front of her and going to get her shoes and coat, 'We need to get going'.

I returned to the kitchen not more than a minute later to find a different child in her seat. This one was chewing, or trying to chew, a lion sized mouthful of coco pops and was dripping in chocolatey milk from head to foot.

'My eated very quickly', she attempted to tell me, happily giving me a thumbs up as coco pops came spilling from her mouth, and she placed the bowl she had obviously tried to drink them from back onto the table.

'Grace'!

'My know', she nodded proudly, still spitting coco pops, 'My clever'.

Aggghh! Why was it always like this?! I grabbed her spare clothes out of her nursery bag and whipped one set off and the other one on, double quick. She was still chewing, probably giving me coco pop dandruff, as I kneeled down and tied her shoes, zipped up her coat and put her now almost empty rucksack on her shoulders.

'Right', I fastened my own jacket, swooshed a scarf round my neck and grabbed my keys, 'Let's go'.

'Ummm', Grace fidgeted from foot to foot, not exiting the building as requested, still chewing breakfast cereal.

'What'?! I asked, exasperated.

'My need a poo'.

Dropping Grace off at nursery, where she actually deigned to give me a kiss goodbye, I noted that here was another environment where people appeared to be heading off to a nightclub. Surely they weren't going to do gluing and sticking, play doh and painting in skin tight Levi jeans and Zara tops with the shoulders cut out? Was that not weird? Inappropriate even? Was this just how the world dressed now? They had the significant eyebrows too, I noted, running my fingers across my own, self-consciously.

'Drink! Drink! Drink'! I heard a rowdy child shout as they banged their sippy cup on the table.

'That's Grumpy George', Grace whispered in the way that two year olds do. So your ear feels like someone has used it as a wind tunnel and everyone in the room heard the whole thing better than you.

Grace had names for everyone at nursery. She'd told me that Grumpy George was always shouting and had to sit on the 'thinking chair' until he calmed down nearly every day.

Charles With The Runny Nose was Grace's chosen life partner. I wasn't sure how consulted or involved he was in this plan, but she had decided they would eventually marry and live on a farm with horses and dogs and grow carrots for rabbits because people shouldn't have to eat them. So, she told me.

Smelly Dora who pooped her pants and didn't tell anyone, only alerting staff to the issue when smears appeared on the slide etc.

Killer Freddy who wasn't allowed in the garden anymore because he murdered or maimed any insect he came across.

I wondered how these children described Grace when they spoke about her at home. Chief of the TV remote, Dictator of Bedtime and the one generally holding all the cards, were my suggestions.

I had my own label for Drill Sergeant Sandra. She was Grace's keyworker and was the strictest most terrifying person I had ever come across, including my mother. Oddly enough though, Gracie absolutely loved her, behaving pretty well at nursery, admirably hiding the deviant devil child side of her nature, which apparently only came out especially for me. Sometimes I desperately wanted to roll myself all over Sergeant Sandra just to see if some of her magic dust would rub off on me.

But I didn't.

'Drink! Drink! Drink'! Grumpy George yelled again, throwing his sippy cup across the room this time.

'Ha'! I chortled, attracting the attention of the staff welcoming the kids in, 'He's like Father Jack isn't he. You know, off Father Ted'?! I laughed again.

Silence. They looked at Grumpy George and then back to me.

'You know Father Jack'?! I tried to explain, 'Drink! Drink! Drink'! I shouted in an appalling Irish accent.

Their significant eyebrows just about popped off the top of their heads.

'You've never heard of Father Ted'?

The staff member nearest to me quivered in her Levis a bit, but shook her head in response.

'What'?! I shooed Grace into the room, away from her mortifying mother and turned to leave, 'How bloody old am I'?

I ran home to switch on the ancient laptop, that often took a bit of encouragement to awaken, and made a cup of coffee to have with me during the videocall. Isabella would be logging in from the conference room at work too, and I was a little nervous. I reckoned I was only still employed because all the editorial directors had loved the middle aged night out article, the one I had penned and submitted whilst still half cut. So, I still had my job, but I knew she was miffed. I was also slightly nervous about the big boss. I don't know what it was about him, maybe his wealth and power, or his booming American voice, but whatever it was, he made me fret. None of this was helped by the fact that I had once had the worlds weirdest dream about him and I thought about it every time we met. I dreamed that he was making me go down on him, but when he took his pants off he didn't have a willy. He had one of those arrow post it note dispensers that you stick on documents to indicate where people should sign, and when he orgasmed they came shooting out all over until I was completely covered in them. Then he signed me in all the places they had landed and put me in the 'out' tray on his desk.

Analyse that, if you will.

The little singsong noise started up that indicated someone was trying to link up with me.

It was Shaun, I noted, the Big Boss.

I clicked on the icon to answer in videocall and waited for his face to appear.

'Hey Trudy'!

I think I should have been American. You could almost, almost carry my name off in that accent.

'Hi Shaun', I replied, smiling, 'How are you'?

'Well I'm great', he told me, his voice always sounding something like a game show host with his continual high levels of enthusiasm, 'What about you'?

I didn't get the chance to respond, though, as Isabella's request came through to join the videocall.

'Wait for me, wait for me', she introduced herself moodily, 'Middle aged slut coming through'.

Uh oh.

'Ahaaahaaahaaaaaa', Shaun's laughter boomed into my living room, 'I know, right? That was a real winner, Trudy, you hit it right out of the park with that one, for sure'.

I didn't dare look at the window on my screen that contained Isabella's face, so I just kept my eyes on Shaun and moderated the width of my smile so it didn't look irritatingly pleased to her.

'Thank you', I replied, 'I'm glad you liked it'.

'Well it's not me', he leaned back in his chair, hand on his chest, 'It's the readers! They relate, Trudy, they connect! You are living their lives and they are living yours'.

I nodded and snuck a glance at Isabella.

'Got you on the projector screen in here, McKendrick', she said with a semi-evil grin, 'You're absolutely _massive_ '.

I didn't really know how to respond so I just half smiled and looked back at Shaun, who was cupping his ear to the speaker as if he didn't think he'd heard right.

'Anyway', he went on, 'What's next'?

'Next article'? I asked, and he nodded, 'Blind dates', I told him, thinking on my feet. I never had a plan for God's sake. Things just seemed to happen to me in real life that I could translate into work that the readers liked. If I ever managed to become a normal functioning member of the human race, who wasn't on the edge of disaster and winging it every step of the way, I'd probably end my career.

'Beautiful', Shaun nodded happily, 'Just beautiful. Now Trudy, Isabella, I want to leave something with you...'

He left us hanging for a minute.

'Television', he said loudly, smiling and sitting back, his message apparently complete.

'You're leaving us with television'? Isabella asked, clearly not any more clued in than I was.

'The Return of Trudy McKendrick', he sat forward again and put his palms together as if in prayer, 'The TV show'.

Oh.

Oh.

No.

'A TV show'? Isabella was saying.

'Totally'.

'A TV show', she repeated more thoughtfully, clearly turning it over in her mind.

'I won't ask for your initial thoughts yet', he said with a smile, 'I know you'll be excited, and I've got to go on another call'. He leaned forward so his face was disturbingly close on my screen, 'Think it. Plan it. Work it'.

And with that inspirational closer, he winked at the screen and logged off, disappearing.

'Pahahahaaa', Isabella laughed hysterically, presumably looking at my ginormous ashen face on her conference room wall, 'Pahhhahahahaahaaaaaaa'!

'Ahhhhhh', she eventually stopped and wiped under her eyes, snapping back to her usual self, 'Do me a briefing paper on your ideas, McKendrick', she leaned in close the way that Shaun had, but with a supervillain's smile instead of a motivational sign off, 'Later'! And she was gone.

This was so bad.

So, so bad.

I actually needed a more serious swear word than fuck, but couldn't think of one in my panic stricken state.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

'But that's great'! Sarah enthused after listening to, but clearly not understanding, my description of the video conference, 'How exciting'!

'What'?! I snapped down the phone, 'What is exciting about any of this'?!

She had actually called me because the weekend of her wedding to Lisa was just around the corner and my boobs needed some assistance to fit in her choice of bridesmaid dress. I needed a separate fitting to ensure they were suitably strapped in.

'Oh', she replied, clearly confused, 'You're not excited'.

'Sarah', I scrubbed my hands down my face in frustration, 'Are we meeting for the first time today? What, in everything you know about me, makes you think I would want to go on TV'?!!!

I let her mull it over for a minute.

I was the girl who refused to let herself be videoed for fear it ended up on Facebook. Who would only be included on selfies because you could hold the phone up high, keep it as a head shot, stick your chin in the air and pretend you were still thin. Who had actually climbed out the toilet window of a karaoke bar, rather go up and take her turn at Dancing Queen.

The girl who lost her shit in the school production of An Inspector Calls, spending the whole play sitting mute and shaking at the table while Mrs Hodge, the drama teacher, shouted my lines to the audience from behind a ficus they had to slide in for her to hide behind.

'Yes', Sarah said thoughtfully, 'Maybe not your thing'.

'Definitely not my thing'.

'But are you basing that on how you felt about things as a child, Trude? You're not a child now, you need to know if the _now_ Trudy wants to do this. I think the now Trudy would be great at this, to be honest'.

I made a strange non-committal noise.

'What's the worst that could happen'?

'I could soil myself on national television'.

'Yeeeees', she answered slowly, 'But that's unlikely. More likely that you would keep control of your bowels, and strike a chord with every mum, single or otherwise, doing their best to create a non-sociopathic human out of their offspring'.

'Hmmmmppfff'.

'Well yes, that's important too', she said, sarcastically, 'What do you need to do'?

'Write a briefing paper with my thoughts'.

'Well, maybe that'll help you think it through. Like a pro and con list of the whole idea'.

'Maybe', I mumbled, reluctant to admit that was sensible advice. I huffed air out of my mouth, 'Thanks lovely'.

'Don't be daft', I could hear the smile in her voice, 'But I better get back. Ring me tomorrow, ok? We'll go through your paper and you can tell me how your final fitting went'.

'Ok', I agreed, 'See you later'.

'Wait'! She cried, just before I hung up, 'Tell me about last night'!

'Ha! Nice try, you bloody witch', I grumbled, 'You're still semi in my bad books for that'.

'Trudy...'.

'Nope, you have to wait, nothing less than you deserve for setting me up with Count Duckula'.

'Count Duckula'?!

'Bye Sarah', I sing songed at her.

'Bye Trudy', she grumped back.

I spent the rest of the day writing the blind date article for the column, rather than the briefing paper. I knew I was employing avoidance tactics, but right at this moment I couldn't help it. I wouldn't see Isabella until next week now, so I had some time yet.

Arriving at nursery later, I watched with great pity as another parent had to suffer the indignity of publicly being told their child had misbehaved. Standing there with their head hanging in shame, as if they themselves had clubbed Charlie repeatedly over the head with a toy dustpan. I smiled sympathetically as they looked my way briefly. It was horrible to witness and yet still a relief that, for once, it wasn't me in that position.

And then my child came around the corner.

'Mummy'!

Fixing a smile to my face, I crouched down to be able to hug her as she shuffled towards me.

For reasons known only to her, Grace had chosen to wear; the tail from the Little Mermaid - hence the shuffling as her little restricted legs tried their best to move; a Spiderman top which included big, fake muscles; a fireman's helmet;, and a pineapple handbag.

'Hi Gracie'! I greeted her, knocking the fireman's helmet askew, 'You look brilliant'.

'My am a fire mermaid', she said importantly, 'My put fires out underwater'.

'Right'! I replied, choosing to explain about the limitations of underwater fires at a later date, 'That's a great job'!

Drill Sergeant Sandra marched around the corner as I stood, her face as unimpressed as ever.

'Grace got quite muddy in the garden today and had no spare clothes in her bag', she reprimanded me sharply. I wondered if she was going to make me drop and give her twenty.

'And she wouldn't wear any of the clothes from the spares box...'

'The _stinky_ clothes', Grace militantly corrected her, sneaking behind my leg for protection.

'...so she'll have to go home like this. Her choice. Bring them back tomorrow, please, and do remember to pack spares, we're not a clothing warehouse'.

'Yes, yes, sorry about that. Will do'.

Having obtained permission to fall out from Drill Sergeant Sandra, but with shame apparently affecting my coordination, I struggled in vain to fit Grace's coat over the top of the fairly impressive pecs that Spiderman was rocking. In the end I gave up and only zipped it half way. I figured if I had pecs like that, I'd want people to see them.

So, this was how we walked – no – shuffled home. And it took about four times longer than normal given her legs were limited to two centimetre movements by Ariel's choice to stick to a low carb, high protein fish diet (obviously not Flander) and have a tiny, slinky bottom half.

Of course we met with a mixture of responses and looks on the way. Teenagers who sniggered and giggled, grandparents who tutted and muttered about weather appropriate clothing, even some of the dogs stopped for a longer look as we walked past. But we did also rumble across The Incredible Hulk and a Moana/Rapunzel hybrid out for their own adventure. I shared a knowing smile with those parents, silently and supportively agreeing with each other that having a child who is strong enough to be themselves and not care who is looking, might actually be the greatest thing we'd ever accomplish. So we just needed to stick our chins out and love them for it.

# 9)

There was great excitement on the day of Lisa and Sarah's wedding. They had gone down the stately home route and everything looked amazing, I mean absolutely incredible. The house, the gardens, the flowers and candles in the room they would be married, white linen everywhere and fairy lights in place for later in the evening. All beautiful. But the people? I don't think I have ever seen so much perfection in one location. Beauty attracts beauty, I pondered to myself, gazing at them all, though accepting that didn't exactly explain my presence here. Although I did bring the beautiful Grace, I thought, smiling proudly as I looked at her lying on the carpet with her knickers on show, trying to liberate a gerbera from its arrangement in her gorgeous cream, silk flower girl dress with daisies in her hair.

I scooped her up and poked the flower back in, as the time neared for walking down the aisle before the girls. Grace had petals to throw as she walked, and I was supposed to make sure she didn't tip them all out at once or smack anyone in the face as she did it.

My dress appeared to be staying where it was meant to, thanks to the clever seamstresses' adjustments. It was black strapless with a folded, beaded bodice and a fuller plain black satin skirt. My hair was up in pinned curls and I was carrying a bouquet of bright summer blooms, despite the time of year. Grace had gasped and told me I looked like the Queen when she saw me for the first time. I was hoping she meant one of the foxy Disney movie queens, rather than the elderly lady who currently occupied the throne, gorgeous as she was. You never quite knew with the wonder that was Gracie.

The string quartet started up, meaning that Sarah and Lisa were ready. They were walking each other down the aisle and must have now been waiting behind the door at the top of the massive, gorgeous staircase.

'Let's go' I whispered to Grace, starting to walk slowly and serenely down the aisle, 'Small handfuls of petals, nice and slow'.

She nodded sincerely and immediately proceeded to sprint down the aisle like Yussain Bolt, chucking out petals like cannon balls into the faces of the unfortunate people who thought they'd done so well to get an aisle seat.

Crap.

I did a weird fast walk, the one that makes you look like you're trying to hold in a poo, trying to catch up with her without drawing more attention to the fact that she'd gone slightly off script. She got to the registrar at the front of the room, smiled up at her delightedly, turned to where I should be and then span around, shocked to see I was still a fair distance away.

'Mummy'! She leaned forwards and whispered louder than she normally spoke, 'You so slow, come on'!

Titters floated around the room and the registrar patted her head as I arrived at her side.

I manoeuvred her into the spot where we were to stand and waited for what felt like an eternity for the other bridesmaids to arrive.

'Why they so slow'? Grace 'whispered' again.

Not waiting for an answer, she proceeded to shouty whisper down the aisle to them, 'Aunty Lou, Aunty Von, why you so slow'?

They giggled at her but continued the appropriate pace, arriving at the front just as the door at the top of the stairs began to open.

'Why growed ups so slow'? Grace continued to grumble, looking at our feet as if they would offer an explanation, 'My was much faster than you _all'._

But then the girls appeared on the stairs and her silent jaw dropped as much as the rest of the room.

They were gorgeous.

Lisa was in an ivory lace, fitted, fishtail dress that showcased her curves to perfection. Her hair was half up, half down, cascading down her back in soft waves, a small jewelled comb at her crown. She wore no jewellery at all apart from that. She was breath-taking.

As was Sarah. She wore a fuller dress, strapless ivory silk with a fairly plain bodice but intricate beading on the full skirt and small train that trailed behind her. Her hair was piled on top of her head and the only jewels she wore were in a small, tiara that sat in amongst her curls.

I felt tears prick at the back of my eyes already, and we hadn't even got to the meaty stuff yet.

'Wow Mummy', Grace didn't even try to whisper, 'They princesses'.

'They are', I managed through my teetering emotions.

My wobbling voice made Grace turn to look at me, and with her big, beautiful heart she noticed my damp eyes and shuffled closer to me, taking my hand and squeezing it tight.

'S'okay Mummy', she properly whispered, 'Gracie here'.

The ceremony was perfect, they had written their own vows and picked personal songs which were important to them. And eventually...

'You are now married', the registrar told them happily, 'Time for a kiss'.

They leaned in for a non porn kiss that they'd actually practiced in front of us all to check it was mother in law appropriate, but not too frigid.

A little boy about eight years old in the third row, took a break from picking his nose and, before his mother could muffle him, said, 'This is just weird, girls are _not_ supposed marry each other'.

There was a second of painful silence in the room as the mother turned the colour of a post box and considered if she should offer an apology, or just allow the ground to swallow her up.

But then Grace stepped from behind me and looked at him crossly. 'Snot weird', she argued, her little fists clenched at her sides, 'They in love. And when you in love you married. That snot weird'.

The room erupted in applause and Lisa, with a tear in her eye, leaned down to give Grace their signature jellyfish high five.

'Snot weird', she said again to me as I picked her up for a proud squeeze, confused now at the reaction she had provoked.

'No, it's not', I agreed, kissing her flushed cheek and holding her tightly to me, 'It's just love'.

Well it might have been wall to wall beautiful people, but a wedding is a wedding no matter who you invite. So, by 9 o'clock that night, there was:

  * a drunken great uncle who was wandering the room, telling people he'd never met increasingly inappropriate stories

  * a crying woman in the toilets who was panicking that this would never happen for her (and it wasn't even me!)

  * a sudden disappearance of helium balloons but a plethora of men who still thought it was hilarious to tell dirty jokes in the voice of a cartoon chipmunk

  * barely supressed anger between a few seriously competitive single ladies, who had tussled in the throwing of the bouquet

  * a cow in the field behind the house who had needed to explain quite clearly, with understandable levels of aggression, that she wasn't there to carry the inebriated brother of the bride around

  * a car crash hook-up between two horribly mismatched wedding guests, that everyone knew was only going to end in tears and moderate violence

  * a number of red and sweating, overtired small children sliding on their knees across the dance floor, cheerfully taking out the elegantly dancing grandmas and great aunties as they did

  * a little pile of vomit on the pebbled driveway outside that no one was willing to take responsibility for

I was sitting on a sofa with a sleeping Grace's head on my knee. She was exhausted from her sprint down the aisle and subsequent attempts to send grandmas scattering like ninepins. I stroked her head and sipped my wine, mostly sober, mostly content.

Louisa - devout, resolute, singleton Lou - was necking on with Gregg the discus thrower that Lisa knew from her athletics club! He was very hot and she was very hot, I was pleased for her. Vonda - mother of a twelve year old who was playing on something electronic next to me, therefore limiting her ability to just blithely snog whoever she fancied - had given her number to a nice guy called Peter, who was also divorced and managed the clinic Sarah worked at.

Me? Well, I had been supervising a two year old who had wanted her mother to accompany her in dancing the macarena, S Club 7, Whigfield and that stupid tomato ketchup song, even when there was only the two of us on the dancefloor. I had attracted lots of attention. But not of that type.

Women looked on affectionately with their heads tilted and a hand on their heart, as I put all my inhibitions aside to dance like a weirdo with my girl. The men, with the exception of the two that my friends had already bagged, were now either:

  * celebrating being 'out, out' with their fifth jager bomb as they convinced themselves they were still young and hot enough to hit on the bar staff, all the while wondering when all the lesbian action was going to start.

  * there with their wives/girlfriends and were dutifully standing by, comatose, while their other halves tilted their heads and clutched theirs heart watching Grace and I strut our funky stuff. All the while wondering when all the lesbian action was going to start

  * there with their wives/girlfriends, but dipping in and out to the other bar that was showing the football match which this inconvenient wedding had made them miss. All the while wondering when all the lesbian action was going to start.

Lou came and collapsed into a chair next to me, topping up my wine with a bottle she brought with her. She was pink, bleary eyed and happy looking.

Vonda came and joined us, holding her glass out for a top up from Louisa.

'Well helloooo ladies', I greeted them, wiggling my eyebrows suggestively.

'Headphones please Matthew', Vonda instructed, Matthew rolling his eyes as he put them in his ears and carried on playing.

'Well', I continued, 'You little sluts'!

Matthew couldn't keep the snort inside, rumbling the fact that he could still hear us, so Vonda listened to one of his headphones for a minute saying, 'Louder...louder...louder...right, stop'. Then he put it back in his ear, but went off to sit at the table in front of the telly, probably not really wanting to hear this conversation no matter how high his curiosity levels were.

'Tell me'. I said enthusiastically, 'You first Louisa'!

'Ahhh he's so hot', she twisted in her chair, 'It wasn't meant to happen'!

'I never understood you not dating', Vonda beat me to what would have been a similar response, 'I hope this goes somewhere, he'd be crazy not to want to see you again'.

'He does want to see me again', Lou said shyly, 'I said I needed to think about it'.

'What'? Vonda and I said together, making Grace stir in my lap and turn over.

'Go tell him you've thought about it', I told her, 'And you think it's a marvellous idea'.

'Hmmmm', she chewed her fingernail, 'I think it might be a marvellous idea'.

'Go'! I almost shouted, 'Now! Go! Bye bye, bye bye'!

She giggled, got up and wandered off, kissing me on my head as she passed.

'Now you', I went on, looking keenly at Vonda, 'Spill'.

'Well', she said, more reserved, 'He seems lovely. And he also wants to see me again. But I mean, I haven't so much as kissed him yet....', she trailed off.

'So, save that for the first date', I shrugged, 'Do you think you want to'?

'I think I do', she nodded, 'If I can remember what to do on a date, it's been such a long time'.

'Like riding a bike', I replied with a cheeky wink, knowing she would get my meaning.

She laughed and took a sip of her wine, 'You ok'?

'She's fine', Sarah appeared at our table, 'Go away and get back to Peter, he's boring the shit out of everyone asking about you all the time'.

She bumped shoulders with Vonda when she stood up and added seriously, 'He's a good guy, V, worth taking a chance on'.

Vonda just nodded and walked through the double doors to the dance floor, leaving me and a sleepy looking Sarah behind.

'Hello married lady', I smiled, happily, 'You having a good time'?

'Amazing', she breathed, 'But I'm super tired'!

'Small talk is energy sapping', I agreed, 'why don't you just go and dance'?

'Why don't _you_ just go and dance'? she countered, 'I'll stay with little legs'.

'I'm pooped', I admitted, 'And I'm fine. This is your day, go and have fun'.

She didn't smile, but looked at me seriously.

'You ok'?

'Yeah', I said, moving my eyes away from her and down to Grace, 'Yeah. Just...'.

She watched me, carefully.

'Just what'?

'Just...alone', I admitted, 'But with my gorgeous girl', I rallied kissing Grace's head, 'So not alone, really, never alone'.

'Ok', Sarah said quietly, 'Well my feet are bloody killing me anyway, so you're stuck with me McKendrick'.

She settled into her chair and put the aforementioned feet up on the table.

'Wife'?! She shouted, 'Oh wifey! I need a foot rub'!

The men in hearing distance noticeably perked up. Their ultimate patience was going to be duly rewarded; here cometh the lesbians.

# 10)

Halloween, and I was sitting in the nursery car park, panicking.

Of _course_ I forgot about it, of course I did.

So far, we had seen five witches, three mummies and a couple of zombies wander in, plus one kiss ass mother fucker who had stayed up half the night making vampire cupcakes for the whole class.

Bastard.

Grace's face was like a smacked arse, grumping in her car seat as she watched her pals arriving in their spooky get up, while she sat there in her usual Primark legging and top set that was as far as I would go for bloody nursery clothes. The same nursery where, on a daily basis, she came home absolutely caked in filth, having rolled in mud, paint, Bolognese sauce and the fluids of other people's children.

I looked around desperately, my eyes suddenly spotting something that made hope of redemption begin to bubble in my chest.

'Come on', I said quickly, grabbing my bag from the footwell and jumping out of the car.

I popped Grace out of her car seat, her little face full of confusion and huffiness.

'This not the way', she told me as we double timed it away from nursery and towards the Co-Op Local over the road.

'We need to get your outfit, don't we'? I told her, trying to sound as if this was obviously the plan all along, 'Get you all spooky for Halloween at nursery'?

She didn't answer but continued to trot along beside me, eyeing me sceptically as we waited to cross the road.

I picked up a basket as we walked through the automatic doors.

'My carry it', Grace said, going to grab the handle.

'No Grace we need to be quick and it might get heavy'.

'My is strong'.

'Mummy is stronger'.

She stopped stock still and started breathing heavily through her nostrils like a bull preparing to charge.

'My. Is', she was getting progressively louder with each word, 'Stro...'.

'Fine, fine, fine, carry it Grace, carry it'!

Fifteen minutes later and we had swiped the legs out from under another toddler who landed bottom first in the fresh baked pies, inflicted life altering injuries to their already wilting carnations, and taken out their Halloween pumpkin display. Entirely.

Tiptoeing past the muttering staff who were still chasing rolling pumpkins around the floor, we snuck out of the shop and dashed back to the car.

Another ten minutes and I escorted a positively beaming Grace into nursery, to be greeted by some very wide eyed looks as she passed other parents and members of staff. She now sported a shiny witches wig, created from 6 value packs of silver pan scourers sellotaped together, a bin bag dress with tin foil trim and a tin foil cloak. She also had a toilet brush broomstick and a tin of Sheba for her witch's cat, who was currently on sabbatical. I had drawn on wrinkles and a couple of warts with a biro and she thought she was the best dressed witch in the entire universe. Bless her.

Her level of delight really showed how low I had previously set the bar for this kind of thing, poor kid.

I also took in a bag of Halloween Haribo which the kids spotted immediately and went completely apeshit over.

Ha! Vampire cupcakes my arse.

Glowing in the aftermath of pulling triumph from disaster, and still trying to avoid drafting this television briefing paper for Isabella, I headed to the gym for one of my scheduled personal trainer sessions.

Glancing down my record sheet and watching me finish the set I was currently working on, FinnTrev nodded approvingly.

'You've really committed to this, Trudy', he told me, smiling, 'I can certainly see a noticeable difference in fitness and strength'.

I was already pink from my recent high knee running on the spot, whilst unashamedly holding the football socks down, but this bit of unexpected praise made me shine a little more.

'Wow', I basked in the positivity, never suspecting for a moment the physical and emotional damage an upbeat conversation like this would lead to.

'Time to step it up a notch'? He asked me, 'You're totally ready for it'.

Harder?

Did he mean harder?

There was harder than this?

'Okaaaaay', I hesitated, 'How do you mean, 'step it up a notch''?

'Let's introduce something new', FinnTrev suggested, affecting a deceptive air of casual indifference, 'What about some burpees'?

'Ok, cool', I agreed, nodding with naive enthusiasm, 'What's a burpee'?

Forty-five minutes later and I was standing outside the changing rooms gazing longingly down the stairs to the exit, wondering what the fuck had just happened.

'Trudy'?

'Hi', I greeted Jonas sadly, though my innards hadn't been entirely broken by burpees, and they still jolted awake at the sight of him.

'What's up'?

'We did burpees today', I said simply and dejectedly.

He chuckled and reached to put one of my arms across his shoulders as he put the other one round my waist.

'For the first time'?

'Yes, for the last time', I nodded, trying to ignore the tingles I got from him touching me again, and starting to slide stiffly down the stairs like my entire body had been sprayed with starch. He really must have superhuman strength in those biceps, I reflected as we reached the bottom, because it felt like he had been taking an awful lot of my weight to get me down here. I adopted the pose of a life-size cardboard cut-out, knees locked and bum clenched like a weirdo, trying to stop my legs giving out altogether.

'Come on', he laughed, noticing my discomfort, 'I'll come out to the car with you'.

I nodded and whispered, 'Thank you'.

I really thought I was almost ready to sew my 'I can speak to sex gods' badge on my swimming towel, I was doing so well with it these days.

'Where you off to now'? he asked me, fingers tight on my waist as we walked to my car.

'Ummm', I stuttered stupidly.

Maybe not literally sewing the badge on yet.

Maybe just keep it in the kitchen drawer, ready to sew on. Just for a while.

'I need to get a Halloween costume for Grace for tonight', I said, amazed at my own coherence, 'So I'll have to pop into town before I pick her up from nursery'.

'Trick or treating'? he asked, letting me go carefully as I bleeped the car open and leaned on the door.

'Yep', I nodded, 'and then sugar overload'!

'Sounds like fun', he smiled, and my heart turned over and had to try to learn to function upside down.

'Hey guys', a familiar voice called from across the car park, and I dragged my eyes away from Jonas so see Louisa exiting the gym.

'Hey lovely', she said, kissing my cheek when she reached us, 'Hey Jonas, how's life'?

'Good', he smiled, looked at me, dropped his eyes quickly to the floor and then said, 'Well, take it easy ladies. A few less burpees next time, Trudy', he called, waving over his shoulder as he jogged away.

'Ah', Louisa said, watching him leave, 'He's a lovely guy'.

'Yeah', I sighed, unable to stop myself, continuing to watch the perfect view of him running back towards the gym.

Her lack of response eventually shook me out of my daydream, and I looked to find her looking back at me intently with a half happy, half thoughtful expression on her face.

'You ok'? She asked.

'Yep'.

'Good. I need to ask you something'.

'Ok'.

'You won't like it'.

'Lou...'.

'But please listen'.

Silence.

'Trudy'?

'I'm listening'.

'I've got another blind date for you'.

'Lou...'.

'It's nothing like the last one, I never should have let Vonda go ahead with that one', she rushed on with no finger spaces between her words, giving me no room to interrupt or object, 'It's the greatest guy, he's good looking, really he is, and nice and no complexities...'.

She trailed off, watching my face for a reaction.

'I wouldn't even suggest it, Trude, if I didn't think he would look after you and be good for you. And you good for him, actually'.

The girls being all loved up and moving on with their lives really left a hole. The wedding had been a wake up call, and mooning over the unobtainables, like Jonas, just somehow made me feel even more lonely. I was worried I was going to have to marry Jonathan Still-Lives-With-His-Mother Dickson and start wearing cable knit cardigans and making crochet blankets to hang on every piece of furniture. And join the WI with my own mother, and have to pretend to care about the font on the church signage, and deciding on the complex contents of the flower boxes in the village.

'Yep', I said quietly, nodding, 'Yep.

'Yep you'll go'? Louisa clarified.

'Yep I'll go'.

'Yessssss'! Lou punched the air and danced in a half circle around me, 'I promise, promise, promise Trudy, he's awesome. Awesome enough for the awesomeness of you. And that's pretty awesome'.

I smiled and attempted to give her a one armed hug without crying from my FinnTrev torture injuries and also from the void of aloneness that this conversation created in my stomach.

'Woop, woop!' she shrieked, still pumping the air as she ran to her car, 'I'll call you to sort it out'!

'Bye', I called, crashing down into the seat with my broken legs, wondering when self-drive cars would come into widespread use.

If I thought my legs were broken before, that was nothing compared to how they felt now. I had spent lunch time in a slow moving, mile long queue outside the fancy dress shop in town. A queue made up entirely of students who needed something spooky to soak up their beer and vomit at tonight's Halloween parties, and also useless, disorganised parents who had not prepared as they should for trick or treating. I ended up with little in the way of choice by the time I got inside, buying an overpriced but gorgeous witches outfit with a broom and a velvet hat with purple stars and glitter. Glitter that would no doubt decorate the floor of the flat for the next 12 years no matter how many times I hoovered (which wouldn't be many), apart from that one determined glitter particle bit that stays permanently under your eye for the rest of your life.

It was beautiful. I was bankrupt and would have to eat no frills beans for the rest of the month, but I had fulfilled my parental duties.

'My not like it'.

'What'?! I cried, holding up the most beautiful and expensive witches costume that had ever existed, ever.

'No', Grace hugged the bin bag closer to herself, 'My like this one'.

'Grace', I went on patiently, 'I bought this one especially for you! For trick or treating'!

'My like this one for trick or treating', she huffed, straddling the toilet brush, presumably to better demonstrate the added extras this outfit came with.

She straightened her scourer hair and 'flew' off into her bedroom.

I flopped down onto the sofa, knackered, and threw the bank busting outfit on the coffee table, scattering glitter everywhere.

In the end, she did reluctantly agree to supplement the cleaning product ensemble with the purple velvet hat, refusing to trade her toilet brush broomstick for the real one, but offering that one to me, kindly, so we could both fly together.

And so we did 'fly' around the neighbourhood, attracting 'oohs', 'aaaahs', and 'eh?'s in equal measure as she gathered enough sugar loaded loot to keep her awake for a fortnight, comfortably. We headed back home when it started to get really dark.

Grace waited patiently for someone to knock on the door, sitting cross legged, staring at it with our bowl full of 'goodies' in her lap.

Chances were slim because we were probably the only undecorated house in the street, the rest of the houses covered in skeletons and crime scene tape and fake spider webs with terrifying noises that bellowed out when you rang the doorbells.

And the most intricately carved pumpkins I had ever seen. Keeping up with the Jones' had taken something of a seasonal turn in this neck of the woods, apparently.

I watched Grace guiltily, knowing that I was deliberately keeping the lights in the hall off to deter the doorbell ringers. Why hadn't I bought more Halloween Haribo this morning, for goodness sake?

Through intensive cupboard and drawer investigations, we had pulled together a mouth-watering selection of:

  * smart price coco pops wrapped in clingfilm

  * two jelly pots with only three days left until they were deemed completely inedible

  * a questionable tangerine

Please, please let nobody call here.

'Yay'! Grace shrieked, jumping up as the doorbell sounded.

Ahhhhh, pump.

# 11)

The day of the dreaded blind date arrived and even though the girls had sworn they had outdone themselves this time, Louisa practically glowing every time it was discussed, I was still absolutely dreading it. I hit the gym that morning in the hopes of injecting some endorphins into my system and getting some enthusiasm for the night ahead, though I confess I did tell my trainer where he could stick his bloody burpees today. Not a chance FinTrev, you weirdo.

Waiting for the creche staff to peel Grace's superhuman fingers off the ladder of the slide, Jonas appeared at my side and gently bumped my hip with his.

'Hi', he said to me while watching the activity in the creche with amusement, 'I do love a bit of determination in a girl'.

I laughed and strangely managed to feel a bit of pride, instead of the usual mortification when it is your offspring's turn to be 'that child'.

'Yes', I nodded, wanting to smooth a stray curl back from his forehead but deciding this was probably what girlfriends did. Or crazies. 'She certainly does have that. In spades'!

He grinned down at me and my innards melted, swirling into some kind of internal organ cake mix.

'Well', he went all sheepish, shifting from foot to foot and looking down. I glanced around the reception, wondering who had made him nervous. There was a hot girl signing in, sweeping her blonde hair over her shoulder and giving him the once over. She had all the marks of a psychopath, I decided, disliking her on sight.

'So', his nerves were getting the better of him and he started talking nonsense, poor thing, 'Look forward to catching up properly then' and he started to back away.

'Erm, ok', I replied with a confused wave, quickly distracted as Grace was passed through the creche gate to me, doing her ever improving impersonation of a banshee.

The girls were collectively babysitting Grace for me that night at Sarah and Lisa's house, this being their hideous idea and all. They didn't know what they had let themselves in for. She was more excited than I had ever seen her and had wanted to pack all of her essential travelling items; fairy wand, doctors bag, builders hat, twenty three Doc McStuffins DVDs...

I was now standing in front of the mirror, determined to be more comfortable than last time, but still having made an observable effort. With no demanding two year old wrapping themselves around my legs, I had actually been able to take my time.

I'd opted for a pair of black trousers with a bit of stretch in them so they didn't dig in, but fitted around the curvy bits not too bad. A black shirt with a deep v neck whose buttons I had to stitch closed (well...my mother did) because the football socks were so determined to make them pop open all the time. Slightly larger, but still plain hoops in my ears and a bangle watch that Lisa had loaned me so I didn't have to wear the unreliable Argos one of my own. My hair was clean and down, thick long waves that hung way past my shoulders and looked pretty good considering they hadn't been cut since about 1998. Make up was really just my eyes - eyeliner and mascara with a bit of dark eyeshadow in the corners to do whatever it was that eyeshadow was supposed to do. I had never been a fan of lipstick, blaming my Great Aunty Maureen who seemed to think it should always be bright pink and applied directly to the teeth, shudder, shudder. So, the lips were in their natural state, though they were quite keen to get a drink in between them and calm some of my nerves.

I pulled on the waistband of my super mega galactic control spanx and turned around to make sure you couldn't see them doing their job through these trousers. I had a love affair with big pants that was probably something of an addiction, to be honest. It really happened by accident. Fate taking a hand. Big pants fate. Two for £7 from George and I picked up one wrong pack in my haste. Now in order to be clear, my thong days were pretty short lived. I tried one pair and when they made a kind of 'schloop' noise when I extracted them from my nethers - like a plunger on the outbound journey - they never came out to play again. You have since seen Grace using that very pair as an Alice band of late. But I hadn't quite drifted past standard bikini briefs just yet, when it came to my undercrackers. So, imagine my disappointment when I realised I had picked up a pack of 'full briefs' instead of my normal choice of pants. Nana knickers, I would normally have said. But, waste not want not, I thought. These can be my gym knickers, my period week knickers, my 'no one will ever see these' knickers.

And so it was. I started by wearing them to the gym. They were comfy. Stayed up, all snug and capable of encompassing the majority of the wobbly, dimply bits, instead of rolling down under my belly fat and hiding under there like a knicker covert operative. A knicker ninja. Not limiting your digestive capabilities, blood circulation and general ability to breath, move or speak in the manner of control underwear. But keeping things generally where they were meant to be.

And then, one day, I wore them to work. They liked it, and so did I. They were very supportive and ensured I was not distracted by the likelihood of wedgie issues when I stood up to present to the editorial team in our weekly meeting. They accommodated the croissants and assorted pastries much better than their predecessors, refusing to leave shouty red lines on my belly and backside reminding me angrily that pastries of any assortment really had no place in my knickers. I grew to love them. I was secretly proud of them. I almost wanted to take off my trousers and show people, as I would any other amazing clothing purchase. But I didn't. I held the secret close to me, revelling in the fact that only I knew about my marvellous big pants and their fantastic capabilities. And, since we're sharing secrets here...I sooooo didn't buy them by accident.

Later, with my big, sucky inny pants splendidly in place, I stood to the left of the bar in Rosie's, as agreed, and ordered a much needed drink. I had an emergency opt out plan in place this time, following the horror movie that was the last blind date. Lou was going to call me with a potential fake emergency in half an hours time, which I could act on or not, depending on how the night was going.

My drink arrived and I received it, gratefully. I was so pleased gin and tonic had become cool. Sad to see that meant it now cost seven hundred pounds for a double, but still, I could pretend I was on trend for five minutes at least. I took a big glug of it and glanced again at the door, not wanting to stare at it constantly like an over eager dribbly desperado. Looking away frantically, I blinked and then snuck another panicked peek.

Shit, I hadn't imagined it. What were the chances? Why did the girls pick the same bar as last time? How stupid can you get, he must come in here every weekend to meet his friends.

Wishing I had worn heels and lip gloss and not a slutty low cut top frantically sewn together to prevent boobular explosion, I looked up again to see Jonas was definitely entering the bar. And since he had clocked me, and he was a nice, polite individual, he was wandering over to say hi.

Gulp, gulp, gulp, he looked ridiculously hot. Dark grey chinos that were tight enough that I could see his thigh muscles and a lighter grey form fitting shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows so I could imagine he'd had to stop to chop down a tree on the way here, or something else equally manly.

Don't come in your pants, don't come in your pants, don't come in your pants.

'Hi', he said quietly as he reached me, standing really close, towering over me in my stupid flat shoes and looking at me...differently.

Fuckety fuck.

'Hi Jonas. Just waiting for someone, should be along soon, any minute now', I prattled like a demented parrot.

'Right', he replied slowly, stepping back, his brow furrowing a little, 'Who'?

I couldn't think of anything. Anything at all. Dimwit. This guy made my brain go into some kind of dormant hibernation state.

'Another blind date', I said honestly, my shoulders slumping a little at my confirmed total loser status, 'Hopefully better than the last one'.

'I...', He seemed a little lost for words himself now, running his hand through his hair, carelessly forcing me to pay attention to how much I wanted to run my hands through it too, 'But it's me, Trudy. I'm your date'.

I think somebody crashed a cymbal over my head.

My stomach split into two and plummeted south into my extremely comfortable shoes.

"No", I replied stupidly, still feeling the effects of the cymbal. I looked sideways at the gorgeousness that was him, "Not possible".

'Yes', he said slowly but clearly, stepping forward again to be just inches away from me, 'Yes possible'.

I dropped at least five or six IQ points and just gazed up at him, a bit lost.

'I mean, woman', he said gruffly as he raked his eyes over my face and hair.

I don't believe my thought processes were using words or language of any description at that point. Just the hum of bodily functions revving up into fight or flight, as my increased blood flow tried desperately to make it past the waistband of extra firm control knickers.

'Well...then...hi', I managed to whisper meekly.

'Hi', he replied, putting both hands into my hair, running one through the length of it to land on my waist and fisting the other into it at the nape of my neck.

I didn't even have time to panic to my full potential before he leaned right down and moved our lips together, both of us pulling in air through our noses in that way you do when things get very, very good, very, very quickly.

He pulled me up to my tiptoes and into his hips, and I held onto his upper arms (Rock. Hard. Man. Guns) as he continued a totally epic kiss that Hollywood directors would have died for. I know it had been a while and my barometer may have been somewhat overexcited, but this boy had some serious talent. I think my spanx exploded.

'Sorry', he murmured, still too close for me to be able to properly focus on him, dropping another soft kiss onto my now swollen lips 'I've wanted to do that for a while'.

'That's...that's really ok', I replied in bewilderment through a sex starved haze, but incapable of any further intelligent communication.

He swallowed and took a breath.

'Well', he ran his hands up my arms and squeezed my shoulders gently, 'I think I might need a drink'.

Is that all? I think I might have just climaxed in my Marks and Spencer's control pants.

The first climax at the hands of another human being for about three years.

Did I need a drink?

Nope.

I needed a mop.

'Yes', I replied quietly, wondering how absorbent tummy squashing knickers were. Perhaps they could contain more than just blubber, 'Yes, let's get a drink'.

I needed to replace bodily fluids after all.

# 12)

Jonas asked what he should order and, my being rendered pretty much mute, we settled quite quickly on a bottle of white wine which he carried over to a booth at the back of the bar. He held my hand the entire time, my shaking fingers entwined with his. He was gently rubbing the pad of his thumb on the inside of my wrist, making it very difficult for me to stand placidly by when I literally wanted to launch myself at him like a wildcat in heat. He held my hand even when the barmaid, who I assume he knew, leaned over and hugged him with just one of her lean, tanned, zero bingo winged arms but showcasing both of her perky, young, zero gravity boobs. I loved holding his hand, but I was so nervous and on edge that I started to worry about sweaty palm syndrome and I rubbed my hands quickly down my trouser legs while he was pouring the wine. He clinked his glass against mine and slid his arm behind me on the back of the booth seat. This felt like an out of body experience, and I wondered for a second if I had actually had an aneurism on the way to the bar and this was just a morphine induced hallucination in the back of the ambulance. Right now, that would genuinely make more sense to me.

'You didn't know then'? he asked with a small smile, 'you didn't know it was me'?

'No', I shook my head slowly with admirable fake calm, but couldn't help the squeaky disbelief in my voice when I replied with, 'Did you know it was _me_ '?

His smile widened a little and he slid the hand that had been on the back of the booth into my hair once more.

'Louisa said you might be like this'.

'Like what? What am I being like'? I panicked.

He shut me up with another killer kiss. One hand stayed in my hair, controlling and deepening the kiss, and the other covered my own hand which was resting high on my leg. Only his hand was bigger than mine and his fingertips were sliding over the sensitive skin of my upper thigh. This was really nearing knicker crisis point, I was going to have to put a bucket underneath me soon.

He pulled back slowly, dropping lighter kisses on the corners of my mouth. Almost nibbling his way along as he teased the inside of my upper lip with just the very tip of his talented tongue.

'It wasn't a blind date for me', he whispered into my ear as I tried to literally inhale him, my face turned into his neck. On top of everything else, the guy smelled incredible and all of my senses were in total overload.

'I knew it was you because I've been working up the courage to get your number for weeks. Louisa was my mole in your camp, I'm afraid'.

He grinned and picked up his glass for a drink, so I shakily did the same.

' _You_ wanted to ask _me_ out'? I asked, voice full of doubt, face full of shock.

'As soon as I knew you were single', he nodded, letting his eyes wander all over me again, making me nervous that wherever they landed there was a dried on cheerio or a week old Grace snot that I'd somehow overlooked.

'That day in the sauna'? he went on, and I nodded indicating I remembered, 'I literally wanted to throw you over my shoulder and carry you off'.

I winced at the image that produced and mentally shook myself down a little.

'But the gymbots'? I asked, confused, 'That gym is wall to wall hotness. Like major hotness. Even I would make a significant lifestyle choice for some of them'.

He chuckled. 'I only wanted your hotness'.

'My hotness'?

'Your hotness'.

In an unexpected turn of events, the inability to understand his interest in me was actually helping me to be slightly more capable of speech.

I pushed my hair from my face and saw him watch it fall gently back into place. He caught the strands between his fingers and tucked them behind my ear, his fingers continuing down my neck, not helping with my attempt to manage any kind of articulate conversation. I thought about the gymbots. The Louisa types who could bend like rubber and who never worried about dimples and folds and dangly bits. Because they didn't have dimples and folds and dangly bits.

'I'm not...', I didn't want to go for the pathetic sympathy angle, even if it really wasn't an angle but a genuine, well thought out philosophy, 'I don't know what you...'.

He put his glass down and kept one arm around my shoulders, the other hand wrapping round my rib cage to pull me towards him. The gentle slide along the booth caused one of my legs to bump up and over one of his, so my thigh was resting on the zipper of his trousers and one foot dangled in midair with the back of my sensible shoe now hanging off.

'I saw your beautiful face', he said seriously, 'with no make up or spray tan or...whatever other weird things girls do'.

I let a little grin out and made a mental note to ask his opinion on eyebrows at some point.

'I saw your smile and your determination and...', he smiled crookedly, looking down like he might actually be a bit embarrassed. If it wasn't so dark I was sure I would have seen a blush spread across his cheeks.

'And what'? I pushed, curiosity breeding confidence.

'And your rack', he replied, looking up into my eyes and skimming his thumb along the underside of the left football sock, 'Your body...your curves', he slid his hand down my side, over my bum to the top of my thigh, 'Well...I just...really wanted you'.

'My boobs'? I replied sceptically, looking down at the expanse of cleavage that the stitched up shirt exposed.

'Your boobs', he nodded, looking down at exactly the same thing.

'Even bouncing in a sports bra from 1997'?

'Even bouncing in a sports bra from 1997', he nodded, running the back of a finger down the soft, sensitive skin we were both considering with intent.

My nipples immediately sprang to attention, pressing through the lace of my non-1997 bra and the thin material of my shirt.

'Oh God', he groaned quietly, unable to miss my body's reaction. He hauled me over his legs to be straddling his lap, pulling my face down to his so my hair hung like a curtain around us as we kissed and kissed and kissed.

And, of course, that was the moment my emergency exit call came through. I grabbed my phone, saw Lou's name on the screen, granted her a brief 'Go away please', before chucking it in my bag and getting back to the matter at hand.

'I'm sorry', he said sometime later as we picked at some chips that he'd ordered since we missed the dinner reservation he had made for us at Corner Table. Corner Table! I'd never eaten in there in my life and never thought I would! Definitely not the kind of place that had a good value children's menu and a selection of primary coloured crayons for entertainment, that's for sure. I mean we hadn't actually managed to go, but still...

'For what'? I asked, fiddling with his fingers as he rested them on my thigh.

'For not giving us much chance to...talk', he explained, 'It's just that, I've wanted tonight to happen for a long time. It's hard for me to keep myself off you'.

Despite my former misgivings, and thirty years of deep seated self doubt, I was starting to get it into my head that this gorgeous, lovely man was really interested in me. To the point where I was trying to think a little ahead on the timeline and was frantically trying to do three years of pelvic floor exercises in forty five minutes without arousing suspicion. All whilst participating in pockets of genuinely interested small talk and then longer bouts of intense, 'I'm-not-seventeen-anymore-so-I-know-where-this-might-be-going' kissing and touching and...things.

And where this might be going could be actual, real life, naked body sex.

With Jonas.

The demi god.

With biceps and abdominals and loins.

And me.

Trudy.

With dimples and folds and dangly bits.

I looked at him from under my lashes as he sat back with his arm around me, taking a drink and looking around the bar, moving his thumb rhythmically back and forth on my shoulder. I had learned, between mind blowing foreplay (you really couldn't describe it as anything else, it was such a good job we were hidden from view), that he had a sister, older than him, living in the States. His mum was a nurse who lived not far from here and his Dad passed away from bowel cancer a few years ago, their relationship a little wobbly as, apparently, he wasn't that delighted with Jonas' decision to work in the fitness industry, as opposed to a 'real' job. This despite the fact that he had got a distinction in his Masters degree and was working on a PhD on the biomechanics of something that sounded difficult and important.

Yes, yes, you are right, men like him don't actually exist. This was clearly all just aneurism induced delirium.

# 13)

I couldn't get enough of him. My coat was open, my back was pressed against my front door and I had to resist the urge to hook my hussy leg around him to get us even closer than we had already managed. Mrs Twitchynets would be having a field day if she was still awake.

'I should open the door', I whispered, my hands in his hair as he trailed open mouthed kisses down my neck and pulled on my backside, pressing our eager pelvises together. This was the wettest dry humping I had ever experienced.

'Oof', he exhaled harshly and put his hands on either side of the door frame, resting his head in my neck for a moment before standing up and looking down at me, 'Yep. Its late and this is...fast'.

I nodded, not actually minding the fast pace in the slightest, but not wanting to be a complete strumpet if that was going to count against me at some point in the future. I somehow struggled to find my massive bunch of keys that were pretty much the only item in the world's smallest handbag. I was doubly drunk on wine and Jonas.

'Here', he picked them out of the bag and I pointed to the right one. He unlocked the door and pushed it slightly open. Even my dodgy lock succumbed instantly to the seductive powers of Jonas.

Neither of us moved, looking at each other until I caved and dropped my gaze to the ground.

'So', he said quietly, 'I had an amazing time'.

My cheeks burned hot as I flushed with pleasure. He'd had an amazing time! With me!

'I had an amazing time too', I replied, smiling but still staring at the ground, 'Thank you'.

'You're welcome', he chuckled, and I looked up at him with a little laugh of my own.

He was just too gorgeous.

'If I let you come in...', I started.

'I know, I know', he interrupted gently, 'There's no way I could be a gentleman if I stepped through that door, believe me'.

Holy moly.

I didn't know if I wanted him to be a gentleman. Quite the opposite, to be frank, but since I was trying to keep up the pretence of being a lady, I thought I should probably just roll with it for now.

'Well', I began, stepping back and up onto the doorstep, doinking the door further open with my massive posterior in the process. Nice.

I put my hands on his shoulders, the step placing us at more similar heights now. He moved forwards and smoothed his palms over my hips and door doinking arse.

'So...goodnight, then', he said, leaning in to kiss me goodbye. Gently, softly at first. But we hadn't been particularly good at remaining on the gentle scale, and this goodnight kiss proved no exception. He slid one hand up to between my shoulder blades and held the back of my head with the other, knotting my hair and controlling the kiss which went on and on, leaving us both breathless. Wine made me bold, or I just couldn't resist any longer, and I slid my hands down his back, over his squat perfected backside and pulled him into me.

He groaned into my mouth and came up for air, panting as hard as I was.

'I think you're going to kill me, woman', he whispered gruffly, pressing harder into me, leaving me in no doubt of his current feelings.

'I think you stepped through the door', I whispered back, raising my eyebrows cheekily and looking around.

He did the same, noting the accuracy of my statement as we stood wrapped around each other inside my bombsite of a hallway. Now remember that I had not known I was meeting Jonas, or anyone even vaguely respectable for that matter. I had very low expectations of this date and it did not cross my mind to consider whether I might have brought a guest home with me afterwards, and should therefore tidy up.

'I stepped through the door', he repeated, raising his own eyebrows and trying to pull off a look of innocence.

I stared at him, heart pounding and legs wobbling and other things also distinctly...activated.

His face changed to a more serious one as I dithered.

'I can step back out again'? He squeezed my waist and started to pull back. But I held on to him.

'No' I whispered, breathless but certain. I cleared my throat, 'No', I said more clearly.

'No'? he questioned, tilting his head and looking at me carefully.

'No. Stay. But....'

'But'? He looked concerned.

'But count to 200 before you come in', I stepped away towards the living room door, giving him my best pleading look, 'And count quite slowly. Please'.

'200 is forever', he groaned, hooking his fingers in my coat pockets and pulling me back to him.

'200 will stop you seeing what a dirty dog I am on date number one', I mumbled against his persuasive lips, 'It's like Armageddon in there'.

'I don't care'.

'You would if you walked in right now'.

He made to do exactly that.

'No'! I yelped, blocking his way with arms outstretched, 'Pleeeeease'!

'Fine', he grumbled, 'I'll count to 200. But I'm not starting from one. Fifty one, fifty two, fifty three...'.

'Cheater'! I squeaked, fleeing through the living room door and slamming it behind me. I chucked my coat over a dining chair and surveyed the damage. I didn't have time for prioritisation or a plan, I needed drastic measures here.

'Seventy four, seventy five...'.

I grabbed a roll of bin bags from the kitchen drawer, cursing how impossible it was to find the end and then encourage the bloody thing to open. Whilst in the kitchen I filled the sink with hot water and washing up liquid and threw all the dirty dishes in there, wiping the benches super quick, hiding a half eaten Toblerone and making a run for the bedroom. There were clothes everywhere and I couldn't easily tell what was clean or dirty. I shoved them all into the black bag and swooshed the duvet straight, plumping the never before plumped pillows and kicking my hairdryer under the bed. I chucked the bin bag into the wardrobe.

Dashing for the bathroom, I grabbed a handful of marvellous, multi purpose babywipes and ran them quickly over the surfaces and all the bits of the toilet seat that a lifty uppy, putty downy man might have to look at. I chucked my make up back in the bag and hid it behind the sink, stepping back out into the living room.

It wasn't too bad in here, since Grace hadn't made her presence felt for a while, so I just kicked some building blocks into a pile and folded up a blanket onto the back of the sofa. I stood and ran my hands through my hair, suddenly realising that I hadn't looked at the state of myself at all, never mind the sodding flat! I popped my head back into the bathroom, looking in the mirror with only a slightly tipsy, critical eye.

The hair was a bit dishevelled, which was to be expected given he couldn't keep his hands out of it. My eyes were bright and my lips were swollen, but other than that, somehow I was still pretty together. I washed my hands in cold water and stepped back into the living room.

Where Jonas now stood.

'200', his voice was a deep rumble and he was looking me up and down. Slowly.

He had taken off his coat so I could see those gorgeous forearms again. His hands were on his hips and he was staring right at me, breathing deeply enough that I could see his shoulders rising up and down.

I had that effect on him?

I was doing that?

To _him_?!

I took a shaking half step towards him and he was across the room in a flash, actually lifting my feet off the ground as he wrapped me in his arms and pressed me roughly against the wall.

'Stop', I squealed, 'I weigh...lots'!

Jonas stilled, but didn't put me down. He stared right into my eyes and pressed me even harder into the wall with his pelvis. Eyes still locked with mine, he ran his hands over my backside and down to my thighs. One at a time he lifted each leg and wrapped it around his waist, not straining or struggling in the slightest.

'You're perfect', he told me seriously, 'You are exactly the right amount of everything'.

And he smoothly kissed me into oblivion before I had time to melt into a pool of Trudy at his feet.

He walked, _carrying me,_ into the bedroom and when we reached the edge of the bed I slid slowly down his front until my feet hit the floor. I kicked my shoes off and he did the same with his own shoes and socks. I watched him dazedly as he undid the buttons on my shirt, his eyes staying on mine until a look of confusion crossed his face and he looked down.

'Is this a test'? He joked, looking quizzically at me and then down at the row of undone buttons and my still firmly closed top.

'Oh shit'! I giggled, reaching for the bottom of the shirt, 'Its sewn closed, I forgot'.

And in a moment of mania or confidence or just the general effect of the horn, I pulled my shirt over my head to find myself standing in front of him in my bra. Thankfully the best black lace bra I owned, and one that didn't make the socks look all that bad.

'Right', he choked out, stepping forwards to run his hands almost reverently over the lace.

'My turn', I stuttered, reaching forwards to undo the buttons of his shirt, my glands making a lot more saliva than any human needed in a lifetime as I exposed more and more skin. I pushed the shirt off his shoulders and forced the folded back cuffs down his arms until it dropped to the floor.

'Hummmppfff', I mumbled intelligently, shaking in shock that this man was standing half naked in my bedroom.

He gathered me up and kissed me, my skin burning against his as he felt for the zip of my trousers and pushed it down, encouraging the material to slide off and fall to the floor. I was distracted, running my hands over a body I never thought I would be allowed to play with, marvelling at the different textures and the strength I could feel under the smooth skin.

I forgot.

I can't believe I forgot.

Jonas ran his fingers along the leg of my knickers and if everything down there wasn't already wide awake, it certainly stood to attention now. He put both hands at the waistband and started to roll them down. Or at least he tried to.

'Fuck'! I panicked, remembering too late about the galactic control pants.

'I'm trying to', Jonas replied with gentle humour in his voice, still persevering with his quest, 'But I actually think these might be a contraceptive. Are they meant to come off at all'?

'Fuck! Don't look'!

Oh my God, the mortification.

'I'm helping'! He argued cheerfully, trying to jimmy them off me, 'Blimey I think these were designed by the Pope', they popped back to where they had started from and he threw his hands up in despair, 'Maybe even Jesus'!

'Stop! Stop! Stop'! I thought I was going to cry from shame, 'Please turn around and let me do it'.

He stopped at the emotion in my voice. Then he quietly turned around, so his back was to me.

Oh my God this moment was totally over, I'd killed it. Death by spanx.

Eventually, holding my breath so I didn't let any of the puffing and panting noises out that usually came with entry and exit from these kind of garments, I dropped them to the floor.

'They're off'? he asked over his shoulder.

'They're off', I replied, unable to hide the tremor in my voice, looking down at the carpet as he turned around.

'Good', he said gently, as he slid his big hands over my now exposed backside and proceeded to shag me senseless.

13)

I couldn't sleep. Obviously, I couldn't sleep.

I mean, put aside the fact that I couldn't keep my hands off the stuff that dreams were made of who, through some kind of balls up on fates part, was somehow in bed with me. Or that in between the 'activity', it was just really lovely to lie there, to talk and to be held. To be held by strong arms against a warm chest. Despite it only being the aftermath of date number one (yes, yes, I'm a trollop), I couldn't help but feel cared for and protected. This was not an everyday occurrence for me, and it felt incredible.

But then, when Jonas did eventually doze off, my mind woke up with a start.

I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I was a sleep pumper. I had actually woken myself up before, my duvet lifters could be so significant.

_And_ I was a mouth breather _and_ a drooler. So in the morning, if he woke up first, any concern he had forced himself to put aside following the humongous knicker incident, would come right back to centre stage when added to my gaping open waterfall mouth, sopping wet pillow and dead dog breath. _And_ the nocturnal pumpage.

So, I lay there and looked at him, pinching myself a little and valiantly resisting the urge to poke him just to check he was definitely real. Even his soft snoring was cute, and he didn't let go of me all night, pulling my arm around him when he turned over in his sleep.

But there were a few problems.

Number one, what happened if you didn't let your night pumps out? Could you explode? Swell up and float away? Number two, you smell in the morning. Its unavoidable. Even if you're a nose breather, things gather in various places in the night and they need to be evicted in the morning before you present yourself to other humans. But if he woke to find I had already showered, brushed my teeth and applied subtle make up, only to climb back into bed and pretend to be asleep, then I would look really, really vain and really, really weird.

So...

Filthy?

Or weird?

I decided I would go for a compromise and planned it out that nearer morning I would brush my teeth without the obviousness of toothpaste, and cleanse myself a bit fresher with some babywipes in the creases and folds. Also let out any lingering pumps that were awaiting release.

Good.

Good plan.

I looked at the clock. It was four in the morning. I figured at about six thirty I would sneak out to the bathroom and carry out the de-filthing. Then back to bed for what would hopefully be some delightful morning sex.

I only closed my eyes for a second.

Just a second!

I could hear quiet giggling and lifted one lid carefully.

Jonas was still here (yay!)

And he was looking at me and barely controlling his laughter (less yay).

I turned my face into the pillow to try and discreetly deal with any drool that had snuck out while I was resting my eyes. But in doing so I noted something else. Something hideous. I snapped my head towards him sharply, with wide horrified eyes and he laughed a little harder.

I put my head under the duvet and inhaled warily.

Oh bloody hell. The unthinkable had happened.

I stayed under the duvet and uttered a muffled, mortified, 'Sorry'!

He laughed so hard the bed shook.

'You better come out woman', he said eventually, feeling under the covers for something he could realistically grab onto, 'Because there's no way I'm coming under there'!

He hauled me up onto his chest but I kept my head down and hid under my hair.

He was still vibrating slightly with laughter, but he pushed my hair back and tried to look me in the face.

'Trudy', he whispered.

'Mmmmfff', I mumbled into his chest hair, keeping my eyes closed.

'People fart Trudy', he said with laughter still in his voice, 'It's not a new phenomenon for me'.

'Oh God'!

'Although it was a fairly impressive one'.

'Oh _God_ '! I wanted to die yet again and pulled the duvet back over my head, prepared to risk the noxious gases. How was this guy still here with me? What with the knickers and the drooling and the pumping and who knew what else.

I felt him slide out from under me, but stayed under the covers, picturing him dressing at light speed and making a break for it out the window. But confusingly, in reality, I heard the shower turn on instead.

'Come on', he said, finding my hand under the duvet and pulling me out to be standing next to him.

Oh Christ.

Vertical and naked, vertical and naked, vertical and naked. Panic, panic, panic!

'Shower', he instructed, leading me behind him to the bathroom. Him striding on with all the natural confidence of a sex god, me resisting the urge to curl up into a ball and lock myself in the airing cupboard. Instead, I pulled my shoulders back and stuck my rib cage out as far as was humanly possible in the vain hope this might make the socks look a bit like boobs. Unfortunately, I think the reality was that I looked like I was having some kind of special, neurological episode.

'You ok'? He asked, looking at me strangely, running a hand around my waist and pulling me against him.

Good, squish those socks up, fella!

'Mmmhmmm', I nodded. I didn't look at him, but put a hand under the shower to feel the temperature and try to gauge how on earth he thought we would both fit in there. Presumably engaging in some kind of shower friendly manoeuvres too, unless all he wanted to achieve was washing the pump and drool off.

Oh blimey, maybe he was just going to shove me in there and supervise my fumigation.

'Trudy', he leaned down and kissed me gently, 'What's up'?

He looked concerned, but was still roaming his hands around my lower half. Perhaps he was trying to brush off some of the pump residue, but whatever the reason it was distracting.

I ran my hands up his arms and around his neck and looked at him, blushing and shy and pathetic.

'Do you want me to go'? He asked quietly.

'No'! I answered too quickly and emphatically to be cool, 'No', I repeated, 'Definitely not'.

'Are you regretting anything'?

'No, definitely not', I repeated.

'Are you feeling shy'?

I hesitated.

'You are', he answered his own question, 'Why? Don't be shy, you're amazing and gorgeous and you need to get your arse in that shower or something is going to happen on these freezing cold tiles, woman'.

'I don't do this...', I hesitated again.

'What? Often'? He tried to finish for me.

'I don't do this...ever'.

'Really? Wow, I didn't know Grace was the second coming, I would have given her more than a power bar'.

I laughed, 'Definitely not a virgin', I clarified, grimacing, 'But I haven't been...I haven't done this kind of thing...not since Grace'.

He raised his eyebrows a little.

'Wow', he said again, but more quietly, 'You must have been fighting them off with sticks, or something'.

I shook my head, 'I don't need sticks', I told him, 'There wasn't any interest, plus I've got a two year old to really scare them away. Oh, and resting bitch face, of course'.

'And what'?

I laughed, 'I'll explain later. But I...I'm not so...confident...these days. I mean I've had a baby now. Things are...changed...different'.

'Things are different'? He repeated, still gently wiping the pump off my rear end and making it hard to remember what I was saying.

'Things are...less...or maybe they're more...'. Why was I babbling about this again? 'I'm damaged. I feel...damaged...in places'.

'You feel damaged'? he repeated again, almost disbelievingly, 'There are things you think aren't attractive about you anymore? Damaged?! Are you crazy'?

'Ummmmm', I resisted the urge to confirm that was a very real possibility most days of the week.

'You're gorgeous', he told me firmly, checking my thighs for pump and kissing me again, 'You. Are. Gorgeous'.

Actually feeling a little emotional, and deciding the evidence didn't point to imminent fumigation and rejection, I balled up all my confidence and raised up on my toes to initiate a kiss. Which he happily took over, holding my head in one hand and pulling my hip towards him with the other.

'Shower', he said gruffly against my lips as something of interest presented itself between my legs, 'Now'.

I was still curious how this was going to be possible, given the fact that on more than one occasion my big doinking arse had pinged the cubicle door wide open when I simply bent over to retrieve the shampoo.

In the cubicle Jonas turned me away from him, so I was facing the shower controls, and picked up the shower gel which hung from the soap dish. I noted the mould gathering underneath it and hoped that he didn't. I wondered, not for the first time, about the validity of soap dishes these days. Does anyone still wash with an actual bar of soap?

Having got what he wanted, Jonas hung the bottle back up. Then he placed my hands flat against the tiles and ran his soapy fingers slowly up my arms up to my shoulders.

Well that wasn't horrible.

I opened my half closed lids, regretting it immediately when I realised that I could see my naked self in the silver of the shower control knob. The curved shower control knob. How had I never noticed that before?! Oh dear Lord, it was like a hideous, naked hall of mirrors. In fact, I'm pretty sure I'd actually had this exact nightmare. My boobs looked wider and even more misshapen than in reality (I hoped) and my head looked abnormally large, like an even stranger version of the Roswell alien. Jonas ran his hands around my sides to my stomach and it turned into some kind of weird 1960s porno that someone directed whilst everyone was high on LSD.

I closed my eyes to avoid the hideous view, hoping he didn't spot it, as his hands continued to move.

'So', he whispered in my ear, 'Which bits don't you like'?

I didn't answer, too focused on the slide of his warm, soapy hand across my wet skin.

'Which bits don't you like, Trudy'? he whispered persistently, 'This bit'? as he slid his palms over my wet stomach, his thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts.

'Maybe that bit', I mumbled, looking down at his hands and not focussing on the stretch marks they were happily hiding from view and the fact he was actually moving my flesh around like pizza dough.

'These bits'? He slid both hands up, lifting and cupping my breasts, rolling over my aching nipples which drew a grunt out that I couldn't stop escaping.

Excellent. Pig noises during sex, how refined.

'Or this bit'? He whispered, as one hand slid between my legs, and my head fell back onto his shoulder.

He knotted his free hand into my hair and kissed me, turning me as he continued to stroke me, and drawing my bottom lip into his mouth. God, he was good. As his fingers edged closer to the motherland, I couldn't help but wonder if he _could_ actually tell the difference between me and a woman who hadn't pushed a not-tiny person out of her lady passage. Though pelvic floor exercises had been my constant companion since the first time he kissed me, so perhaps I had mitigated a bit.

He lifted my thigh to wrap around him and I hoped, since I could feel something substantial pressing against my lower belly, that there was at least some evidence to show the dimples and folds weren't presenting a problem.

Thus, I decided to forget about soap dishes and shower knobs and dangly bits and stretch marks, giving all of my attention to the supremely sexy Jonas and his shower cubicle skills. And we did manage to ping the shower door open and flood the bathroom floor ever so slightly. But if that was the price I had to pay for starting the day in that manner, I could probably find a way to live with it.

# 14)

I really, really, really hated softplay.

I entered the building with Grace, feeling the same kind of trepidation that Christians must have felt walking out into the arena to face lions and gladiators and other terrifying shit.

First, we had to make it past the Peppa Pig Rocket ride that cost £2.50 and just seemed to vibrate like a children's power plate (underhand government initiative to combat childhood obesity?) for a maximum of seven seconds. Then the plastic egg prize machine with pictures of Pooh Bear and Batman on the advertising, but actually containing what looked like the plastic sweepings up from the toy factory floor, unclear what they were actually meant to be, and destined to break immediately.

We got past the rocket, no problem, but had to spend a good ten minutes negotiating over the shitty plastic eggs, explaining (again) about their shittiness and what brilliant, wiser investments we could make with £1.50. None of which seemed like wiser investments to Grace who argued with force that the purchase of a shitty plastic egg was absolutely essential to the continuation of her life. I made no headway on this argument whatsoever until Maggie (the child whose party we were here to attend) presented herself noiselessly in front of Grace, extracted the present she was carrying in her arms and walked silently away.

Happily, though, the interruption was an effective distraction and Grace followed her into the softplay area. I dragged another chair to the edge of the gaggle of mums (and one poor, dejected looking dad) who were surrounding a large pile of presents, coats and half drunk fruit shoots. Naturally we had arrived late, so the conversation was already underway and I only got a couple of nods and smiles from those who weren't intensely engaged in the matter being discussed.

'Of course it's worth thinking about mindfulness', a very loud, immaculately presented mother was telling the nodding group of women, 'You know her latest book, you'll all have read it?' More nods, 'It surprises me that there's anyone who _doesn't_ practice being a mindful parent these days. I mean for the very best parenting'.

The very best parenting?

Good parenting for me involved an unswerving commitment to picking up socks and flushing away poos.

My very best parenting, I reflected thoughtfully, was probably when I insisted we wait for the green man to light up before we crossed the road, even though there wasn't a moving motor vehicle within a ten mile radius. I genuinely thought I deserved a parade on those days. Or at least some kind of certificate.

'I mean I lie in bed and read them', she was still prattling on, 'I think I process it whilst I sleep, and then wake up in that frame of mind'.

I lay in bed wondering if I'd fed Grace tea, sometimes.

And on the subject of tea...

'Of course, we've always stuck with organic', of course she had, 'We need another freezer, ours is so full of nutritional meals. I batch cook, you know'.

Mumbles of positive agreement from the lemmings round the table.

'It just makes sense. Means we're never tempted to go down the chicken nuggets line, even when we're really rushed'.

My freezer was full of nuggets and potato waffles. And about a thousand packets of bread, but only the front and back (or top and bottom?) crusty slices that no one would eat, but it felt wrong to throw away.

I zoned out and considered what flavour I should get in my coffee.

The _only_ plus point of softplay was that you might just get a hot drink down your neck whilst your child was entertained and left you alone for ten minutes.

Unless of course...

'Mummeeeeee', Grace arrived at my side, 'Mummeeee, my find this in the ball pool'.

A sock.

A stinking, filthy, crusty, balled up sock of someone else's stinking, filthy, crusty child. That appeared to have been lost in there for quite some time.

I admirably held in the hurl and resisted the urge to call in the military to dispose of it in a carefully controlled explosion.

'Grace that's disgusting', I took it from her, using the sleeve of my coat as the closest thing I had to a biohazard suit, and deposited it in the nearest bin, 'Don't pick things like that up'.

'Mummeeeee'?

'Mmmhmmmm'.

'My want you come in wiff me'.

Sigh.

Goodbye hot coffee, goodbye.

'Grace all your friends are in there'.

'Maggie not being nice', she said loudly, causing a lull in the lemming chit chat, 'And Freddie found a spider and he's...'.

'Ok, ok, ok', I stood up and kicked off my shoes, steering her away from the now grumpy mothers whose perfect, mindful, organic children she was bad mouthing.

I really, really, really hated softplay, I thought to myself again as I squeezed through an entrance built for the under-fives, inevitably flashing my bumcrack to all the wretched souls in viewing distance.

And, oh joy, it seemed a couple of rogue gymbots had snuck in, somehow. They were currently pretending to be stuck in the foam mangle rollers in their skin-tight jeans and vests, pulling each other through, giggling and rolling around enough to attract the desired amount of attention.

This was a complete scene change from the normal parents of the world, for whom being dragged into the soft play apparatus by their toddler was utterly humiliating. We nodded sympathetically, in silent solidarity with each other as we passed on our hands and knees, squeezing ourselves around impossible corners that even eight years olds of a decent size would find challenging, and bracing ourselves to edge slowly down slides, lest a stray child was at the bottom as we exited and got squashed like a pancake as we splatted onto the crashmat. Or alternatively we got ourselves stuck part way down a slide that was not designed for grown up behinds. Traditionally, this wedging problem generally occurred at the same moment that a gymbot came fleeing down the slide next to you, their bionic behinds not even touching the sides as they whooshed smoothly to the bottom.

Interestingly, the gymbot's children were nowhere near them and didn't appear to require their presence in the softplay area at all, begging the question of why they were in there in the first place. Indeed, they were usually the obnoxious little snot covered twats throwing all the balls out of the ball pool and pummelling smaller children with foam farmyard animals from the under 3's section.

Grace started playing in that section now, so I told her I wasn't allowed in and watched the twat kids from an appropriate distance to make sure they didn't mess with my girl. You can say all the right things about badly behaved children, 'just acting out', 'overtired' and all that crap, explaining away the behaviour that all kids exhibit sometimes. Just kids being kids.

Until one of them hurts your kid, that is, and then all bets are off. You don't mess with my baby, not more than once, anyway.

I watched as a twat child approached her, pulling on the ear of the cow she was rocking back and forth on. He said something, and she shook her head and replied quietly so I couldn't hear. He started rocking the thing really hard, obviously with the intention of throwing her off. I stood up but didn't approach yet, as she hung on tightly and shouted at him to wait his turn. Then he got right in her face, yelled at her to get off and pushed her sideways until her bottom crashed onto the floor. Her little face. She got such a shock, so I started walking over.

He had climbed straight on and was rocking on it now, looking down at her and smiling like a proper little really bad word that even I never say.

But she got up, my little battler, gritted her teeth and pushed him as hard as she could, so _he_ ended up on the floor this time.

'Wait. Your. Turn', she yelled, pulling the cow away from him and climbing back on.

He stared at her from the ground and then started wailing for his mother, who was exhibiting her child sized, limber body by swinging along the monkey bars, and had no idea whether he was dead or alive.

He got up and walked past me, snivelling and muttering.

That's right, off you fuck, you bullying little twat, one half of me thought, while the other half wanted to blow his nose and get him a drink and chat to him about the hard life lessons that would inevitably come his way if he continued on this path of twattiness.

'You ok Gracie'? I asked as she got off the cow to let another little girl on.

'Yes Mummy', she told me with a nod and a wipe of snot up her sleeve.

'Good girl', I told her, 'You know, you should always be very kind, but not a...'.

'Pussover', she just about completed the well-practiced sentence for me.

I blew her a kiss and she came for a reassuring cuddle before we went in for party tea.

Thirty bright red, sweating children waited in line to high five a man in a massive chicken suit (we were at Chester Chicken's Fun Farm) and pose for photos. Of course, 50% of the kids were terrified of him and had to be coaxed out of anxiety attacks with packets of Haribo when, oddly enough, mindful parenting achieved bugger all.

And at some top secret meeting during the course of the party, the other 50% had agreed a collective aim to rugby tackle Chester to the ground and rip his chicken head off. Chester was surprisingly robust, I'll give him that.

We eventually got into the party food section, and the chicken was escorted off for a bracing whisky and a lie down in a darkened room. Grace sat down quickly, being the guzzler that she is, and I popped a selection of sandwiches, crisps, cucumber and carrot on her plate. She started eating immediately and I leaned back against the wall.

The Mindful Mother's offspring had tipped a whole packet of wotsits on his plate and was desperately trying to gather up all of the fairy buns before anyone else got to them. Mrs Mindful, red faced, was quietly encouraging him to eat a balanced meal, popping a selection of raw vegetables on his plate which he took one disgusted look at and chucked merrily on the floor.

Tee hee.

Rumbled, Mindful Mother, thoroughly rumbled.

Having politely received a ridiculously over the top 'I'm-The-Best-Mummy' party bag, containing more toys, sweets and junk than our entire house, I let Grace have five more minutes in the soft play. I was crossing my fingers that she wouldn't chuck her party food back up in the ball pool, and that I would be saved from car park small talk if I lingered for a while.

After fifteen minutes, because five minutes is never five minutes, I picked up my bag and her shoes and started calling her name as I walked around, looking up into the various elements of the multi coloured Fun Farm.

And then I started calling her name louder.

And then I started panicking a bit.

I couldn't see her anywhere. All the other parents I knew had left.

'Grace'! I yelled into the four and over section, 'Please come out now'.

Oh God, she must have got out, though the gate looked pretty secure and there was no way she could climb over it.

Someone had taken her.

'Grace'! I could hear the panic in my own voice.

I felt sick and ditched her shoes and my bag at the front desk, asking for help from the staff.

They allocated a gangly, awkward seventeen year old boy to help me. He proceeded to shyly whisper Grace's name into a few soft play orifices and look under piddling pieces of foam as if she was small enough to be completely concealed by them.

'Stand at the gate', I all but shouted at him, 'Obviously don't let her past you if she comes out'.

I climbed back into the hellish torture chamber and screamed my way past wide eyed small people. A few kind and sensible parents offered to help and asked what she looked like and what she was wearing.

My heart was beating so hard and fast I felt like it was visible to everyone I passed, as I clambered my way through the sodding mangle rollers again and wriggled round the snake slither section.

She was nowhere.

My stomach was twisted and it pained like someone had tied knots in every inch of it.

My baby.

Still nowhere.

And then, I got right to the top and...

There she was.

Lying flat on her back in the Tippy Top Tower, chatting away to a random boy about how her shoes were girls shoes with sparkles and flashing pink lights, and his shoes were boys shoes that would never really amount to very much at all, unfortunately.

I could have hugged her and killed her with equal enthusiasm.

'Grace'! I cried.

'Hi Mummy', she sat up, surprised to see me, 'What you do here'?

'Grace, I have been shouting and shouting and _shouting_ for you, I thought you were _lost_ , I thought...'.

And I ranted all of my panic and worry and love out in an inappropriate tirade at my lovely little person.

Then, with drippy eyes and shaking hands, I hugged her like I was never going to let her go. You know, just to completely bamboozle her and make sure she stayed in the confused and emotionally damaged societal group called _'we're not entirely sure our parents should have had kids, really'._

Obviously then I had to get her three of the shitty plastic eggs, the contents of which are still a mystery to me, and let her have two seven-second workouts on the Peppa Pig vibration plate rocket. _And_ I bought her a massive blue slushy that would probably dramatically alter her personality and keep her awake for the next two days.

I really, really, really hated softplay.

# 15)

I spoke to Jonas on the phone after Grace was in bed, the night of the softplay party. I wished so badly he was there with me, but it was still really lovely to hear his voice. He had texted to ask if he could call and what time would be good for Grace, so my tummy had massive Jurassic Park sized butterflies whooshing about in there, and I had peed about seventeen times in ten minutes while I waited for the phone to ring. I was carrying the thing about with me, checking every thirty seconds that it was still switched on, that the volume was on, that the battery had charge. And then, when it rang, I completely shit myself and chucked the thing halfway across the room, having to dive across the sofa to grab it before it cut to voicemail.

Well it was amazing. I even managed to converse like a well-balanced grown up for the majority of the time, making me reconsider my worthiness for the 'I can talk to sex gods' badge that was still in the kitchen drawer.

And Jonas was so _interested_ in me! Unlike all of the other (two) men I had dated (had one date with) since Grace was born, who literally talked about themselves all night. Jonas asked loads of questions and listened and then asked more questions which really proved he actually _had_ been listening.

Outstanding.

We said goodnight, agreeing to see if we could find each other at the gym in the morning. I was trying out a yoga class with Louisa early tomorrow and he was working until twelve before he went into Uni. I went to sleep, smiling and hugging my mobile phone as if it was him, then woke with a near heart attack when the alarm went off on my ribcage.

Grace pootled in, sleepy and gorgeous, as I was looking over my gym wear options, spread across the bed. She hugged her warm body around my leg and I kissed her head and hugged her back.

'Morning baby'.

She kissed my leg and then got into my bed and snuggled back down under the blankets, cuddling her rainbow unicorn teddy who she had christened, as only she could, 'Horny'. She didn't say a word. Still a bit sleepy, I thought to myself.

I huffed out a sigh, examining my clothing options again.

Suddenly, the stretched out, washed out, tired out vest and leggings felt unacceptable. And, though Jonas had already expressed interest in the 1997 sports bra and its contents, it was still hard to knowingly wear it in front of someone you were...what??

Dating?

Were we dating now?

One thing at a time, one thing at a time.

I decided that the leggings would have to do and that there was no current alternative to the 1997 bra. I picked a vest that I wouldn't normally wear to the gym, and so looked slightly less like I wiped my floors with it (as if I wiped my floors with anything!), and just put my plain grey pumps on. You didn't wear shoes for yoga anyway, so it was just for there and back, thus the skanky 5th year PE trainers could stay at home today. Hair went in the usual messy bun, and I couldn't resist a tiny bit of mascara to make me at least appear more alive than dead.

Grace was really quiet.

'You ok Gracie'? I asked, sitting next to her and stroking her hair.

She nodded but only half opened her eyes.

'You feel a bit warm', I felt her forehead, 'Come on we'll have a drink and take your temperature'.

She sat up at that, delighting in the drama and attention that the introduction of the thermometer must mean.

'My might need a poorly breakfast', she said with barely concealed delight, remembering to keep something of a sad little look on her face.

I held a grin in, taking her hand and heading for the kitchen. Poorly breakfasts came into being when she had tonsillitis and couldn't swallow much, so it was ice cream or custard for pretty much every meal, not just breakfast.

'Sit down there while I find it'. I rummaged in the 'messy drawer', home of the Sellotape and post it notes and blue tack and sewing kits you liberate (yes you do) from hotels.

'Got it', I said, popping a clean plastic end on and placing it in her ear.

It beeped at a warm temperature, orange, but not red on their colour scale.

'Let's have a look at your throat Grace, stick your tongue out'.

I always did this, even though I had no idea what I was looking for or at.

Yep, it looked just like the inside of a two year olds mouth to me.

'You can have some Calpol before you go to nursery', I said, reaching it down from the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet, 'That should bring your temperature down'.

'And ice cream'? She asked hopefully, throwing in a little exaggerated cough for good measure.

'One Weetabix', I negotiated, 'and then a little bit of ice cream'.

'Ok Mummy', she agreed, opening her mouth like a baby bird for the Calpol I was steering her way.

I told Drill Sergeant Sandra about the temperature and asked for her to please keep an eye on Grace today. She'd wolfed the breakfast and ice cream so fingers crossed it was just one of those things. Drill Sergeant Sandra looked at me like some shit on her shoe, but she picked Grace up for a squeeze and felt her forehead gently.

'We'll have a quiet day today, shall we'? she suggested with a secret smile I wasn't usually allowed to see.

'Yes', Grace nodded, walking away with her and dismissing me with a backwards wave, 'My will need a poorly lunch today my fink'.

'Hiya'! Louisa called to me across the car park as I got out at the gym.

'Hi', I replied, walking towards her, nerves appearing in my stomach again at the thought of seeing Jonas.

'You ok'?

'Yes, yes...yes'.

'Nervous in case you see him'?

'Yes'.

I hadn't seen Louisa since the date with Jonas because she had left Sarah's house by the time I went to collect Grace, but after my WhatsApp update to the girls she had immediately called for all the gory details, patting herself on the back for being such a fabulous friend for setting me up with him in the first place.

'Have you seen him since'?

'He called last night. Said to try and find him today'.

'Yay'! She clapped her hands.

I blew a slow breath out, pulled my vest straight and fiddled with my hair as we neared the door.

I suddenly needed the toilet.

Again.

'Hi Helen', Lou greeted the member of staff on reception as we signed in, both sneaking looks around for the man of the moment, 'Where's yoga today'?

'Studio five', Helen told us, 'Enjoy ladies'!

'Thanks', we said together, heading on up the stairs.

I relaxed a bit once we were in the changing rooms, confident he wasn't about to appear around a corner while I was in there.

'You don't really need to warm up for yoga', Lou was telling me, 'the instructor will warm you up slowly anyway, so we can just go straight in'.

'Ok', I nodded, ditching my bag, hoody and shoes in the locker.

We walked along to the studio, both silent, obviously on high alert for a sighting of the lesser spotted Jonas. I doubt Louisa's belly felt as topsy turvy as mine did, though.

Arriving at the studio, I didn't know if I was relieved or disappointed not to have seen him yet. Both, I think.

Welcome distraction arrived when Serena, the instructor, quickly called for us to sit in the start position in the middle of our mats. Alarmingly, the rest of the participants seemed to have no knee joints whatsoever, and could roll their legs up like pastry, pretty much making them disappear underneath their hips. My knees were reluctant to bend such that my feet tucked anywhere at all, and so I made for a much less streamlined package as we began the deep breathing.

I think I enjoyed it, though.

I mean, I wasn't managing poses or balances that bore any resemblance to the instructor or the rest of the class. But I only fell over four times, and only took out the people who were foolish enough to choose the mats around me twice.

Ok, three times.

As far as I could tell, it was essentially a room full of people adopting sex positions, doing intimate heavy breathing with their hands outstretched and their eyes closed. It also seemed to be yet another form of exercise that stimulated...digestion...and so, again, I had to hold in a pump in for an unrealistic and uncomfortable length of time. Although not everyone in that room shared my views on pump etiquette, let me tell you! Silent but deadly does not do them justice, it was actually quite foggy in there by the end.

But yes, I think I did enjoy it, overall. I felt more stretched and more limber.

More awake; I really felt more awake.

As we signed out, I didn't know what to do about not seeing Jonas. Should I call him? Could he take calls at work? Did he even carry his phone while working?

Louisa was dragging it out, checking her bag for the umpteenth time, making small talk with Helen and even tying a shoe.

'Come on then', she said eventually, her tone reflecting my own disappointment.

We walked to the door, but when we got there she paused and looked past me for a second.

'Actually, I'll just go get a...smoothie', she said, grinning, and disappeared into the café in a blur of speed.

I started to respond, but then felt arms come around my waist from behind, and lips taste the back of my neck, hungrily.

'Oh, thank God', I couldn't help myself from saying as Jonas turned me around and kissed me, walking me backwards out of the door and out of sight of his colleagues and clients.

'Hi', he whispered, still walking me somewhere, I didn't care where, and not pausing between kisses long enough to say anything more complex than hello.

'Hi', I replied breathlessly, having somehow forgotten the full extent of the effect he had on me.

I was against a wall in some kind of side alley, I noted, as he kissed his way down my neck and pulled me into him by my hips. He slid his hands under my hoody and I felt them burn the skin of my back and sides as he moved them there and brought his attention back to my mouth.

'Ah, woman'! He said with some force, breaking away and hiding his face in my neck for a second, 'You make me forget myself'.

_I_ made _him_ forget himself?!

He stood and looked down at me with a sheepish smile.

'What'? I laughed at his facial expression.

'I want to do very bad things to you against this wall', he said, pushing into me with his pelvis and looking me right in the eye.

'Oh really'? I stammered, actually considering letting him. He was wearing his gym uniform, which consisted of a very fitted workout top and shorts that stopped just above his knees. I was really, really considering letting him.

'Yes, really', he nodded, 'But instead I have to go lead over 70s chair aerobics'.

'Right', I held in a smile as best as I could, 'That's not quite the same thing'.

'That's not at _all_ the same thing'.

I laughed and then sighed, playing with the hair at the back of his neck, then bravely leaning up for just one more quick kiss.

'Can I maybe see you tonight'? he asked, when one more quick kiss turned into several really, really slow ones, 'Once Grace is asleep, maybe? Or whatever's best for you'?

'Yeah', I nodded, trying to play it cool but actually doing backflips on my inner trampoline, 'Yeah, come over about eight ish'.

'Great', he replied, grinning and stepping back from me, but taking hold of my hand, 'Ok, come on, I better go back in'.

We rounded the corner to see Louisa loitering at her car, waiting for me.

I had no idea how long we had been.

'I better go say bye', I grimaced, 'And probably sorry'.

'We weren't that long', he said, checking his watch, 'Not as long as I wanted, anyway'.

My ovaries melted and I grinned stupidly at him.

'I'll see you tonight', I said and leaned in for a last kiss. Or four.

'Bye', he said against my lips, 'Go woman, go, before you get me sacked. Or arrested'.

I giggled and ran (ran!) over the car park to Louisa.

When I turned around he was in the doorway, he waved and when I waved back he disappeared inside.

'I'm so sorry Lou'! I said, hoping I sounded more remorseful than I felt.

'Are you kidding'? She squeaked out, 'This. Is. Amazing! You guys are perfect together, perfect'!

'Yeah', I sighed, looking back to where he had been standing, 'He's...he's...'.

'PERFECT'! Louisa yelled!

'Pretty much', I laughed, 'So far, anyway'.

'Eeeeeeek'! She happy danced her way to her driver's door, 'when you next seeing him'?

'Tonight'.

'Tonight?! Wooo hoooo'!

'Yeah', I agreed, feeling the woo hoo but not quite voicing it yet.

'So, you need to perfect the 'this is how I look all the time without even trying' look', she told me quickly, as if stating the obvious, 'Since he's coming to your place and not out somewhere flash'.

'I do'?

'Yes! Comfortable but sexy'.

'I can do comfortable', I said, thinking of my skeleton onesie.

'You can do both'! She argued, getting in the car, 'Don't overthink it, lady'.

'Ok', I agreed, resisting pointing out that I hadn't thought about it at all until she brought it up just now.

'Good. Text us when he's gone. We're coming over Thursday night, right'?

'Yes, Thursday', I nodded. Girls night in at my place.

'Fab, see you soon'!

I spent the day reviewing what I had started to draft for this horrific TV show document.

So far, I had gone down the line of defining what the show could be, thinking about the audience that the articles attracted, who they might relate to as guests or panel members on a talk show, what they would tune in to watch. And then, separately, a suggestion of what my role in it could be.

My behind the scenes role.

Like a director, or special advisor, or something like that.

It was a long way from the best thing I had ever written, but I hope it clearly made the point of my not being any kind of TV person.

As I mulled over a bullet point, my mobile buzzed in my pocket, still on silent since the gym.

It was the nursery.

'Hello'?

'Hello Mrs McKendrick'?

Yes, because every mother in the world _must_ be married.

'Yes, is everything ok'?

'Grace is quite poorly here, Mrs McKendrick, do you think you could come for her'?

'Yes'! I replied, shutting down the document and the laptop as I spoke, 'I'm on my way, does she need anything right now'?

'She's had one more dose of paracetamol just then, but her temperature is staying quite high and she's very sleepy. She's really just stayed on the cushions in the reading corner all day, and she's dozing in the quiet room now'.

'I'm on my way', I told her, slipping on my shoes, 'I'll see you in a minute'.

I extracted the buggy from the talons of the vacuum cleaner cord and the stepladder legs in the cupboard under the stairs, and chucked a blanket in it. Grace hated going in it, but if she was sleeping and poorly then she might not be in any mood to walk and it was quite a long way to carry her. I could have just driven, but at least if she fell asleep in the buggy I could just leave her in it undisturbed.

I jogged along the road, getting to the nursery in about ten minutes, puffed out and a bit sweaty.

'Hello', Drill Sergeant Sandra greeted me, 'I'm not sure she should have been brought in today', she chastised me, leading me to the stocks where I could be publicly flogged for being an unfit mother, 'She's been pretty rotten'.

I spotted her snoozing on a little bed in the quiet room. As I got closer I could see she looked pink and a bit sticky.

'Has she eaten anything'?

'Just a yoghurt and a few bites of Rice Krispie cake'.

'And drinks'?

'She's drank quite a bit. Not too bad for drinking'.

'Ok, thanks. Grace'? I whispered, starting to lift her into my arms, 'Gracie'?

She stirred slightly and looked at me through half open eyes.

'Mummy', she mumbled and snuggled right into me, putting an arm around my neck.

'I'm going to put you in the buggy and tuck a blanket around you', I told her quietly, 'Then we'll get you snuggled up on the sofa at home and maybe put Peppa Pig on'.

'Doc McStuffins'.

'Ok, Doc McStuffins'.

'Ok'.

'Thanks for calling', I nodded to the Sergeant since I didn't have a hand free to salute, 'I'll let you know how she goes'.

'Thanks', she replied, patting Grace's arm and looking at her with genuine affection, 'Have a good rest, missy, and take your medicine'.

Grace nodded, but kept her eyes closed.

They were closed all the way home in the buggy too, and she only opened them when I lifted her out to go on the sofa.

'We're home'?

'Yes, we're home baby. Do you want anything'?

'Ice cream', she nodded, sitting up a bit, 'And telly'.

I tucked her under a thinner blanket and got her some ice cream, then set a Doc McStuffins DVD off and sat next to her. She did feel really warm, so I went to get the thermometer again.

Red, this time, and she had only had paracetamol at nursery an hour ago.

I foraged in the cupboards for ibuprofen and found some that was still in date.

'We're just going to have this as well, Gracie', I told her as I approached with the squirty syringe, 'To help the other medicine'.

'Snot the pink one', she shrank back into the sofa cushions, 'My only like the pink one'.

'But this one is the pink one's friend', I improvised, 'They work best together. Like teamwork'!

She didn't move.

'It'll help you feel a bit better Grace. You can have a chocolate button afterwards'.

'Ok' she agreed, immediately swung by the promise of chocolate.

A couple of hours later and she'd had a bit of a snooze, I'd managed to get some mashed potato in her, given her a quick bath and she was now in bed, asleep. She was still pretty wiped out, but her temperature was a bit more under control, which was good news.

I had texted Jonas earlier on to explain. I didn't know if he would want to visit a house of disease, so I left it open for him to be able to decide.

He replied to say he could still pop in, if I was ok with that, and did I need anything bringing in for me or Grace.

This guy just crumbled me to pieces.

I asked if he wouldn't mind picking up some paracetamol and ibuprofen for kids, and some apple juice and chocolate buttons (since a stock shortage had meant Grace actually had to make do with a foam banana sweet earlier and she had _not_ been impressed).

He said he would be round in about half an hour.

Today I was supposed to have completed the first draft of my TV show briefing and also decide on a 'this is how I look all the time without even trying' outfit for tonight. I had done neither.

I decided just to send in the bloody TV thing. It was shit because I was so terrified by the idea, so no amount of rewrites was going to improve it. I explained that I had Grace at home poorly at the moment, so I was sending in a working draft for their comment.

Then I whooshed round the flat for a super quick tidy and stood in front of my wardrobe staring at my clothes.

I decided on jeans and a black, fitted tee shirt with three quarter length sleeves. Mainly because they were clean and not too creased looking, rather than anything else more strategic or considered.

I was washing dishes when he knocked, so I just chucked everything I hadn't yet tackled into the sink, dried my hands and went to answer it.

'Hi' he whispered, leaning down to drop a quick kiss on my mouth.

He looked amazing in low slung cargo pants and a hooded sweatshirt

'Hi'.

'How's the patient'? He handed me a carrier bag with his purchases in.

'She's a bit better, fast asleep which is probably exactly what she needs. Thank you for this, how much do I owe you'?

He waved me away, 'Don't be ridiculous'.

He took off his trainers and followed me into the flat, peeping in to the partly open door to Grace's room.

'Poor little thing', he whispered, 'I hate being ill'.

I nodded and turned, beckoning for him to follow me back to the kitchen.

He blew a couple of big breaths out, which struck me as odd, but he followed me nonetheless.

His face was strained when he arrived in the kitchen doorway.

'Are you ok'? I asked, worried.

He huffed out another big breath, which didn't allay my concerns at all.

'I've never seen you in jeans before', he said, pulling me towards him by the belt loops and then sliding his hands into the back pockets, 'You look incredible'.

I looked down.

'I look incredible'?

'Believe me'! He said, pushing his hips into mine so I could feel the evidence.

'Oh'.

'Oh indeed'.

We just looked at each other, knowing full well that we weren't going to get it on when Grace was poorly next door.

He took his hands out of the pockets and ran them lower still, lifting my backside so my hips aligned better with his and putting me high up on my tiptoes.

'I want you so badly', he said into my neck.

'You do'?

He pulled his head up and tilted it at me with his eyebrows slightly raised.

'I know, I'm sorry', I cringed, 'I'm annoying myself a bit now'.

'Why can't you just take a compliment, woman'?

'Ummm. I don't have an answer to that which is any less annoying', I grimaced.

'Well', he said, sighing and shrugging his shoulders, 'I'll just have to take it upon myself to convince you how gorgeous you are, then, won't I'?

I laughed, 'Oh you will, will you'?

'Mmm hmm', he said, looking at my mouth, 'It's a tough job, but...'

'Mummeeeeeee! Mummmmeeeeeeeeeee'!

I shot out of his arms and dashed along to Grace, who was sitting up in bed and rubbing her eyes.

'Mummy', she whimpered, 'Mine neck hurts'.

'Your neck hurts'?

I sat on the edge of her bed and she nodded and crawled up onto my knee.

'You mean on the inside of your neck'? I asked her, thinking she meant her throat.

'In _and_ out', she whispered as I felt her forehead. She was hot again too.

'I'll get you some medicine and a drink', I told her, popping her back on the bed, 'You stay tucked in'.

'Ok', she lay back down again, 'Messin for him too', she instructed, holding up Horny the unicorn by his rainbow tail.

'Ok', now wasn't the time for a soft toy standoff, 'Medicine for him too'.

In the kitchen, Jonas had sat down at the table.

'Shall I head off'? He whispered, putting his hands on the table and half rising.

I didn't even have a chance to respond when...

'Hewwo...man', came a cautious little voice behind me, 'Why you here'?

Grace was out of bed, trailing her unicorn along behind her

Bugger.

'Jonas is my friend, do you remember? He just brought more of your medicine', I said as truthfully as I could.

She nodded.

I picked her up and popped her on my hip as I got a drink ready and measured out more medicine.

'Who's this then Grace'? Jonas asked, pointing at the unicorn, apparently unperturbed by her unblinking, soul searching stare in his direction.

She balanced the toy on my shoulder and popped her head behind it, preparing to be his voice and make him come alive for Jonas.

'Hi Jones', she said, not quite getting his name right in a unicorn voice that she'd made even squeakier than her own, 'My is Horny'.

I froze, heard Jonas choke back a laugh/cough and looked over to see him sit right back in his chair with a smile.

'Well', he said, sneaking me a quick look, 'He is not alone there'.

# 16)

I didn't sleep much that night, between checking on Grace and lying there thinking about Jonas.

Not in that way. I mean, yes in that way, have you seen the man??!

But also thinking about how he, or anyone, could become part of my life now. Part of _our_ lives now.

No one, however incredible, would ever be as incredible as Grace. They would never be as important as Grace.

Was that right?

Was that too much for someone to accept? Too much to expect of someone?

I scrambled up in bed and went for the laptop, feeling an article coming on.

I wrote late into the night about the challenge of a new relationship and finding someone who could deal with the fact that they would never be first on my list. Ever. Was that person even out there to find? Was it easier, or more likely to succeed, if they had kids of their own and so better understood the issue? Lived the issue? Maybe.

Even finishing a first draft of the article didn't remove the thoughts from my brain, so when the alarm went off in the morning, I switched it off and turned over until I heard Grace's feet.

'Hi baby girl', I whispered, lifting the duvet up so she could climb in for a cuddle, 'How you feeling'?

'My ok', she said, but her voice was scratchy and her cheeks were flushed.

'You stay there while I get the thermometer and the medicine', I said, pushing the duvet back on my side and sliding out.

We established that her temperature was up, but not in the red. And even I could see that her little throat was irritated and sore looking.

'No nursery today', I told her, 'You can stay at home with me'.

'Ok Mummy', she nodded, and closed her eyes.

We both fell back asleep, tired and in need of more rest for different reasons.

Although one of us was rudely awakened several times by either an elbow in their face, a finger in their nose or a kick to the guts. Thank you very much, Gracie the tiny bed hog.

In the end she slept stretched out like a not so little starfish, and I balanced precariously on one edge of the mattress with my pillows creeping further and further onto the bedside cabinet.

After a while I got a text from Jonas and decided to give up on sleep and get up to reply to him and call Grace in sick to nursery.

The text from Jonas was only asking how Grace was, but writing the article had really got me thinking about him and the text just reagitated my concerns.

I messaged back saying Grace was asleep, doing ok, but would keep her off nursery today.

He asked if he could call me, and I said yes.

The phone rang immediately.

'Hi', I said.

'Hi yourself. How is she'?

'Still asleep, not too bad though'.

'You sound tired, was she up in the night'?

'No, not really, I didn't sleep well'.

'No? Were you worried'?

'Some of that, but...'.

'But what'?

'But...I drafted an article about some things that were playing on my mind. I think that made me a bit, sort of, restless'.

'Yeah'?

'Yeah', big gulp, 'I think...I think maybe you should read it'.

'Me'?

'Yeah'.

'Ok', long pause, 'I mean I'm happy to read anything you write, but is this one...more...particularly for me'?

'Yeah', I puffed a breath out, 'After you left and Grace was in bed, I just got to thinking about relationships, not that we're necessarily in one', I added quickly.

'I think we're in one, Trudy', he said quietly, cautiously, with a bit of confusion.

'Oh, ok. Good, I mean I think good. But I need you to read what I wrote, so you're not...misled. So you understand the bits of my life that won't change. That I wouldn't want to change'.

'Ok'.

'I know that sounds intense', I was probably scaring him off now, 'But obviously I have Grace...I've got responsibilities and...'.

'I think I understand', he said, 'Just send it to me, baby, I'll read it'.

He called me baby. I fell over sideways on the sofa.

'I mean some of it's just light hearted, you know', I elaborated from my horizontal position, 'About having to hoover more and needing to buy condoms again, but...some of it's more...'

'Real', he finished.

'Yes'.

'I'm sure its brilliant', he told her, 'I'll text you my email. And then I promise I'll read it'.

'Thank you', I whispered, 'I'm sorry if that was a lot, especially at this time in the morning and three seconds into our...'.

'Relationship'! he laughed at my hesitation, shaking his head, 'What are you like, woman! It was fine Trudy. You can tell me anything, don't worry'.

We chatted a bit longer, he had a presentation to do at Uni today and had been up late in the night too, practicing. Then I heard Grace stirring and said I had better go. We said goodbye without making any kind of plan to talk or meet again, which sat like a heavy weight of worry in my stomach, despite his reassuring words.

My phone pinged with a text from him. Just his email address and a kiss, nothing else.

Stop overthinking, woman, I scolded myself, and went to get my girl.

Grace picked up over the next couple of days and was soon back to her old self and back to Sergeant Sandra, Smelly Dora and her other compatriots.

I had received a two line email from Isabella...

TV paper – need to discuss.

Article – where has the funny gone?

Then her PA had sent me a meeting request for the hour before this week's staff meeting on Friday, just entitled _'Isabella and Trudy closed meeting'_ and with no further information.

I looked over both pieces of work again, though I gave up on the TV paper pretty quickly.

I didn't know how to make the article funnier. It wasn't really funny, this topic. It was important. It was honest.

Usually my deadline for the column was Thursday night, so meeting about it on Friday morning felt a bit late to make significant changes. I fiddled around a bit with the paragraph about hoovering and condoms, adding a section on the possibility of cutting right to the chase when you met someone.

Trudy McKendrick, single parent, you're hot but you'll never mean that much to me.

It was a bit at odds with the tone of the rest of the piece and I struggled to make it feel like it fit, but I sent it in as a possible amendment to discuss tomorrow – which was the day of the meeting.

The girls were coming over tonight and Grace was excited when I picked her up from nursery. They were just the best humans, my girls, and whenever we had a night at my place, they always came over early so that the first part of the evening included Grace.

At 6'oclock we were all in our PJs and slipper socks watching Mary Poppins and eating rainbow drops with pinot grigio. Apple juice for the two year old, of course.

'I think Dick Van Dyke's quite hot in this', Vonda confessed with insufficient embarrassment.

'What'?? the rest of us cried, Sarah throwing a cushion at her in disbelief.

'He maybe take off his hat, Aunty Von', Grace replied thoughtfully, 'So his head can be not hot'.

'Good thinking Gracie', Vonda nodded with a wink, 'That'd do it'.

We had a mad half hour when 'Step in Time' came on, joining in and leaping about on the sofas which were our imaginary chimney pots. This served very well to tire Grace out completely, and she was out like a light when her head hit the pillow after Aunty Sarah read 'The Smartest Giant in Town', doing all the voices and singing all the songs and generally putting my storytime skills to shame.

'She's such an amazing kid, Trude, I'm so proud of you both', Sarah said as she flopped back down on the sofa.

'Awww', I squeaked, already a couple of glasses of wine in, and therefore slightly more prone to excess emotion 'Thanks missus. She is, though, you're not wrong'.

'How are you Trudy'? Louisa asked, and I noted the three of them sat forward in their chairs a little.

'Ah', I teased, 'You've had to be so patient, haven't you'?!

'Just tell us'! Vonda cried, breaking down into giggles, 'How is the sex god'?!

I laughed quietly, but sat back and covered my feet over with a blanket.

'He's great', I replied cautiously, 'He's really great'.

Louisa, who had of course seen Jonas and I together recently, furrowed her brow. She topped up her wine glass, followed by mine.

'Has something changed'? she asked, taking a quick sip, 'You sound...careful'.

I took a big glug and looked at their worried little faces.

'He's an amazing guy', I started.

'In bed'? Sarah asked, eyebrows up high.

'I can't even talk about his bedroom skills', I said, holding both of my hands up and blushing like a schoolgirl, 'I don't deserve him. He just has to walk in the room and all my clothes fall off'.

Shrieky noises and kicky legs and clappy hands ensued for the next minute or so.

'Is there a but'? Louisa asked, when they had quieted down.

'I don't know yet', I answered cryptically, 'But I think there might be'.

General cries of confusion rang out, so I explained about Grace being poorly and him coming over and my thinking it all through and then the article. Plus the fact that this was all two days ago and, though he had texted, he hadn't called or suggested any get together of any kind. I wondered if I was right. That expecting someone to be second fiddle to your child wasn't something most people would be prepared to do.

The girls rallied, made all the right noises, gave me more wine and largely reassured me it was fine and I would see him really soon.

Well, apart from Vonda. Vonda was on a bit of an anti-man rampage at the moment, as outwardly lovely Peter had done the dirty on her with one of the therapists at Sarah's office. Sarah had thrown a stapler at his head and poured all of his poncy Italian coffee granules down the sink, but Vonda had already been through a horrible divorce with an unfaithful husband, so she needed more than just mild office stationery violence to help her make peace with it.

She'd started by explaining away Jonas' lateness or inattentiveness by attributing it to the general uselessness of all men. But then she had slid right down into what was probably a much needed rant.

'I was at work all day too, you know', she was saying with a hint of slur, 'Just the same as him. And if he worked late I just got home, made the tea, did the homework, put the packed lunches together for the next day. But if _he_ got home first and _I_ worked late, good God! He'd be texting saying 'what shall I give him, he says he won't eat such and such, where is the grater, he says he has a geography project due'. Vonda paused for the rehydrating effects of Pinot Grigio, 'And _then_ I'd get in to bed, knackered and pissed off and he'd be all like 'hey baby' and I'd be like, 'yeah, you have every chance of getting some _baby_...if you can just tell me _exactly_ where the colander is _right now'._

It basically ended up in a pro and con list for men in general. Although, notably, none of the pro's came from Vonda.

Cons:

  1. The grater is in a different cupboard every time, it's like a fun little game that isn't actually fun.

  2. There are small hairs in every sink and toilet, since hairy faces became the norm.

  3. There are socks. Everywhere.

  4. Sport is on the TV constantly.

  5. They don't understand Strictly or Bake Off.

  6. Boy beer takes up an inconsiderate amount of fridge room.

  7. They pick their toenails and leave little collections of the offcuts on the bedside cabinet.

  8. They think the washing basket is the bit of carpet next to their side of the bed.

  9. Their poo smells as if their diet is made up entirely of cabbage soup.

  10. Their piddle aiming skills are distressingly poor.

  11. They snore.

  12. They like to put their penises in other women (credit: Vonda Shepherd)

Pro

  1. They have certain...uses, shall we say

  2. They put up with our con list which, let's face it, is pretty extensive.

  3. If they love and respect you and they show it, the con list is almost irrelevant (apart from the penis one, that's never allowed)

I laughed along with this conversation, not contributing much to it, though. I wondered if I would morph into a person like this if I lived with a man. A control freak who withheld sex until standards had been met and the kitchen cupboard quiz had been satisfactorily completed. I decided to keep it to myself that I had neither a grater nor a colander, and on the startlingly rare occasions that a crisis involving these utensils had presented itself, we had managed very nicely with a potato peeler and a pea spoon, thank you very much.

I was a bit tipsy and a bit tired and a bit uninformed about this topic, to be honest. So I just sat back under my blanket and watched the girls handle Vonda with the care and expertise that came from knowing someone inside out and top to bottom.

Then there was a knock on the door.

I ditched my blanket and peeped in on Grace, still sleeping soundly.

Out in the hallway I knew who it was by the shadow I could make out through the glass.

Jonas.

My heartrate accelerated dramatically.

I was wearing a pretty shabby white vest top, no bra and grey pyjama bottoms. No make-up and hair all over the place from going up the chimney with Julie Andrews earlier in the evening.

Shit.

He knocked again.

I didn't want him to leave, and there was nothing of immediate help in the hall, so I just had to think 'fuck it' and open the door in this state.

'Hi', I said, stepping back for him to come in.

'Hi', he said, sopping wet from the pouring rain.

I closed the door and we looked at each other for a second.

'Hi', he said again, then gathered me up to him swiftly and kissed me really very well, for really quite a long time.

'I missed you' he eventually said into my shoulder, holding me so tightly.

'I missed you too', I whispered, wrapping my arms around his neck, 'I've been right here'.

'I know', he said a bit decisively, holding me away from him by my shoulders, 'Oh God, I've got you all...'.

I looked down at my now quite wet, and therefore also quite see through, white vest.

'Christ you look so hot', he rumbled, 'No, listen', he sort of shook himself down a bit, 'I'll just look at your face. For now. So I can tell you'.

'Tell me what'? I asked, resisting the urge to fold my arms over my uber excited niblets whilst also panicking that he was about to tell me he was running for the hills.

'I read it', he said, 'I read what you wrote. I'm sorry I didn't come and see you straight away, I'm sorry because I know you'll have been worrying and overthinking and panicking like you do'.

What?!

Yeah, ok then, smartarse.

'But I wanted to give it proper thought, like you had, so I could show you that I'd really, _really_ thought it through'.

My mouth was desert dry and I felt a bit dizzy.

'And you're right, Trudy, of course you're right. Grace always _has_ to be your priority. You wouldn't be the woman that I'm...you wouldn't be the incredible woman you are if you did it any other way. And I _want_ that woman'.

He said the word 'want' in a very distracting way, in a growl of a voice that I don't think I could explain and do it justice. Let's just say I _really_ liked it.

'I want you exactly as you are', he went on, 'With everything and everyone you come with'.

He took a deep breath while I concentrated on staying vertical.

'It's ok that I can't be your first priority, Trudy, it's really ok. Because you can be mine'.

I literally swooned.

And he caught me.

And he kissed me.

And I just about burst through my scruffy white vest.

And I suspect we would have continued on to a very satisfactory conclusion to the evening, but Vonda had an inebriated meltdown behind the door (where the girls were clearly eavesdropping) sobbing and wailing that maybe there was hope for mankind after all.

And I think she was possibly right.

Maybe, just maybe, there was.

# The Return of Trudy McKendrick Book 2 is now available for download, keep reading for a sneak preview...

After tucking Vonda in to the other side of my bed, Louisa bedded down on the sofa and Sarah on the pull out bed in Grace's room.

Jonas and I hid in the kitchen.

'I didn't time that particularly well, did I'? He smiled, leaning against the bench and pulling me into him.

I smiled back at him, and pulled his head down for a quick kiss.

'I wish you could stay', I whispered.

'Ahh, you've no idea how much _I_ wish I could stay', he groaned.

'I might have an inkling', I giggled, pushing my hips into something sticky outy at the front of his jeans.

'You're not helping'! he shouty whispered with a grin, 'Though I notice you've hidden all my favourite things away'.

He slid his hands under the hem of the baggy jumper I had _obviously_ had to pull on over my now pornographic white vest.

'It was indecent'!

'I know it was indecent', he grumbled, 'That's why I liked it'.

Aside from screwing on the kitchen table, while Sarah and Louisa covered their ears in a vain attempt to avoid psychological scarring, we didn't really have any viable options for interesting activities tonight. It felt like the world was conspiring against us.

I wanted to ask him about coming over tomorrow night, but couldn't make myself do it. We had only been playing this game a couple of weeks, really. Was it desperate?

'What are you doing tomorrow'? He asked, making me grin at my own stupidity.

'What'? He grinned back.

'I wanted to say that'.

'Why didn't you'?

'I felt too...needy'.

'Because you want to see me'?

I mumbled something unintelligible into the front of his sweatshirt.

'Well that's clearer', he laughed quietly, putting his finger under my chin and lifting it until I was looking at him.

He just stared down at me for a minute.

'Did you not hear me just now? You know, out in the hall? Pouring my heart out? Making a fool of myself...'?

'You did _not_ make a fool of yourself', I interrupted strongly, and then looked down and added more shyly, 'I loved it'.

'Well then, why the worry'?

'I'm going to drive you nuts'.

'You're not going to drive me nuts'.

'I drive myself nuts'.

'Because you're...'???, he couldn't even think of the word.

'You can't even think of the word'! I smacked his chest lightly, 'that's how weird I am'!

'I can think of the word', he laughed, taking my hand from his chest and kissing it, 'You're...scared. You panic. You're more full of self doubt than anyone I've ever met'.

My stomach turned over. With all of those extremely accurate things he had just listed.

'Even though you're gorgeous', he kissed my forehead.

'Even though you're clever', he kissed my neck.

'Even though you're kind, and loving', he kissed my jaw.

'Even though you're so, so sexy'.

He brought his mouth down on mine and ran his hands over my backside, pulling me up and deepening the kiss.

I was still quite startled at how strongly I reacted to him, and when he said things like that? I mean, come on, play fair fella.

But was it just getting back into this kind of thing? Or was it Jonas?

Was it waking up long ignored, but entirely general, feelings of affection and emotion? Or was it all about him?

I pulled back, but only slightly.

'I'm sorry', I said, swallowing, 'I'm really not a loon'.

'I know you're not a loon, baby', he whispered.

He wasn't running scared, yet. Maybe _he_ was the loon?

'It's just I feel...'.

Overwhelmed. Intense. Strong, strong waves of....

'I feel it too baby', he cupped my face in his hands, 'It's a lot for me too'.

I gulped.

'Do you not think I wonder how _I_ managed to get _you'_? He asked me.

A giggle slipped out before I could swallow it down.

'Errr, no', I continued to struggle to contain my hysteria, 'I have never thought that', I snorted again, 'Ever'.

He looked a bit angry now, which only served to make it all feel funnier.

'Have you...I mean have you ever _looked_ at you'? I went on, 'Spoke to you? Spent time with you'?

'You're bugging me', he said crossly and shook me by the rear end, which was no mean feat, even with an upper body like his.

'Told you', I shot back, getting confused as to whether I wanted to win this one or not, 'I'll drive you nuts'.

He narrowed his eyes and backed me up until my bum hit the kitchen table.

'It's ok', he said, lowering his head and sliding my backside onto the wooden surface, 'I've got a strategy'.

'You've got a strategy'? I murmured against his mouth.

'Mmmhmmm. I'm going to have you', he nipped at my bottom lip, 'Again', he sucked it into his mouth, 'And again', he teased my tongue with his, 'And again', he kissed me very thoroughly, 'Until I've proven how incredibly sexy you are'.

He trailed his lips down my neck and pushed his hands higher under my jumper.

'I'm going to keep going until I've totally convinced you', he said thickly.

'I might take a lot of convincing', I whispered, arching into his hands.

'It's ok', I could feel his smile against my skin, 'I've got plenty of stamina'.

'Well God bless burpees', I murmured as his lips met mine again.

