Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband Read online

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Praise for Sam Holden

  By the Same Author

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Tuesday 25 December

  Tuesday 1 January

  Friday 4 January

  Sunday 6 January

  Tuesday 8 January

  Thursday 10 January

  Sunday 13 January

  Monday 14 January

  Tuesday 15 January

  Thursday 17 January

  Wednesday 23 January

  Thursday 24 January

  Friday 25 January

  Sunday 27 January

  Tuesday 29 January

  Wednesday 30 January

  Thursday 31 January

  Sunday 3 February

  Monday 4 February

  Wednesday 6 February

  Sunday 10 February

  Tuesday 12 February

  Thursday 14 February

  Sunday 17 February

  Tuesday 19 February

  Wednesday 20 February

  Thursday 21 February

  Friday 22 February

  Saturday 23rd February

  Sunday 24 February

  Tuesday 26 February

  Thursday 28 February

  Friday 29 February

  Sunday 2 March

  Monday 3 March

  Tuesday 4 March

  Wednesday 5 March

  Thursday 6 March

  Friday 7 March

  Sunday 9 March

  Monday 10 March

  Tuesday 11 March

  Wednesday 12 March

  Thursday 13 March

  Friday 14 March

  Sunday 16 March

  Monday 17 March

  Wednesday 19 March

  Thursday 21 March

  Saturday 22 March

  Sunday 23 March

  Tuesday 25 March

  Wednesday 26 March

  Thursday 27 March

  Sunday 30 March

  Tuesday 1 April

  Wednesday 2 April

  Friday 4 April

  Sunday 6 April

  Monday 7 April

  Tuesday 7 April

  Thursday 10 April

  Friday 11 April

  Sunday 13 April

  Wednesday 16 April

  Friday 18 April

  Monday 21 April

  Wednesday 23 April

  Thursday 24 April

  Saturday 26 April

  Sunday 27 April

  Monday 28 April

  Tuesday 29 April

  Wednesday 30 April

  Saturday 3 May

  Sunday 4 May

  Tuesday 6 May

  Wednesday 7 May

  Friday 9 May

  Monday 12 May

  Tuesday 13 May

  Wednesday 14 May

  Friday 16 May

  Saturday 17 May

  Monday 19 May

  Monday 26 May

  Thursday 29 May

  Sunday 1 June

  Wednesday 4 June

  Friday 6 June

  Monday 9 June

  Tuesday 15 July

  Monday 4 August

  Tuesday 5 August

  Thursday 7 August

  Friday 8 August

  Saturday 9 August

  Sunday 10 August

  Wednesday 13 August

  Friday 15 August

  Sunday 17 August

  Wednesday 20 August

  Friday 22 August

  Sunday 24 August

  Tuesday 26 August

  Wednesday 27 August

  Friday 29 August

  Sunday 31 August

  Monday 1 September

  Wednesday 3 September

  Thursday 4 September

  Saturday 6 September

  Monday 8 September

  Tuesday 9 September

  Wednesday 10 September

  Friday 12 September

  Saturday 13 September

  Monday 15 September

  Wednesday 17 September

  Thursday 18 September

  Friday 19 September

  Sunday 21 September

  Tuesday 23 September

  Wednesday 24 September

  Friday 26 September

  Saturday 27 September

  ALSO AVAILABLE IN ARROW Diary of a Hapless Househusband

  The Playground Mafia

  The Battle for Big School

  School's Out

  The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy

  Growing Pains of a

  Hapless Househusband

  Sam Holden is the pen name of an author and journalist. He lives in Wiltshire with his wife and two children. His Hapless Househusband novels are partially based on his experience of (briefly) swapping roles with his wife.

  Praise for Sam Holden

  'A very very funny and often touching account of one man's struggle to try and run Planet Home. This book should be compulsory reading for every bloke who wonders what his wife is making all that fuss about – and for every woman who has wanted to kill that bloke.' Allison Pearson

  'This book actually made me laugh out loud and I stayed up way past my bedtime to finish it! A funny and different take on parenthood, well paced, with believable characters and perceptive insight into the chaos that often surrounds young children.'

  My Weekly

  'It is a hilarious read and so true to life, it should be compulsory reading for all husbands.'

  www.bettybookmark.co.uk

  'Laugh out loud' The Sun

  Also available by Sam Holden

  Diary of a Hapless Househusband

  Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband

  Sam Holden

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  ISBN 9781407005393

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Arrow Books 2008

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  Copyright © Sam Holden 2008

  Sam Holden has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  First published in Great Britain in 2008 by

  Arrow Books

  Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,

  London SW1V 2SA

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 9781407005393

  Version 1.0

  This book is for

  SAMA
NTHA DE MELLO, TAMSIN EVANS, CARLA FILMER, RACHEL HOLLAND & KATHERINE MASSEY

  Tuesday 25 December

  5.30 a.m.

  Oh frabjous day, callooh, callay, it's Christmas. Glad tidings of joy etc. etc. And what a fun day it's going to be. The highlight will undoubtedly be Sally's mother, who I haven't seen since Easter last year. That, I recall, was something of a disaster, culminating in Jane and Derek, Sally's parents, hotfooting it out in a huff. Sally has made me promise to behave, but it will be difficult. Although it ought to be no harder than a regular Sunday lunch, cooking Christmas lunch is always uniquely stressful. Perhaps I've been too ambitious with the menu, but my God there's a lot to do between now and two o'clock. The only reason why I'm up so damn early is because I'm so wired about it, and not because I'm doing what my mother did. She would put the turkey in the oven at this sort of time in order for it to be perfectly desiccated by lunch. You could take a mouthful of breast, and feel all the moisture in your body drain. By the time you'd had your fourth mouthful, you needed to be reconstituted as if you were powdered human being.

  I suspect I'd be a lot more chilled if it had been a vintage year, but it really hasn't. This time last year, things were looking so good. We had a fat pile of dosh in the bank, thanks to Sir Roger + Sally's job going well + me actually doing all right as a househusband = life couldn't be much better. Last Christmas was brilliant (and not just because of the lack of Jane and Derek), and when I twiddled the snapped wishbone over my head, I wished that our family would always be as happy as it was then.

  So much for bloody wishbones. Cursebones, more like. Thanks to one defective immersion heater and an insurance policy that covered us for everything barring defective immersion heaters, the money went as quickly as the flood that greeted us when we returned from two weeks in Portugal. There was not one part of the house that the water hadn't permeated, and we considered knocking it down and starting again. All our stuff – books, clothes, electrical equipment, pictures, you name it – was ruined. It took six months to sort out the mess, and even now, the house still has an unwholesome air of damp, while our bank account is now completely arid.

  Peter and Daisy took it badly, not least because we ended up living in a succession of B & Bs, friends' houses and rented houses, none of which were ideal. They missed our house, their toys (most of which are now in landfill), and were all too aware that Mummy and Daddy weren't exactly in the best of moods. As a result, I indulged them, and gave in to their every whim. This was a mistake, a big mistake. By the time we got back home a few weeks ago, Peter and Daisy had become the most spoiled, whiny children imaginable. They're so bad that they'll soon need ASBOs. Daisy has developed a violent streak, and insists on biting and scratching her brother whenever she can. Peter, meanwhile, is ludicrously demanding, and if he doesn't get what he wants he goes into full tantrum mode, rolling around on the floor, kicking and screaming etc. I was going to take him to a psychiatrist until my mother told me I was the same – 'typical Holden man'. On reflection, perhaps Peter's similarity to me is a reason for going to a psychiatrist.

  I'm also worried about Sally. Ever since the Great Flood, she's become somewhat taciturn. She's also had a few problems at work, some of which she can tell me about, and some that she can't – wretched secrecy! The ones she can tell me include being passed over for promotion and having her department 'downsized', and I can only speculate as to the others. There was a point in April when she was terribly upset about something, and all she could say was that it was too easy to forget that her job involved people's lives. I asked her if somebody had died, and she said that it was 'somebodies', and even though it wasn't her fault, she still felt responsible. Until that point, I thought there was something glamorous about Sally 'working for the Government', but now I just think that it's a nasty little business for nasty little people (not her of course). I want her out of it, and I've told her as much. But what will we do for money?

  Right, I must get on. Christmas Day! Hooray! Fuck, I feel festive.

  6.00 a.m.

  Have just discovered that we have no turkey. Turkey is still at the butcher's, from where I should have picked it up yesterday afternoon. This is a major disaster. Almost worse than the Great Flood. Why didn't the bloody butcher phone me? What was the point of him taking down my number when I ordered it? Fuckityfuckpoo. All we have is a 4lb chicken in the freezer. That will have to do. And God knows what Jane is going to say. Perhaps I should roast her instead. Unpleasant image of mother-in-law stuffed with chestnut stuffing. Still, there's enough meat on her to keep us going for weeks.

  10.00 p.m.

  I don't know whether that's merely the worst Christmas Day I've ever had, or the worst Christmas Day anybody in the world has ever had, including Dean Martin, who actually died on Christmas Day. What will have to suffice for the moment is a list of what went wrong:

  1. The lack of turkey, as mentioned. Sally wanted to kill me, but I mollified her by saying that was a picnic compared to what I wanted to do to myself.

  2. Daisy bit Peter so hard at breakfast that she actually drew blood. The poor little chap now has deep sororal indentations on his right forearm. Naturally, it took Peter some two hours to recover. Daisy was shut in her bedroom, which made her apoplectic. Sally disapproves of such punishment, but I said that as I was cooking, I was in charge. 'Do you want to shut me in the bedroom as well?' she asked. Not a bad idea, I replied.

  3. Ensuing row with Sally. Slammed doors, car engine started, ran out and begged her to stay, she said she was only driving off to clear her head. She's been doing a lot of this recently.

  4. Phone call from contrite Sally 10 minutes later informing me she'd had a puncture on the main road and could I pick her up? Bundle children into other car and collect her. Spend 30 seconds attempting to loosen the wheel nuts before admitting failure. Get back home, and call the breakdown people. Line engaged. Decide that I will call back later. Car is far enough off the road.

  5. Arrival of Jane and Derek. Instant bollocking for not removing Jane's coat quickly enough. Want to tell her that I would more readily remove her head.

  6. Everything OK (ish) until LUNCH, at which Jane was livid at the lack of turkey. I tried to bullshit my way out of it by saying that I didn't really approve of the way that turkeys are reared, to which Jane responded that this was another example of the 'pathetic sensitivity' that my generation showed to animals. 'It's free-range this, organic that – what's the world coming to?' Cue row between Jane and me about animal husbandry, which was only terminated by Jane announcing that her 'turkey substitute' was raw. Did I eat everything raw, even chicken? She would contract 'salamanella', how could I feed this to her?

  7. Jane was right. I chucked the whole chicken into the microwave (much to her disgust – 'We'll get nucleated') which resulted in it being utterly dried out and tasteless.

  8. Daisy and Peter behaved atrociously during lunch, which naturally earned much opprobrium from Jane. 'So much for the "househusband" experiment.' It's hard to quantify quite how rude Jane really is. At least Derek just sat and got quietly pissed. I expect he does that most meals. I decided to copy him, which wasn't a great idea.

  9. 'Couldn't you have put something a little more generous than 10 p's in the Christmas pudding?'

  10. 'Why aren't you standing up for the Queen?'

  11. 'We decided not to give you a present this year. We helped you enough after the flood.'

  12. 'Do you have the receipt?'

  13. 'Don't these children ever behave?'

  14. 'It's a pity the rain's so bad, otherwise you could take them for a walk.'

  15. At 5.30 a knock on the door. Two policemen, grim faces, which caused instant sobriety. 'Are you Samuel James Holden?' Heart went thumpity-thump, brain went fuckity-fuck. What could it be? 'Are you the keeper of a green Citroën estate, registration number . . .' Turned out the car wasn't far enough off the road, as a juggernaut had clipped it, which in turn caused it to swerve into the other lane, narrowl
y avoiding a minibus full of disabled children, but not avoiding the bank, into which the lorry (which apparently contained turkeys – I could have grabbed one!) ploughed, blocking both lanes and thus causing a massive tailback. Turns out I'm being charged with 'leaving a vehicle in a place of endangerment', for which Sally was so apologetic, for which I felt livid, and Jane accused me of being a criminal.

  16. After that, I drank a lot more.

  17. I don't remember Jane and Derek leaving.

  18 I now feel hung-over and dried out, like the chicken.

  Roll on the New Year. Happy Bloody Christmas.

  Tuesday 1 January

  Not exactly a great New Year's Eve last night, largely owing to the fact that I spent it on my own. Sally was called up to the office at 5 o'clock in the afternoon – some flare-up in Ktyteklhdfistan or somewhere – and she didn't get back until 7 this evening. As a result spent the whole day trying to fend off Peter and Daisy's pleadings for their mummy, while doing my best to entertain them. By the time Sally got home, I was ready to vent my spleen, but she looked so knackered, that I thought it would be dreadfully unfair. Instead, I poured her a large gin and tonic and put a slutty supermarket pizza in the oven and we sat down to watch a DVD (all of which we were supposed to do last night).

  Predictably, Sally fell asleep just as the opening credits began to roll, and so I half-carried her upstairs and tucked her into bed. She murmured something appreciative and then she fell back asleep before I turned off the light. Gave up on the film, and instead sat down to write this.

  I really wish Sally would give up her job. I know that it's an impossibility, but there MUST be something else she could do. Even just to move departments to something less taxing would help, but she'd see that as a sign of failure, which I suppose would be fair enough. It might help if I do more consultancy work for Sir Roger, but the more work I do, the less I am able to look after the children, which means hiring a nanny, which is not exactly the point of me being at home to raise them. At least not in Sally's book. And that's a very strict book.

  After the disaster that was Christmas, and the nonevent that has been New Year, I don't feel good about this year at all.