Little one

She was doing her third lot of washing that morning when Kenny waddled in and said he'd shat himself. She told him to stand there until she'd finished. He didn't. He rolled around on the floor for a bit and screamed like a velociraptor. Then he took his nappy off and flung it at her. She tried to stay calm and finish what she was doing. She rinsed the suds off the baking tray and stacked it on the draining board, which looked like a scrapheap with all the cups, plates and bottles on top of each other. With washing up, there was always more than meets the eye.

"Right, let's get you sorted," she said, taking off her apron. In the living room she heard Loose Women coming on the TV. She wanted to watch it with a cup of tea, but she had to get Kenny cleaned up first. She couldn't believe that's what she wanted to do. And that she wasn't even able to do it. When did she become the person she swore she'd never be?

Kenny had gone upstairs. After wiping herself down she went to look for him. Following the small brown smears up to the top, she heard him in her bedroom. The door was half closed, and from the landing she could only see his legs and feet. He'd climbed up onto her dressing table, and she could hear him going through her makeup and jewellery. She imagined him dribbling and getting his shit everywhere. Of course, in the most adorable way.

"Where is he?" she said, putting on a baby voice. "Where's he hiding? Ready or not, here I come!"

She opened the door to her room and found him playing with her pearl necklace. Nothing was broken, it was all fine.

She caught her reflection in the mirror. Fuck, she thought. Is that me? She knew she wasn't looking her best - she didn't mind that. It was her expression. It was the way she looked sad and worried at the same time. She pulled the same smile she'd just smiled on the landing, to see what it looked like. It didn't look like a smile. It was just her opening her mouth into an oval shape. The sides of her mouth didn't curl up at the ends, and her eyes were dead. She blinked slowly and it hurt. It felt like a bruise was on her eye. She touched it and felt a lump. It was a stye.

"We play football with this mummy," said Kenny. He'd split her pearl necklace and there were white balls everywhere. "Mummy, we play football now!"

Kenny woke her up every hour of the night until he was five. When most other people would have slept for eight hours straight, she was getting up every 60 minutes through the night, for five years. Her friends who had kids the same age seemed to sleep just fine. Most of their kids started sleeping through the night when they were two.

She didn't mind. When Kenny's made a success of himself one day, he'll remember his good old mum. He could grow up to be an actor, a football player, an astronaut, and he will remember the part she played in it. That would make it all worth it, she thought. The more she suffered now, the more joyful it would be later. That was the pay off. Her mother told her that to get her through those early days, and it was how she coped with the stress of raising a child.

But Kenny wasn't that into drama at school. He hung around boys who said it was "gay". And because he tended to give up on stuff he couldn't master straight away, he didn't take to sports either. And the astronaut thing just wasn't going to happen. He didn't hate doing things, he was just indifferent. He wasn't really that into anything, and he didn't care.

Kenny did alright in his GCSEs, but not well enough to get into sixth form, as she'd hoped. He got a job as a support worker at an old people's home nearby, and carried on living at home.

Most of his friends went to sixth form, and he lost touch with them after a while. Because of that, she lost touch with the other mums she knew. It made her feel lonely, even though they made her feel bad about herself, not on purpose, but by telling her about all the amazing things their kids were doing. They thought she was shy, but they only talked about their kids, and she never had anything good to say about Kenny. As he developed into his late teens he started to look a lot like his father. The long, triangular jaw and the thick brow. Even though he rarely saw his dad, Kenny still acted like him. He was a negative person, and never motivated to do more than the bare minimum, and see past the status quo. She realised that, despite all the chances and inspiration she'd tried to give him, in the end most things come down to genetics. Kenny was 18 by the time she knew this.

When Kenny went full time at the old people's home she asked him for rent. At first he refused, but then when she threatened to kick him out he started paying up. He agreed to pay £40 per week.

She was watching Loose Women, and laughing in the way that only middle-aged divorcees can, when he came and sat down next to her. He usually sat down on the armchair, rather than sharing the sofa with her.

"Why aren't you in your armchair?" she said.

He didn't say anything. He just stared at the amber glow of the three-bar heater at her feet.

"Hey, aren't you supposed to be at work?" she said.

"Mum, do you love me?" said Kenny. As the heat rose it made her toes look all blurry.

"Of course I do, my little one," she said. She smiled and ruffled his hair.

"Well why don't you show it?"

When you see it written down like that, it doesn't really look like much of a statement. But something about the way he said it really got to her. Why don't you show it. With his dad's vacant look, with his mouth slightly open. Answering his own question.

And then it all came back to her. The three-day labour, the sleepless nights, the three jobs she'd worked to pay the bills. The shame she felt when around the other parents. Not once had he lived up to the hype. They say babies never ask to come into the world, but he did. He wasn't planned. Even now she cleaned up after him. There was still not one moment of joy.

"Get out," she said.

"Why do you charge me rent? None of my mates have to pay rent," he said.

"Get out!" she said again.

He looked at her as if he was going to hit her.

"Leave."

"And the Academy Award goes to... Kenny Cooper!"

"And now we go live to Captain Kenny Cooper and his team from space, as they continue their journey to Mars."

"And it's Cooper with the winner, in the last minute of extra time!"

She was fantasising about memories she'd promised herself. It was dark outside and there was nothing on telly, so her mind was wandering. Wondering, about him. She realised she missed him. And that surprised her. They'd not been in touch for over a year.

Then for the first time, she imagined him fucking up as an astronaut. Like, just spending all day floating around in zero gravity rather than contributing anything to whatever space mission he was part of. She sniggered. Then she thought about him failing as a footballer - getting so angry with another player for being so good that he would pick up the ball, belt it out the stadium, and walk off the pitch. She laughed out loud. Then she imagined him as the worst actor in the world, forgetting his lines on stage, and just looking into the audience blankly, as he tried to remember them. She snorted and the tea that was in her mouth went everywhere.

It didn't matter, she realised. None of it mattered, the hopes and dreams. None of it. A chill washed over her, and suddenly her eyes felt wet. Nothing mattered to her except for one thing. Kenny was her son. God, what had she done?

Her bones clicked as she shot up from the couch. She went to the door and put her feet in her boots. She was still wearing pyjamas, but she put on her long coat so people wouldn't notice - unless they really looked hard. It was much colder than she thought it'd be. But it was fine. In fact, she couldn't stop smiling. Kenny was her son. She thought about the other parents who would understand what she felt. She hadn't always felt like this, but now she did. And he was gone.

She saw the pub sign in the distance. The fog had lifted around it. She picked up the pace and even though her laces had come undone, she didn't stop to tie them. She had to get there.

"Kenny!" she said as she came in through the door. One or two heads looked up from the bar. A couple of guys playing pool stopped and stared back at her.

It was a rough pub. The walls were nicotine yellow. There were crisp packets on the floor. A pint glass on the bar filled up with drips from the leaky ceiling. But she knew Kenny often used to come in here. And if he wasn't in here today, someone was bound to know where he was.

"Is Kenny here?" she said, looking between them all.

A barman climbed up from the cellar, breathing heavily.

"Kenny Cooper?" he said, coughing.

She nodded.

"I haven't seen Kenny in months. He used to be in here every day from about six til last orders. He played for our pool team on Thursdays," the barman said.

"Where is he?" she said.

The barman said: "He left town. He met a girl and then got a job where she was from. It all happened pretty quickly. Why, who's asking?"

"His mum," she said.

"He mentioned you a couple of times," the barman said.

She nodded and smiled, but the barman didn't elaborate. One of the men playing pool came over.

"Here, I've got his number. Give him a call, see how he's getting on. Tell him Dave says hello," the man said.

"I will, thank you," she said.

She left the pub. On the way home, she saw a group of kids hanging out on bikes near the bins. One of them was doing a wheelie on his own, the others were slumped over their handlebars.

She shouted over to them: "Your mothers love you!"

They looked back at her, baffled. Usually they were laughing at how terrified of them she was. She had a completely different energy today.

———

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Meeting my real dad for the first time – part two

Read part one first

We decided to meet in the station pub. I'd got his number a few days before to arrange it. He'd told me he'd never stopped thinking about my sister and I, and what we were up to. It seemed like a generic thing to say, but it'd probably taken him a while to text, and it was touching.

I had a few other things going on in my life (worthy of other blog posts one day, maybe) in the days and hours leading up to Saturday, at 4pm, when we would meet. For so long I still didn't believe it would happen, but as I text him what I was wearing (we wouldn't recognise each other after nearly 30 years apart) those weeds of doubt wilted and blew away. Then the magnitude of the situation hit me. This was actually happening. I was about to meet my real dad. Why was I doing this? Was it really necessary? My heart was racing and I felt sick.

Image copyright andythorntoncontracts.com

But I knew I shouldn't shy away from it – just because, at the very least, it would teach me something. Having massive, once-in-a-lifetime things like this happen to you is good. How else would you grow as a person? And how would you be able to cope with the unexpected challenges life throws at you, if you can't handle the expected ones? Life's all about having experiences that make you stronger, yada yada.

So I walked right into the pub, and took a good look around. There were a fair few candidates sat around the bar. A roll-call, in fact, of 50-odd-year-old men, sat alone, watching the world go by. All potentially my real dad. One or two of them looked up curiously, but none of them said hi. I walked around the bar, which was empty, and turned back and... yep, that's probably him, walking slowly towards me, in shades, a misshapen jacket, with a cautious, disbelieving smile, I thought.

"Steven," he said. "Hey, you alright?" I said. "It's been a long time..." he said. "Yeah, ha," I said. A few moments passed. Then the nerves lifted a little. "Fancy a drink?"

We sat down and chatted about what we'd been up to in the past three decades. I told him about my childhood, my career, my friends, and he told me about his stepdaughter, his alcoholism, and the boat where he lives with his wife.

Image copyright usnews.com

We also caught up on what happened between him and my mum, back in the day. He'd really struggled with the booze – somehow drinking a bottle of whiskey and a box of wine, every day. "I loved you all but I couldn't kick it. I wasn't good enough," he said. "Your mum made a great decision in taking you away from me. I knew you were in good hands."

After losing his house, his job, and his family, he was determined to kick the habit – and decided it wasn't fair to be in our lives until he had. But he struggled, and the mornings that started with a Stella and nights that ended in the shakes continued for the next few weeks, months, and years. By the time he was sober, I was 16. I'd grown up without him. So that explained the not getting in touch.

As all this was coming out, I couldn't help but notice our physical resemblances – or the lack or them. Our eyes were the same, but that was about it. Different nose, jawline, general build... and I'm still wondering where I get my curly hair from. Our mannerisms and personalities were very different too – but then they would be, wouldn't they?

In the end, it wasn't weird or awkward, at all. It was a pleasant encounter that ended, as it started, with a handshake. Until he came back and gave me a hug. And that was that. A massive thing crossed off my life to-do list, some big lessons learned, and a valuable bit of perspective gained.

———

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Meeting my real dad for the first time – part one

Image copyright www.flickr.com/photos/kimjohnsonimages

I don’t know my real dad. Really, I don’t have a clue who he is. I’ve not met him, not spoken to him – I’ve not even seen a photograph of him for the best part of three decades. Honestly though, it’s fine. Yes it’s unusual, but you might be surprised how little it’s mattered to me over the years. I’m already feeling self-indulgent for having mentioned it, because it often provokes needless pity. However, I’m told that this story is worth sharing, so stay with me here…

Here’s the background. My mum and my real dad got married and had me and my sister. Then, when I was two years old, and my sister six months, his violence and drinking got too much for my mum to handle. One day she took us and fled our home in Moss Side, Manchester, to be closer to her parents in leafy North Yorkshire. Really close, as it happened – we moved into a house right across the street from grandma and grandad. Soon my mum met another guy, who my sister and I have called “dad” since our conscious memories began. He adopted us when we were about six and seven, and that was that. (They’re now divorced too, but that’s another story.)

My mum has never hidden anything about our real dad, and she’s always been happy to answer any questions we’ve asked about him. For example, when I briefly returned to Manchester for work a few years ago, I asked her for our former Moss Side address so I could pay my old stomping ground a visit. On Letchworth Street, near Manchester City’s old Maine Road ground, I spent a rainy afternoon standing outside a two-up, two-down mid-terrace, with cast-iron bars over its door and windows, thinking about what could have been.

Moss Side, Manchester. Image copyright www.snipview.com

But any curiosity about how I was brought into this world never inspired me to get in touch with my real dad. I’ve always thought the burden is on him to make the first move. Surely it wouldn’t be too difficult for him to do so. He knows where my grandparents live, so he could start there – but he hasn’t. Besides, any contact we make would risk confusing all sorts of relationships that have been built in his absence – notably with the man I have always called “dad”.

Then something amazing happened in a pub. I was having a drink with one of my best friends, and ended up talking about everything I’ve just said here. I was sure he’d heard it all before. After all, we’ve known each other since we were 10 years old. But somehow he’d never once been told the story about my real dad – with whom he shares a surname. Yes, I think you know where this is going…

So it turned out we’re second cousins. Totally bonkers, totally one of the weirdest things I’ve known to happen to anyone. Imagine how surreal it would feel to find out your friend’s dad’s cousin’s brother is your dad? We went to scouts together, had to be separated in all of our secondary school classes because we messed about so much, interrailed around Europe, visited each other at university… and we’d been relatives the whole time without knowing it.

After this revelation, I knew that, if I wanted to, it would be easier than ever to get in touch with my real dad. My friend is very much part of the family that my I was (understandably) taken from as a two-year-old, so there have never been so few degrees of separation between my real dad and I. And that’s even more the case now that my friend and I have become flatmates. Living under the same roof for the first time, the subject has cropped up more regularly than ever before.

At a family gathering over Christmas, my friend bumped into my real dad’s brother, who was keen to know what I was up to and what I looked like. Apparently my real dad and I look very similar – not a great surprise perhaps, considering my mum has straight ginger hair, and I… don’t. Crucially, though, he said that my real dad really wants to meet me and my sister.

So that’s it, the first move has been made.

Click here to read part two 

———

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Feminine

She spent a long time looking in the mirror, sweeping her hair to different sides, and pulling it back to see how each hair stretched her skin.

She plucked a few to see what follicles look like.

She followed the patterns of the veins on her head, counted the glossy little lumps underneath her eyes, and nipped her ear lobes until it hurt.

She licked her lips to see how long they took to dry.

After a while her breathing clouded the mirror.

When the steam faded, she noticed how deeply embedded the lines in her forehead were.

When it came to getting dressed, she saw her work uniform and realised she’d made no plans for today, her day off. And by now it was nearly one.

It didn’t seem to matter.

She rested her hands on her stomach, and wondered how to tell him.

———

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No more cereal for pudding

Stone stood above it for a while, hypnotised by its mystery – or perhaps by a rather dull lack of coffee. Something must have leaked out of something, and a lake of green matter had nestled in the grooves of the tiles over by the walk-in fridge. He thought that maybe it was soup. Whatever it was was darker than before, and would probably be more difficult to clean. But Stone walked past it. It wasn't his job to deal with it.

Stone knew what his job was, and he wasn’t prepared to give anything more, as he threw his weight onto a trolley, where his equipment was, and pushed. And pushed – the wheels’ resistance echoing around the quiet supermarket stock room.

Two of the wheels turned begrudgingly, while the other two weren’t turning at all, and Stone’s stifled grunts of exertion sounded pathetic, even to him. But now he was hunched over the trolley, he felt he might as well struggle on. If he could just get it through the double doors and out onto the shop floor ahead, it’d be fine.

So he kept pushing, and it kept squeaking. He passed a cling-filmed wooden pallet stacked high with budget kitchen roll, and around it he noticed the pretty girl who worked on the delicatessen. Jennifer. She was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor by the walk-in fridge, where he’d just been stood.

“This green stuff is manky,” she said, climbing to her feet.

She threw a torn cloth towards a bucket, but missed, as steam rose violently from the frothy water inside. Stone liked how a thick strand of her blonde fringe swept across her forehead and tucked around her right ear, which was held down by a straight white hat. He didn’t like how, blotchy, sweating and red-faced, he didn’t look great in any way.

“Oh really, well I don’t know anything about that,” he said, standing over her. “What sort of green was it? Was it soup?”

Jennifer sighed and ran her hands under the tap, then ripped a few hand towels from the plastic dispensary on the wall and dried herself. She looked at Stone.

He looked back at her and recalled how he’d tried to fill his head with thoughts of her in order to dream about her, every night in bed that week. But if he had, he couldn’t remember it. Maybe this was how it began, right here at work. Maybe he’d leaned in and kissed her softly, before unbuttoning her long, thick shirt and… maybe that’s how it went.

Jennifer looked at Stone’s name badge and said: “Is that your real name?”

Stone inspected the plastic plate that was pinned to his lime green shirt.

“Yeah, I guess it is,” he said, his voice breaking as he forced a chuckle.

The conversation was dead, and they both knew it. Although Jennifer smiled at him, the way her eyes narrowed and nostrils flared as she left suggested she was about to laugh. She disappeared through the door and her footsteps fluttered up the stairs. Stone mouthed “I love you” after her, then shut his eyes and felt his heartbeat return to its normal pace. The blood drained from his face.

He knew that if he kept screwing up these fleeting moments they had together, which were once a week at best, then he’d never make any progress with her. If he’d had more time, or was speaking to anyone else – literally anyone else – he was sure he could have come up with a much better response to her question. Already, one had occurred to him.

Squeak-squeak-squeak through the double doors, and then, “woah”, Stone said, blinking a few times as he edged onto the over-lit shop floor.

He’d never got used to this. The humming fridges with their strip lights reflected in mirrors, the beeps and bleeps of distant checkout tills, the gossip of customers getting in each others’ ways, the music – everything felt bad and wrong, as usual. Looking down at his wrist, he saw a milky white line where his watch should have been. Must have taken it off before he had a shower. Left it in the bowl of potpourri on the bathroom windowsill. Probably only another three hours until home time, he reckoned.

Rubbing his eyes, Stone staggered over to the meat fridge, where he began his job of finding products that were close to their expiry date, reducing them by a third of the price, and putting them back on the shelf.
And so he lifted the packets of food no higher than necessary as he checked the dates of sausages, gammon, pate – his trolley squeaking every step of the way. Yoghurt, cheese, butter – creeping along the wall of fridges, inch by inch. Apples, mushrooms, salads – playing a whole album in his head to keep him entertained. Chicken, mince, crabsticks. Pies, pizza, quiche. Soup. Squeak squeak squeak.

“Hello!” said a voice next to Stone.

A boy standing behind Stone was holding one of the packets of mince that Stone had stacked on his trolley.

“How much are these going to be?” said the boy, dressed in what appeared to be a school uniform.

“Why, what are you going to with them?” said Stone. “Do you know how to cook?”

The boy shook his head.

“They’re for my dad,” he said.

“Right,” said Stone.

He tried to ignore the boy, but found it difficult to concentrate on anything else with him just standing there with a hopeful, expectant glare.

“How old are you?” said Stone.

“Seven,” said the boy.

“Well I’m knocking a third off the price, so these are going to be about £1.30,” said Stone very slowly and clearly.

The boy frowned and momentarily drummed a beat on the side of the trolley with his index fingers.

Then he said: “OK,” and turned his back.

“Well, whatever. For you I’ll make it half price,” Stone said. “So £1 a packet.”

The boy smiled like it was his birthday or something.

“Take it or leave it,” said Stone.

“I’ll just go and ask my dad!” said the boy.

The boy skidded down the biscuits aisle, and Stone kept his focus there, hoping to catch a glimpse of the boy’s father. Stone had been living in this town all his life, and hadn’t once seen the boy around. He didn’t sound like a local. After a couple of minutes, Stone assumed they must have paid up and left. He got down on his knees to reach the large tubs of margarine at the back of the bottom shelf.

“What about this stuff?” said the boy.

Stone turned around and saw the boy carrying a swaying column of packets of meat. There were about nine or ten altogether, neatly stacked on top of each other.

“Hey, you’d better put those down or you’ll drop them!” said Stone.

“No I won’t, I’ve got hold of them,” said the boy. “I won the egg-and-spoon race last year, I’m good at balancing things,” he said.

Stone smiled and said: “Oh yeah, where was that?”

“Just at school,” he said.

Stone laughed. “You should get a job here,” he said. “People who can carry things as well as you can are pretty useful here.”

The boy laid the packets of meat on the trolley, just as Stone’s boss walked past them both. His boss was despised by all the young people who worked in the store – and the feeling was probably mutual. This time, he didn’t bother Stone. He barely even acknowledged him as he held his head unusually straight and high, with the confidence of a man who’d read a book on how to look confident. His shiny shoes clip-clopped through the double doors, and beyond.

“Actually, maybe not,” Stone said to the boy. “You don’t want to work here. Promise me you’ll never work here, ever?”

The boy laughed.

“It’s not that bad in here,” said the boy. “It’s warm.”

“It is that bad, believe me,” said Stone.

“And you must get free food!” said the boy.

“Promise me…” said Stone.

“OK, I promise!” said the boy.

“Say: I promise…” said Stone.

“I promise…” said the boy.

“That I will never…” said Stone.

“That I will never…” said the boy.

“Work in a supermarket,” said Stone.

“Work in a supermarket,” said the boy.

“Good,” said Stone.

He looked down over the packets of meat the boy had laid out for him, and shook his head.

“See, I can’t reduce these. They’re nowhere near their expiry date,” said Stone.

The boy sighed, and tried to take the packets back. Stone stopped him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll put them back,” he said. “I tell you what, you find me anything that says the 18th of May on it, and I’ll reduce it by more than half, just for you.”

The boy scampered off as soon as Stone’s sentence had registered. Two minutes later he returned, and dropped some more stuff on Stones trolley.

“It’s all the 18th of May, so it all needs reducing,” said the boy.

Stone was amazed. He hadn’t expected the boy to find anything, because he’d been looking in areas that Stone was already supposed to have checked – clearly not too thoroughly.

“Cheers mate,” said Stone. “Wow, you really would make a good worker here.”

He slapped reduction stickers on the packets the boy had brought him.

“But still, never, ever work here – understand?” said Stone.

The boy nodded, and watched as Stone scanned more packets and printed off more reduction stickers.
“There you go, that’s two-thirds off a joint of gammon. A real bargain, that,” he said.

The boy smiled and held the gammon like a trophy, before he dropped it into the basket he held with his small hands.

“Mikey!” said a man behind them.

A man approached them wearing a flannel shirt. He was quite short, and his long hair looked thin under the bright lights, which beamed off his pale scalp.

“What have I told you about hassling people?” he said, winking at Stone.

“Ah he’s no bother,” said Stone. “He’s actually been a real help finding the all the out-of-date stuff I’d missed!”

The man laughed and ruffled his son’s hair. The man carried a basket of his own, but there was very little inside it.

“He said he’d made it cheaper than it usually is,” said the boy, holding up a strawberry milkshake. “Look at this, dad.”

The man again winked at Stone and ruffled the boy’s hair, but Stone could tell he was quite taken aback as he read the price sticker.

“Good work, Mikey,” he said. “Good work.”

The boy buried his head into his father’s midriff, and his father threw his arms around him.

“You old softie,” said the man.

“The more you can find, the more I’ll knock off,” said Stone.

“For the 18th of May?” said the boy.

“Yes the 18th. And the 19th actually, let’s go crazy,” said Stone.

The boy disappeared one of the aisles and came back with some pork chops, couscous, and three punnets of strawberries. And he wasn’t done. He went back to get more. Coleslaw, quiche. Tomatoes. Even his father got involved. A roast chicken, some peppers. After a while they needed to go back and get a trolley to put all the stuff in. And then the printer ran out of ink, so Stone just started writing the prices on in pen. He was reducing things by as much at 95%. It was ridiculous. But he could tell how much it meant to them.

“No more cereal for pudding,” said the man. “For a while, at least.”

“Actually, forget about the dates,” Stone said. “Just bring me anything you want and I'll reduce it.”

The man and the boy left with two large trolleys of food. Stone expected questions later on that shift from his boss, but he didn't care. He wasn’t earning a living here, anyway – just a disposable income.

Upon realising he hadn’t taken a break for a while, Stone felt in his pocket for cigarettes, and put one between his lips as he walked through the stock room and upstairs. He lit the end just before walking into the smoking room, where Jennifer was sat.

“Hey,” he said.

“You up for your break already?” she said.

She opened the ringpull on her can of Coke and quickly put her mouth around the rim to catch the fizzy brown liquid she hadn’t expected to gush out so much. Stone hadn’t noticed. He stared at the woodchip wallpaper and tried to imagine the man and the boy unloading all those bags of food into whatever car the man drove. He wondered where they were going.

“Hey, I said are you on your break already?” said Jennifer.

Stone stirred. “Sorry. Yeah, I'm done for now,” he said.

“I haven't got much to do, either,” she said.

They both took long draws of their cigarettes and exhaled. Then Stone got up and walked towards the window and looked out over the near-empty car park. The streetlights didn't light up much.

“So anyway, I was thinking,” said Jennifer. “Do you want to get a drink somewhere when you finish? Like, just us two? Somewhere in town? I'm not at college tomorrow.”

Stone saw a couple of shadows next to a car’s open boot, and squinted as he tried to make out who it was. But he couldn't. It was too dark. It didn't look like the man and the boy. A car was waiting at the traffic lights, and he thought maybe that was them. When the lights turned green the car drove away. No more cereal for pudding, he recalled repeatedly, nodding slowly. No more cereal for pudding.

When he returned to his seat, the smoking room was empty. Jennifer’s cigarette withered away from where she’d clumsily stubbed it out, and the leather was still rising on the base of seat that she’d clearly only recently left. Stone noticed a brown puddle on the table where her Coke was, and thought about wiping it away.

———

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Here Comes Honey Boo Boo: Why I Love TV's Trashiest and Happiest Show

Published by Sabotage Times

I’m a 27-year-old man. I like walks in the Cotswolds, oak furniture, and single malt whisky – particularly from the Islay region. My history degree is printed in Latin. I’ve read the complete works of Raymond Carver, and I don’t watch much TV – but by God, I love Here Comes Honey Boo Boo on TLC.

The reality show follows the redneck Thompson family – child beauty pageant contestant Alana “Honey Boo Boo”, stay-at-home Mama June, chalk-mining dad “Sugar Bear”, sisters Lauryn “Pumpkin”, Jessica “Chubbs”, Anna “Chickadee”, and her baby Kaitlyn, who was born with three thumbs.

Mountains of coupon-bought toilet rolls line the dining room walls of their crowded house in out-in-the-sticks McIntyre, Georgia. Freight trains pass loudly through the yard, and there’s an abundance of flesh-chewing gnats in the stuffy air. It’s as grim as life gets in America’s Dirty South – at least outside of the motels and trailer parks – but it doesn’t seem so bad, because their home is probably happier than yours.

The TV is always turned off, and there are no laptops or smart phones – so the kids make their own entertainment. This includes the Mystery Mouth challenge, which involves trying to guess the mixtures of food players are hiding in their gobs, and a farting game called Doorknob.

They cook together all the time. One of Mama June’s recipes is ‘sketti’ – spaghetti noodles topped with criminal heaps of butter and ketchup – and that old Southern favourite, pork and beans. There are mass gatherings, with “Poodle”, the homosexual brother of “Sugar Bear”, and, where budgets allow, family outings. Each moment of every day is enjoyed communally, and nothing fazes any of them – “it is what it is” being Mama June’s words to live by.

Yes it’s so very, very trashy, and yes it’s television, but theirs is a refreshing approach to a life in which they don’t have any more than they need, and there’s very little to worry about. Somehow their anti-American Dream seems more fun than the real thing.

So what can we learn from a bunch of good-for-nothing rednecks, with their high levels of cholesterol and often unintelligible patter? Quite a lot, as it turns out.

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A Barbie Girl, on a Barbie Ship

Published by MSN

Royal Caribbean’s Allure of the Seas takes children’s experiences on cruise ships into unchartered waters, writes Steve Clarkson

There’s a lot about the world’s largest and most innovative cruise ship that knocks you for six. Its 16 passenger decks. Its seven neighbourhoods. Its basketball courts and swimming pools. Its living, breathing Central Park. Royal Caribbean’s Allure of the Seas is so ostentatiously epic, you sometimes find yourself staring at vast expanses of it – hypnotised by its majesty. But for the kids on board, the show is stolen by a pop culture icon. The Barbie Premium Experience was rolled out to Royal Caribbean’s entire fleet in March, joining a repertoire of themed cruise packages – including Star Trek and Harry Potter – that have sailed the seas in recent years. Signing up to this optional extra meant that my six-year-old niece Jessica, girlfriend Molly and I began our week by opening the door of our stateroom to a mountain of Barbie paraphernalia – blanket, handbag, pillowcase, toothbrush, toiletries and, of course, several dolls and a swathe of fashionable outfits.

Would anyone judge me if I take these home to wrap for this year’s Christmas presents? was my first thought – and in the minutes that passed as I unpacked our suitcases, I mentally allocated each complimentary item to various little people in my family. However, Jessica’s fixation on one of the Barbies suggested she had other ideas. Within moments she wanted everything. On our way to the invitation-only Tiaras and Teacups Party, where Jessica and the other Barbies-on-board would be learning table etiquette in the ship’s elegant main dining room, I held Jessica’s Barbie bag while she fiddled with her shoes. A man passing by clocked me and, clearly assuming I was her father, offered a knowing smirk.

I saw him again a few minutes later at the event, where I felt the need to explain myself. “Oh, you don’t have kids of your own?” he responded, helping his five-year-old daughter Eva pour herself some pink lemonade from a dainty china teapot. “That’s too bad, this place is perfect for them.” Seeing Eva, Jessica and the other girls forge some early friendships while being served a selection of French pastries went some way to illustrating his point.

The fact that cruises dedicated to children exist at all might surprise parents who have never holidayed in this manner – but even seasoned veterans will be blown away by Allure’s impressive catalogue of events available for kids.

It’s not just about Barbie, either. For little ones too old, too young, or too indifferent to plastic dolls, there’s a host of excitement on offer at Adventure Ocean – a fully staffed state-of-the-art activity and education programme for children of all ages. For six-month to three-year-olds, there are brand new toys. For three to five-year-olds, puppet shows. Six to eight-year-olds can enjoy hanging out with DreamWorks characters like Princess Fiona and King Julian, while nine to 11-year-olds might find themselves occupied with talent contests and the latest video games.

Adventure Ocean is more than just a child drop-off facility – it’s tailored to whatever interests your young ones could possibly have. Children are also given an enriching opportunity to make friends with others their age from potentially 50 different countries – indeed, one of the most wonderful things I’ve ever seen was Jessica and her Canadian friend Lizzy successfully teaching a Chinese girl a clapping game while reciting the nursery rhyme Miss Susie, with no adult intervention needed.

And often, as we discovered, kids having fun prefer it if adults don’t intervene at all. Open from breakfast ‘til the early hours, Adventure Ocean gives them a break from their parents, and parents a break from them, at almost any time of day or night.

Even with temperatures in the high thirties, children don’t really do sunbathing. So, as Jessica was involved in rehearsals for a play called Pirates, I lay baking in the Caribbean heat – wetting and turning the pages of my holiday book, not with my own saliva or perspiration, but with the condensation from the outside of a slender glass of a crushed-ice cocktail I bought from the poolside bar. Simultaneously, Molly was having a facial at the excellent spa facilities. Everyone was a winner that afternoon.

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Bench Sitters

A mother and her child
Sit silent, side by side.
Gazing in unison
at sky then at stars.
Two candles on a beach
Suspicious of strangers
Human traffic, passers by
Memories shared of memories had
Mostly awful, mostly sad.
I pass them one day in every seven
I'm shot a glare, that comes with their territory.
What if someone were to sit next to them?
The boy, aged thirty, decides to go home.
He shuts the door softly behind him.
I wish I could be like them
At times.