Tomorrow's Chip Paper

The journalist from the St Helens Reporter phoned today to gather more information. The call came at 9:10am and in true maternity leave lolling about stylee, my synapses had not yet fired up for the day. Presumably I was on speaker phone for the benefit of the reporters at the New York Times and the guys over at the Sydney Bugle, so I decided it might be a good idea to get my most posh voice out. They all waited patiently while I rooted it out of my pencil case, gargled salt water and warmed it with a few arpeggios; these journos are clearly well versed in satisfying the demands of a celebrity. Bugger.
Note to self: next time demand a bag of only red Jelly Tots in exchange for my precious time. 

Halfway through perfectly annunciating the answer to my first question, I suddenly realised that the actual words I was saying were totally rubbish. Yes, I was pumping out diction the Queen herself couldn't match, but with my brain still somewhere under our duvet, I chunnered on just saying ANY words, and sod's bloody law, they were the all the crapest words you can image. Like "nice". And "egg". And "haem-agglutination".
But in the spirit of my life long battle against any form of silence, I ploughed on valiantly. Foaming at the mouth with verbal diarrhoea (a tasty image for you), I continued to tread water, desperately searching for inspiration in every next word that left my lips. I reached out and ripped frantically at the lawnmower chord that hangs handily from my ear, in the hope of encouraging some news worthy utterances from my flapping trap. It took a few tugs, but suddenly the old noggin engaged. I was away. Charismatic, accessible and charming, yet still managing to retain an air of being better than anyone else, I rattled through my responses exactly as Max Clifford would have planned.

The reporter then arranged a time for the photographer to come and take pictures. Due at that dental witching hour of 2.30pm, it was now 9:20am.
And...mental torment...COMMENCE.

What should Betty wear? What's my best side? Why won't she smile to order? How tidy does the house need to be? What can I do about the massive spot on my chin? Why don't my hands match? Is it really necessary to take a photograph containing my head?



People are going to SEE these pictures. People who haven't seen me for a long time. People I went out with or went to school with or was babysat by. It will be read by people who I have most probably upset at some point, because, as a child, I'd say anything to show off and get a laugh.
Thank God I grew out of that.

With my insecurities hurtling full steam ahead to 'You Are An Embarrassment To Yourself And Every Unfortunate Soul Around You Junction', the morning became a blur of messing about with quick fix schemes to improve the general appearance of myself, of our as yet unwashed daughter and of our house.
Melting my fingers on broken straighteners while mopping the laminate floor and trying to stick a bow in Betty's no hair (to be sure she is not confused for a boy), I was at breaking point. And oh yeah - plucking your moustache with 'heated' tweezers does not, I repeat not, ease the pain of their extraction, no matter what Take A Break tells you. It just makes you BURN YOUR FACE.
It was only as I hit the Internet to Google 'How to lose a stone in 2hrs 27 minutes', that I paused for a breath.
And it was then that I had the epiphany.

No one cares. NO ONE CARES!
NO. ONE. C.A.R.E.S!!!!!

Every single set of eyes that scan that article, whether they know me or not, will only do so while chatting on the phone as they look for an opportunity to doodle. They'll give me an eye patch and colour my teeth in black and then move on to see if there's a kids Raleigh bike for under £20 in 'Miscellaneous Sales'.
They won't notice my freshly tweezed nostrils, the little bit of wax too far down Betty's right ear for me to dig out, or the fact that in profile I bear more than a passing resemblance to Stop It, from 'Stop It and Tidy Up'.
(Which I always found weird, as Terry Wogan narrates my life as well - small world.)

Me and and some irritatingly laid-back 80's oaf.

So the photographer arrived. We smiled and pretended that that I am always caked in make up and Betty is the sort of kid that is capable of wearing white for any period of time. When she sneezed and little bit of sick shot out of her nose I think he sensed a hole in our pretension. And when I bent down to lift her from the floor and  farted, he definitely smelled a rat.
Or hot pot depending on his proximity to the guff.

So it is done. We are famous and our article will, tomorrow, be flying off a news stand near YOU, provided you live in St Helens or the surrounding local area. And I have calmed myself in the knowledge that NO ONE CARES.
Only me, the Poop, Dave and Gary Wilmot (who is stressed beyond belief at having to welcome my noxious bum to the seat immediately beside him in the W-list celebrity row).