A darts’ match on a Monday night in October.
The George versus the Naggers.
It’s Monday night -my night – and Jerry’s sitting in front of the fire toasting his toe while I’m running around like a blue-arsed fly. I’m clearing up, I’m washing up, sorting Laura’s clothes for the morning. I say, ‘It wouldn’t hurt you to help.’
Jerry says, shifting himself into a more comfortable position, ‘I’ve been out in the bloody rain all day.’
You know it’s darts.’
‘It’s always darts for you, Katy.’
‘Oh, yeah? So who cooks the meals? Who cleans the house? Who looks after…?’
Then I can’t be bothered to go on and he’s not listening anyway.
My lovely daughter Laura, soon to be sixteen, belt for a skirt, lolling in the armchair, rolls her eyes to the ceiling. ‘If you two are going to start, I’m off to my room.’ She flounces out, looking like me but talking like him.
I say, ‘Look what you’ve done.’
He says, ‘Look what you’ve done.’
He draws out the ‘you’ve in a taking the piss, condescending, ‘of course it’s your fault’ intonation.’
I just want to spit at him but I light up a fag instead, ‘cos that really gets his goat since he gave up smoking.
‘Not in here, Katy,’ he snaps at me.
And because he’s going bald and is really concious of it, I say, ‘Ok, keep your hair on,’ and he says, ‘Hah bloody hah.’