TOM JACKSON
My fortnight off work was down to Nicola,
my wife, falling quite worryingly ill. She’s on
the mend now, mercifully, but enough about
her, what about me?
With Nicola hors de combat, I had to step
up and take on the 90 per cent of household
chores usually handled by her. Or take on some
of them anyway; the rest got picked up by Sam
or Rachel. Or simply went undone. We’re
talking shopping, cooking, laundry, cleaning.
That’s in addition to the cats, bins and
dishwasher, which I already mostly do.
When Sam doesn’t, that is. I’ve also ferried
considerable supplies of Lucozade, tea, tissues
and hot water bottles to and from Nicola’s
sick bed. Sometimes at midnight and again
at 7am! While in between sleeping fitfully on
the sofa, which was exciting to begin with in
a slumming it kind of way but became swiftly
onerous, a bit like camping.
What’s more, what has made the past
three weeks truly exhausting is that Nicola’s
ill health and subsequent slow convalescence
coincided with the most stressful fortnight of
the whole year, namely the one that begins
with my daughter’s birthday and ends with
my son’s, with my wife’s birthday and Mother’s
Day in between.
That fortnight keeps our local florist
in business, I reckon. Like perfumiers and
chocolatiers who make their whole year’s
profits in the run-up to Christmas, early spring
is party time for retailers in south Hackney.
Sightings become commonplace of a sunken-
eyed panicked gentleman brandishing a debit
card while agreeing in a hoarse voice to buy
anything suggested. That’s despite the sourcing,
buying and wrapping of kids’ presents, sorting
cakes, candles, parties, drinks or meals out
(and often to my shame even her own gifts
from me) having always fallen to Nicola.
That changed this year. Although if I’m
honest, not by much. Nicola chose her own
birthday present as usual, a picture. What
shifted was I went with her to pick it up.
I also bought Rachel a hat, but since that
was a month before her actual anniversary
it isn’t strictly accurate to call it a birthday
present. And I tried and failed to buy Sam
a novelty chocolate swizzler but they’ve
been discontinued because of Covid.
Restaurant bookings were made by Rachel;
cakes were made by Sam. It feels like I made
a way bigger contribution than usual this
party season but on reflection, sifting over
the specifics, I, er, didn’t.No, hold on: when I couldn’t get the
swizzler, I bought Sam some almonds
“enrobed” in chocolate instead. And wrapped
them. And I bought him some daffs from M&S
without Nicola having to ask me.
And, with considerable assistance from
my female colleagues (who recommended the
jeweller) and Rachel (who oversaw the online
purchase), I also came through with a pendant
for Mother’s Day. Plus, I handled the flowers.
Then again, I usually do, being pretty solid
on flowers. Which is to say I know Nicola
doesn’t much care for tulips or roses, preferring
the less showy daisies and forget-me-nots.
“I want a bouquet that’ll still be alive on
Sunday,” I told the florist on the Friday before
Mother’s Day.
“How much were you thinking of spending?”
“Twenty quid?”
“They start at 30.”
“Thirty quid then,” I replied, arching my
eyebrow in what I hoped she’d recognise as
the mark of a devil-may-care big spender.
There is also a tradition of my making
a card for family members on special
occasions. These cards, fashioned out of
Rachel’s stationery supplies and my collection
of brightly coloured electrical tape, are by
custom and practice charmingly amateurish.
Or crap, would be another word. The children
like them though. Or they say they do.
As for taking on an increased burden of
wider duties, again I feel as though I have,
mostly because I’m uncommonly tired, but
once more, the substance eludes me. The
problem is that Nicola usually does so much,
and I usually do so little, that even a small
increase in domestic labour feels like a lot to
me. Yet when I analyse what extra I’ve actually
done, it doesn’t amount to a great deal.
Although I shouldn’t be too hard on
myself. I’ve got off the bus one stop earlier
more often than usual after work so as to nip
into Sainsbury’s Local. Where I’ve bought a
shepherd’s pie (for many days all Nicola was
able to eat, along with porridge and yoghurt),
then taken that pie home and put it in the
oven. Also, I’ve manfully shouldered the
responsibility of transferring the ironing
basket from the airing cupboard to the
kitchen on a Wednesday night, thus enabling
Svitlana to crack on with my shirts early
doors on a Thursday.
So that’s progress, isn’t it? n[email protected]‘My wife has been
quite worryingly
ill. But enough
about her, what
about me?’
Beta male
Robert Crampton
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