THE BUTLER DID IT

I’m coming up for eighteen weeks, and guess what? Still sick. And as C Day approaches, despite being attended by the most gorgeous of creatures, namely Nigella, Jamie and Delia, I still can’t muster up the enthusiasm to properly plan the food. I have gritted my teeth and gone round the supermarkets gathering together taleggio cheese, anchovies, pears, pancetta and tons more ingredients that I don’t seem to have in my cupboards. Although having a quick trawl to see what I did have, revealed five jars, no less, of capers and four jars of Bovril, all in different cupboards. But I still can’t face actually putting it all together. Every morning I dutifully lie still for the allotted half hour before moving, I clean my teeth with care, and move so carefully around the house that you’d think I was practicing for a deportment prize. But no matter what, within the hour, I have to turn and rush to the loo. So predicable is it that I have taken to applying my makeup after I’ve done the deed, to save on the Alice Cooper impressions.

So, enough of the vomit report. My tummy is growing and the kids have finally noticed. Olly was very matter of fact about it and told me that it was probably a baby in there. When I asked Bill if she knew why my tummy was getting bigger she told me it was because it was full of beans; on the money as usual there then. But despite bearing the outward resemblance to a mother (albeit a future one) I have to take this opportunity to inform you of a change of job title; in fact Steve has changed his job too. Steve is now Butler to Prince Olly and Princess Billie and I am Lady In Waiting to the aforementioned royals. There seems no point to fruitlessly pursue the notion that we are professional people or parents, we are servants and unpaid at that. For instance, once ensconced on the sofa, there is no possibility that either of them would get up and come and ask for anything, they just yell for it. Bottle! Biscuit! Juice! Turn the TV over! Billie will even yell for you to come in and get you to adjust her blue blanket if it isn’t laid over her just right with the label exactly in the middle.

Of course my school-of-hard-knocks mates chastise me. Making a rod? Listen, I went to the forest, found the tree, cut it down and fashioned the bloody thing with a blunt knife. But Steve is just as bad. There’s just good cop and “why don’t I go to prison for you?” cop. And so, it’s in and out of the lounge fifteen times an hour, up and down the stairs all night long, Coming Round the Mountain over and over and OVER on the CD in the car. It’s allowing Billie to dress herself despite the fact that putting on her vest alone takes three hours or letting Olly mix the milk into the porridge so that I have bits of oats stuck in my hair for weeks after. Still it’s worth all the sacrifice when they look at you with love in their eyes and tell you thank you for looking after them, except they never say that. Just Bottle! Juice! Blanket!

As Butler and Lady In Waiting it fell to Steve and I to prepare for Princess Billie’s Birthday. Part of which involved making the Barbie Cake. You have to bake a cake in a dome shape mould which, when turned out, provides you with a ball gown shape which you then have to cover with icing and insert the doll into the centre. All went very well until the preparations took on a Silence of the Lambs twist. I’m to blame. I’d bought a doll especially supplied for the purpose, but decided that she just wasn’t Barbie enough: I wanted the real thing. The problem is, you see, that the cake is a little shorter than a real Barbie’s legs, so when she is inserted in the centre of it, she stands a little proud, revealing herself in all her full Brazilian glory if you get my drift. So the only way to properly fit the Blonde Bombshell into the cake is to…remove her legs. (The cake shop doll is legless, by the way, which removes the problem.)

Well I tried, I really did, and I still maintain the nausea is due to the pregnancy, but the more I strained to yank her legs off, the worse I felt. For a start Barbie’s legs have definitely been rendered Older Brother-proof, as no matter how many extraordinary positions I contorted her into, the legs simply sprang back into place (I remember those days, long gone now). Then I decided to saw her legs off. It was like slicing through butter until you reach some sort of tendon - ugh. I couldn’t bear it. So I turned to the Butler. Steve, adopting the look of a man used to putting frail creatures out of their misery, duly took Barbie and went upstairs. I wish I had covered my ears. The crack as he broke her legs off was ghastly. He came downstairs visibly shaken. We exchanged a look that only those complicit in dark crimes share. This was our secret. Steeling myself I proceeded with the cake; she looked beautiful and pink and sparkly by the end, much to the delight of Her Royal Highness.

The party, of which I will speak later, was a triumph, marred only slightly by HRH appearing at the top of stairs at the end of the day, with a Poirot Pout on her rosebud lips, holding two legs in her hands and sniffing back tears. I took one look at her and rang for the Butler.

Quote of the Week:

My friend Azeem and his sister in their much younger days:

“Mummy we want chocolate!”
Mummy: “What’s the magic word?”
Azeem and Sister: “Now!”

Juliet Jones lives in domestic chaos with husband Steve, son Oliver (aged 4) and daughter Billie (aged 3) in Hertfordshire.

NEXT INSTALMENT: MONDAY 23 DECEMBER 2002

Read Juliet's previous diary