Saturday, 1 July

Hannah and Charlie’s wedding. Hurrah! The day came at last! Even though I had been excluded from the planning, to the point where Hannah threatened to take my phone and delete my Pinterest account if I made one more suggestion about how old wellies made an unusual and stylish receptacle for a flower arrangement, I was still extraordinarily excited.

I had planned my outfit with care and precision. In fact, I had had it hanging in the cupboard for weeks, a glorious confection of floral silk, with a fabulous hat. I had suggested white gloves might be an adorable finishing touch, but Simon had brusquely informed me that I was not the Queen.

I had purchased a suit for Peter, and Jane had eventually found a dress that satisfied both her style credentials and mine – i.e. it was mildly slutty, but did not actually scream ‘jailbait’. We had had lengthy arguments about how much make-up she was allowed to wear to the wedding, and I had finally given up the unequal struggle and agreed that Sophie could sleep over the night before and they could do each other’s make-up, so that at least Jane wouldn’t look like the only one doing an impression of the Joker.

All in all, I had been exceptionally organised, and so was not best pleased when at 9 a.m. this morning Simon took his ‘wedding suit’ out of the wardrobe and looked at it sadly.

‘I don’t think I can wear this,’ he announced. ‘I hadn’t realised how dated it was, because we haven’t been to a wedding in ages. I’ll have to go and buy a new one.’

‘What? No! You can’t, we are leaving at 12.30 p.m. Wear one of your work suits.’

‘I can’t do that,’ said Simon indignantly. ‘I don’t want to look like I’ve just come from the office. No, I’ll just pop into town and pick up a suit, and I’ll be back before you know it.’

‘Simon, NO, I forbid this! Wear something else. Why the fuck have you waited till today? I was going to have a bath. I was going to get ready in a relaxed and chilled-out way. I was going to have time to put on different colours of eyeshadow because you’re supposed to be here helping with the kids, not buggering off to buy a suit. It’s Sara’s day off, because we’re going to this wedding. She’s going for a picnic with her friends from the language school. (Sara is bliss. She has not yet made the hoped-for pizzas, but she is much less inclined towards discotheques – or rather discotecas – than the errant Juliette.)

‘Chill out!’ said Simon (nothing makes me more stressed than being told to chill out). ‘I’ll take the kids with me.’

‘What? Into shops? You do know there are three of them?’

‘Yes, darling, it’ll be fine! I can cope, you know. What’s the worst that can happen?’

‘Famous last words …’ I muttered darkly.

In the event, Jane and Sophie refused to go with Simon, insisting that they too needed all morning to get ready. As Jane and Sophie together tend to entertain each other, especially if Peter is removed from the equation (since the departure of the civilising if corrupting influence of Juliette he has taken to farting on people for comic value again), the girls staying with me while Peter went with Simon seemed a reasonable plan.

I issued Simon with instructions for Peter, including not letting Peter talk him into buying energy drinks as Bad Things Happen, or Haribos, or an excess of Greggs’ sausage rolls (Peter views a Greggs counter as a challenge), and Simon reminded me that he was perfectly capable of dealing with his son for a morning AND buying a suit.

Off they went, and I suggested brightly to Jane and Sophie that we could have a nice girly morning, doing facepacks and hair and make-up. The girls were unenthusiastic, and announced they would prefer to do their own thing, so I took myself off for a bath, anxiously checking the time as there was no sign of Simon.

Finally, at 12 p.m. I got a cheery call from him on his mobile.

‘So, it turns out the suit needs to be altered! Won’t be long, you go on ahead and I’ll just see you there.’

‘YOU BASTARD! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?’

‘Calm down, it’ll be fine.’

‘What about Peter, he still needs to get changed and his suit is here.’

‘He doesn’t want to wear the suit. He says he told you that. We’ve bought a shirt and some trousers for him – hopefully you can just return the suit.’

‘But he would look adorable in the suit.’

‘He says it’s scratchy and he feels stupid in it.’

‘FFS! Don’t be late. And DON’T let him have energy drinks.’

The suit was lovely. Peter was a vision in it. What did Simon and Peter know about fashion?

I finally shooed Jane and Sophie, doing passable impressions of mini-Lolitas, into the car and drove to the wedding, muttering darkly all the while. I couldn’t believe I had let a man who didn’t even see why Peter should wear a suit to a wedding talk me out of white gloves with my dress.

‘Mummy, you shouldn’t say you’re going to chop Daddy’s cock off!’ remonstrated Jane.

‘Yes, Ellen, he can get that done in a hospital if he doesn’t want any more babies!’ piped up Sophie. Dear God, I really must have a word with the school about their sex ed programme!

We arrived, I parked, then hustled the fiends inside to sit down. It did look lovely actually. Mrs P wafted through (wearing white gloves!) and said, ‘Hello, Ellen, darling! Isn’t it gorgeous? Hannah has done a wonderful job, though I can’t help but think some quirky little touches might have been nice. I suggested wellies full of flowers on the end of each aisle, but she was quite shirty about that, and she was downright rude about my lovely Moroccan-inspired coffee-tin lanterns. Marjorie will be so disappointed. She’s been pouring gallons of coffee down the old folks so that I had enough, they’re all gasping for a cup of tea. And look! Haven’t the children grown. Although … what has happened to Jane’s face? And her friend’s?’

‘Apparently, it’s called contouring,’ I sighed.

‘Oh! I don’t think Elizabeth Arden did that in my day. Do you want a gin, darling, the bar’s not supposed to be open, but I’m the mother of the bride, so I can sneak you one if you want?’

As there was still no sign of Simon and the wedding was about to start imminently, I agreed that a bijou gin would be very nice.

Shortly afterwards Mrs P surreptitiously handed me a glass and sidled off, announcing that she might just pop a few coffee-tin lanterns along the aisle before Hannah made her entrance.

I felt calmer once I had downed my gin, although there was still no sign of Simon. I sat down with Sam, who looked aghast at the girls’ faces.

‘I know! I know!’ I said. ‘What can I say? That’s the thing with girls and make-up. They have to make their own mistakes. Why else would Heather Shimmer lipstick have sold so well in the nineties?’

Sam looked unconvinced and whispered, ‘Where’s Simon? Is everything OK? You haven’t had another row, have you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘We’re pretty good, except the bastard went to buy a fucking suit THIS MORNING and is coming straight here from getting it altered.’

‘Who buys a suit on the morning of a wedding?’

‘I KNOW! Also, he has bought Peter new clothes for the wedding instead of the lovely suit I had for him.’

‘In fairness, Ellen darling, Peter has been moaning about that suit since you bought it. You’ve just been ignoring him. Toby wouldn’t be seen dead in a suit either!’ Sam gestured to his son, who was looking rather stylish in a shirt and chinos.

Just as I was starting to get very twitchy and was about to send a furious text to Simon, he finally sauntered in, looking, it has to be said, rather good in the new suit (as he bloody well should after all that). I had been very worried about what sort of outfit he would have deemed suitable for Peter, but he was clad in a similar shirt and trousers to Toby and was rather dapper, if with a slightly maniacal look in his eye, which suggested that Simon had not heeded my frequent warnings about the dangers of energy drinks and Peter.

‘I told you I’d be in plenty of time, darling,’ smirked Simon. ‘You always worry too much. You need to learn to let go and trust me!’

Whether he was right or not, I was loath to admit it, but Simon was spared my reply anyway because the music started and Hannah came in. Hannah was glowing – far more stunning than on her first wedding day, though her eyes narrowed when she saw Mrs P’s coffee-tin lanterns dotted up the aisle.

The ceremony was beautiful, and Charlie and Hannah were literally the most in-love people I have ever seen. There was a brief hold-up when it was time for me to do my reading and I realised sitting in the middle of a row had been a bad idea. I had to clamber over Simon, Peter, Jane and Sophie to get out, but I managed not to say ‘Fuck’ while doing so.

Afterwards, there was champagne and photos and a small row between Hannah and Mrs P about the lanterns, and also the fact Mrs P had sneaked her gin-bottle candelabras onto the tables, but mostly it was all divine.

Later there was dancing. I waltzed dreamily round the floor with Simon. ‘We danced to this at our wedding …’ I whispered romantically.

‘Did we?’ said Simon in surprise.

‘Simon!’

‘Of course I remember!’ he said.

‘Do you really remember, or are you just pretending to remember because you’re hoping to get lucky tonight?’ I asked suspiciously.

‘What do you think?’ said Simon, twinkling at me wickedly.

‘I think that you are very annoying.’

‘But that’s why you love me, darling!’

‘You’re lucky that I do.’

‘I am. And you’re lucky that I love you!’

‘I suppose so.’ I admitted grudgingly.

In the end, I suppose that’s what a marriage comes down to – finding the one special person you want to annoy and be annoyed by for the rest of your life.

Thursday, 20 July

It was Jane’s ‘graduation’ day from primary school today.

Simon, without being nagged, reminded, threatened or shouted at, had booked the day off to come with me to it. Both Simon and Jane regarded me with some anxiety on this morning.

‘Daddy, you won’t let her make a complete scene and cry everywhere, will you?’ pleaded Jane.

‘Why would I do that?’ I protested. ‘I didn’t cry when you started school, why on earth would I cry now?’

‘Apparently all the mums cry at it, but that’s no reason for Mummy to cry. I don’t want her to embarrass me, just because all the other mums are being silly!’ insisted Jane.

‘Jane, if Mummy cries it is only because she loves you,’ said Sara kindly (I bet Juliette wouldn’t have been so diplomatic).

Jane made an unattractive noise in response to Sara.

‘Of course she will cry!’ snorted Peter. ‘Mummy cries at everything. She can’t even read or watch Charlotte’s Web because she gets into such a state. She is sooooo going to embarrass you today.’

‘Peter, enough!’ I snapped. ‘This is Jane’s big day. Please don’t wind her up.’

‘It’ll be your turn soon enough, Bumface! Then we’ll see how funny you think Mummy’s crying is.’ Jane spat at Peter, before beseeching Simon to make sure I behaved myself.

Sara had requested to come with us, and we all met Sam outside, who said, ‘Don’t worry, Ellen, I’ve got plenty of tissues for you,’ before we went in and took our seats, at the back, obviously, for we know our place, and Perfect Lucy Atkinson’s Mummy and Fiona Montague had been camping outside the door since May to ensure they and their husbands got front-row seats. They were huffing and puffing with outrage that they had been told to put their giant cameras away, as the school would be issuing an official photograph of each child. Sleazy Julian was particularly incensed by this, spluttering that he was a professional photographer, and as such should be exempted from the ban, while the headmistress firmly told him to go and sit down. I have a horrible feeling Julian probably rather enjoyed the headmistress ticking him off.

The graduation was lovely. The children all looked so grown up going up to shake the headmistress’s hand and get another certificate. (So many certificates – I have literally dozens of certificates from the school, they are very keen on certificates, and I’m never sure which ones I’m supposed to keep and which can be binned, and I’ve always been afraid to ask anyone in case they judge me. I’m pretty sure we are meant to keep this one, though.)

Although the rational part of my mind knew it had been seven extremely long years of arguments about the right way to do long division, of inane reading books and competitive ‘projects’ involving building Viking longships and Roman forts, I found myself quite overcome with emotion as I sobbed hopelessly into a very inadequate tissue, while Sam pressed a large, clean ManSize tissue on me, because it really didn’t seem like any time at all since all those big girls and boys up there on the stage had been tiny little tots in too-big blazers on their first day of school, looking far too small and vulnerable to possibly be old enough to go to Big School.

And now, just as I’m finally getting to grips with primary school, Jane is done with it, finished, and off to Proper Big School in a few weeks, where they will probably look tiny and small and vulnerable in their too-big blazers all over again, as they face all the challenges of secondary school. How will Jane cope? How will I cope?

I wish someone had told me when my children were babies that none of those things I spent so much time worrying about – the right purees, the right educational toys, the right sleeping bag and night light and blankets, too much tummy time, not enough tummy time, overstimulation, understimulation – that none of that really matters. All you can do is your best, and love them and hope they turn out all right. I may have sobbed this snottily into Simon’s shoulder as he hissed at me to get a grip on myself, and Jane glared in horror from the stage. I also wished I’d had the foresight to wear waterproof mascara, like Fiona Montague and Perfect Lucy Atkinson’s Mummy had.

Jane was unimpressed with me afterwards. ‘I told you not to cry!’ she said indignantly.

‘But darling, all the mummies cried!’ I protested. ‘And Sara cried too!’ (though Sara’s crying was considerably prettier and less snotty than mine – she just sniffed something about ‘Bella bambina’ while I howled).

‘If all the mummies jumped off a cliff, would you jump off too?’ said Jane loftily, and annoyingly, for that is my usual argument to all her insistences that EVERYONE else is doing/getting/allowed something. ‘Exactly. And your mascara has run! Honestly, Mummy, if you didn’t cry when I started school, why are you crying now?’

‘I don’t know. It’s the end of an era, I suppose. The start of a new chapter.’

‘OMG, you are sooooooo embarrassing. Can we get fish and chips for tea?’

‘Yes.’

‘And can I get an Instagram account to celebrate me being grown-up and my new chapter?’

‘No.’

‘You’re so unfair!’

‘I know.’

‘I hate you!’

‘I know.’

‘You’re ruining my life!’

‘I’m your mother, that’s my job.’

‘Can we get ice cream too?’

‘Oh, all right.’