And on We Go

I’ve been utterly exhausted this week, a real come-down after the gig. Charlie has been asking me about the business venture and I feel awful that I haven’t looked over it properly. I don’t ever seem to get the time.

Tonight was baking night, and not just baking but ‘baking like a pro’. These people are demons, so competitive with their cupcakes. I can’t understand when baking became an Olympic event. It was something we did with our mums to pass the time on a Sunday; it wasn’t a source of conflict. If your cake didn’t rise, it got covered in custard and became a trifle – simple.

The teacher is talking about glycerine and I seem to be the only one confused.

‘Isn’t that what you make explosives with?’ I whisper to Zoe. ‘This is getting a bit serious.’

‘That’s nitro-glycerine, Mum.’ She doesn’t take her eyes from the tutor.

As we whisk our Victoria sponge mixtures, I spot the pupils eyeing each other up trying to work out who will be the worst, and needless to say, it’s me. My cake comes out as flat and hard as a Frisbee and although I’m tempted to skim it across the class to lighten the mood, they force me to ice it.

When we get home, I open the back door and throw it out, declaring, ‘Here you go birds, an evening treat.’

I throw it at the bird table expecting it to shatter into spongy pieces; instead, the weight of it knocks the whole table over and even the fattest pigeons scarper in fear.

‘You’ll be better at the crumbles,’ Zoe reassures me through a mouthful of her own feather-light creation.

My heart sinks like the centre of my cakes at the thought of going again.

It’s late when Patty rings with the great news that we have another gig. This is followed by Zoe confirming that she has the application form for the competition. I murmur meekly at both and wonder how on earth I’m going to extricate myself without hurting anyone’s feelings?

It’s raining, a spring shower heavy enough to force a day indoors. It doesn’t seem to matter how many years pass, this type of weather always takes me right back to being twelve years old. Watching the drops race down my bedroom window, making mental bets as to which raindrop would win; the chill that falls both because of the weather and the end of the weekend. School lay ahead and there’d be no more playing out today.

There was always a Western on TV, or it seemed that way. I flick through the TV channels now and find one amongst the plethora of murder mysteries and paranormal dramas. Nowadays if you’re not investigating the dead, you’re romancing the undead.

For the first time this week, I don’t have to be anywhere or do anything: no singing and no baking. I’m glad; this is good thinking weather. I curl up on the sofa and surround myself with everything I’m likely to need for the next few hours: a throw, hot chocolate, a notebook and pen.

It’s so good to have this moment after the rollercoaster of last week. Can it really all have happened in such a short space of time? It seems like someone else’s life.

I read through the business plan we’ve written. To achieve this would mean giving up everything, all the other distractions, as I can’t do another week as exhausting as this. I’d have to say no to Patty and spend less time with Zoe. I may be letting them both down badly, but on the other hand, I could let myself down even more if I don’t.

Rather simplistically, I decide to make a list of pros and cons; I don’t get far and wake up two hours later from the deepest sleep in weeks. I’m lying in the exact same position and my notebook and pen are still in hand; I’ve written nothing but I know who I need to speak to.

When I call Mum, she asks why I’m not consulting my ‘life-coach-thingy’.

‘I’m impressed you’ve heard of them,’ I answer.

‘Of course I have. I’ve been to the self-harm section of the bookstore too,’ she tuts.

‘I think you mean self-help, Mum.’

‘Whatever you say; it’s still my advice you want.’

I have to meet her in a department store café as Monday is ‘free coffee for pensioners’ day and as she likes to say, ‘If they’re giving it away, who am I to say no?’

We don’t talk until she’s comfortably seated, able to watch all of the regulars and comment upon their consumption.

‘See her over there? Been ordered to lose two stone and yet still gets a cream cake every Monday, someone should tell her doctor.’

I glance at the lady in question; the place is full of seventy-year-olds getting their free cuppa.

‘And he lost his wife last year, poor soul.’ She waves and he waves back. ‘Nice man.’

She takes a sip of coffee and then sits back in her chair, like an oracle on her throne.

‘So what’s wrong, sweetheart?’

This year spills out – it’s been great, I’ve done so many new things and met lots of new people. Now, Patty wants me to sing with her, Zoe wants me to become chef of the year, Charlie wants me to go into business and I seem to be saying yes to all of them. I’ve tried on so many hats this year and now I’m not sure which one I want to wear.

‘You sound like Mr Ben,’ she laughs. ‘Remember him? Used to go into the changing rooms and come out as something different every week. I quite fancied doing that.’

It wasn’t quite the sympathetic advice I was looking for from my mother but she has a point.

‘And even Alan came to the gig. I’m not sure if that means he might want to come back?’ I add.

‘I bloody well hope not, after all he’s inflicted on my girls.’

She pushes her cup and cream scone to one side then fixes a look.

‘It seems like he’s going through one of them man-o-pause things. Needs to realise his mistake by himself, not have you trying to work out what he wants. Forget him,’ she says.

‘And if you’re thinking that Patty will disown you for not singing, you’re wrong. There’ll be more room on the stage for her if you get off; she’ll thank you in the end. And as for being less of a mother for not going to cookery classes, think again; that ship sailed a long time ago.’

‘Gee thanks,’ I reply.

She takes a sip of coffee and wipes her mouth; mine is still ajar from all the tough love just dispensed. She has a remarkable insight into my entourage.

‘All I’m saying is that these things are what other people want to do, and good for them. Having you there alongside them makes it less scary for them but at the end of the day it’s their dream not yours. Now tell me about Charlie.’

I tell her all about the travel club and Charlie’s offer. I’m surprised how excited I am when describing it and how I’m sure it could work.

‘So what’s stopping you?’ asks Mum.

When I think about this question, the answer is very simple: after so many years of being in a couple and having someone to make decisions with, I just want someone to tell me I should do it. I need permission.

‘Tell me to go for it, Mum,’ I say.

‘As long as there are some cheap deals for pensioners.’ She goes back to her scone and gives half to me. ‘I don’t dish out this advice for free you know.’

I’m definitely not drowning any more.