any source. They remind me of myself; they wake me up. I'd go to bed with a priest if I fancied him enough; I think I would. But then again, I've never really seen a good-looking priest. Except for Richard Chamberlain in The Thorn Birds. I'm as well off with my hand and my imagination. Mind you, when you've seen what my hand does all day — wiping, scouring, cleaning other people's bins and toilets — my imagination has its work cut out.
I still think of Charlo.
I miss him.
I want him to come back.
Facts, Paula.
I get up at eight o'clock every morning. I used to sleep it out a lot; sometimes I couldn't get up. But not any more. I made the decision. I make the effort. I get up when the alarm goes. It's a little victory; I'm in charge of myself. I get up. I dress and wash before I go downstairs; I rub the cold out of myself. I shout in to the kids on my way down. I go in and tickle Jack. He has the boys' room to himself now. He looks so small in it. I make the breakfast. There's not much making in cornflakes but I do it, put the bowls on the table, spoons beside each bowl; I want to. I could never get any of them to eat porridge. My father believed in porridge. He believed it could do good things for you.
—Culchie food, said John Paul.
I wonder what he has for his breakfast these days.
Stop.
Leanne has tea. Jack has milk. I only got him to stop using the bottle last year. He'd started school; it was embarrassing. It took him ages to admit that it tastes just as nice out of a Winnie the Pooh mug. I did tests with him; it was like an ad. Now try Brand X.
—I want a bockle.
—It's a bottle.
—Yeah; I want it.
—Try this one.
—No.
—A little drop.
—No.
—A little sip just.
—No.
For fuck sake.
I have coffee, a two-spoon cup. Nicola has already gone to work when I get up. She's a pot-of-tea-before-I-say-boo-to-you woman. There's always a pile of warm teabags in the sink when I come down, like what a horse would leave behind.
So there's just me and Leanne and Jack in the mornings, except on Sundays when Nicola doesn't work. I like it. I like giving out to them, rushing them and pushing them. Come on, come on, chop chop. Making sure they have their lunches, checking they've all the right books in their bags. I'm on the case. It's a happy time. We're not poor first thing in the morning. They like it. They know I like it. I pretend I'm annoyed; they know I'm pretending. Sometimes I'm not and they know mat too. Come on come on hurry hurry. Busy busy. Busy busy. They love it when I fly around the house saying that. Busy busy. Busy busy. Then they're gone. Leanne brings Jack. She brings him up to the door of the school and shoves him in. She waits to see that he's found his classroom, then she goes on to her own door around the corner. I followed them a few times, just to check. It was lovely. I followed them because there was supposed to be a child snatcher on the loose, a woman with stolen hospital records going up to houses and trying to take the children away. I heard it on the radio. It's big business, baby snatching, especially in America. It's a sick world.
I have half an hour or so to myself — another cup of coffee and a think — then I'm off. Four days a week I have cleaning jobs, houses. On top of the office cleaning later on in the day. I don't do anything on Tuesdays and I don't like them much. I should clean my own house, I suppose, but I couldn't be bothered. We usually clean the house together when there's so much dust that it has no room to settle. It's nearly a tradition now, a game. Leanne loves it. She wrote in a story for school that one of her hobbies was cleaning. God knows what the teacher thought when she read it. I sit around on Tuesdays, listen to Gaybo — Gerry Ryan's too much of a smart-arse for me. Sometimes I go down to Carmel for a chat, before I go to pick up Jack. Carmel's not too bad in the mornings; she only puts her fangs in after dark. I like the morning cleaning.
I still think of Charlo.
I miss him.
I want him to come back.
Facts, Paula.
I get up at eight o'clock every morning. I used to sleep it out a lot; sometimes I couldn't get up. But not any more. I made the decision. I make the effort. I get up when the alarm goes. It's a little victory; I'm in charge of myself. I get up. I dress and wash before I go downstairs; I rub the cold out of myself. I shout in to the kids on my way down. I go in and tickle Jack. He has the boys' room to himself now. He looks so small in it. I make the breakfast. There's not much making in cornflakes but I do it, put the bowls on the table, spoons beside each bowl; I want to. I could never get any of them to eat porridge. My father believed in porridge. He believed it could do good things for you.
—Culchie food, said John Paul.
I wonder what he has for his breakfast these days.
Stop.
Leanne has tea. Jack has milk. I only got him to stop using the bottle last year. He'd started school; it was embarrassing. It took him ages to admit that it tastes just as nice out of a Winnie the Pooh mug. I did tests with him; it was like an ad. Now try Brand X.
—I want a bockle.
—It's a bottle.
—Yeah; I want it.
—Try this one.
—No.
—A little drop.
—No.
—A little sip just.
—No.
For fuck sake.
I have coffee, a two-spoon cup. Nicola has already gone to work when I get up. She's a pot-of-tea-before-I-say-boo-to-you woman. There's always a pile of warm teabags in the sink when I come down, like what a horse would leave behind.
So there's just me and Leanne and Jack in the mornings, except on Sundays when Nicola doesn't work. I like it. I like giving out to them, rushing them and pushing them. Come on, come on, chop chop. Making sure they have their lunches, checking they've all the right books in their bags. I'm on the case. It's a happy time. We're not poor first thing in the morning. They like it. They know I like it. I pretend I'm annoyed; they know I'm pretending. Sometimes I'm not and they know mat too. Come on come on hurry hurry. Busy busy. Busy busy. They love it when I fly around the house saying that. Busy busy. Busy busy. Then they're gone. Leanne brings Jack. She brings him up to the door of the school and shoves him in. She waits to see that he's found his classroom, then she goes on to her own door around the corner. I followed them a few times, just to check. It was lovely. I followed them because there was supposed to be a child snatcher on the loose, a woman with stolen hospital records going up to houses and trying to take the children away. I heard it on the radio. It's big business, baby snatching, especially in America. It's a sick world.
I have half an hour or so to myself — another cup of coffee and a think — then I'm off. Four days a week I have cleaning jobs, houses. On top of the office cleaning later on in the day. I don't do anything on Tuesdays and I don't like them much. I should clean my own house, I suppose, but I couldn't be bothered. We usually clean the house together when there's so much dust that it has no room to settle. It's nearly a tradition now, a game. Leanne loves it. She wrote in a story for school that one of her hobbies was cleaning. God knows what the teacher thought when she read it. I sit around on Tuesdays, listen to Gaybo — Gerry Ryan's too much of a smart-arse for me. Sometimes I go down to Carmel for a chat, before I go to pick up Jack. Carmel's not too bad in the mornings; she only puts her fangs in after dark. I like the morning cleaning.
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