Dad, or ‘that slimy conniving maggot’ as she affectionately referred to him. I knew she only got upset because she missed him so much. I did, too. He’d get in touch soon, I knew he would.
“Is there anything for tea, Mum?”
“No, the housekeeping’s run out again,” she replied, opening a packet of Benson & Hedges. “I’ve no idea where it all goes. You’ll have to get yourself some chips or something.”
I only had time to make myself a marmalade sandwich, as I had to get to a planning meeting for the SADS - Shodsworth Amateur Dramatic Society. Tonight, we would be discussing our next production, which was Grease. I was very keen to secure the role of Danny Zuko, or at the very least, Kenickie. In last year’s Oklahoma! I’d just missed out on the part of Curly McLain, as at the time of the audition I had a horrid cold sore that kept splitting. I’d had to perform the song ‘Oklahoma’ without moving my lips too much. I overheard the director say that I’d be perfect for the role if Curly had just had a stroke. I am currently cold sore free and my adenoids have reduced significantly; surely it’s my turn for a major part? I truly believe I was born to perform on the stage; after all, I am named after two of the greatest singers of all time.
When I left for the meeting, Mum was still sitting at the kitchen table, staring into space. She was listening to The Smiths now. It must be so difficult being a woman, and having to agonise over outfits like that. I set off on my bike, humming ‘Girlfriend in a Coma’.
Cost of living
Last night’s meeting went amazingly well – Tom the director said I could audition for the part of Danny Zuko! I’ll have to perform a ‘Greased Lightning’ solo, then a ‘Summer Nights’ duet with a prospective Sandy. Myra has the best singing voice in the group, so she was bound to get the role of Sandy; that was a no-brainer. I asked her who she’d like to play Danny opposite her and she replied, “Ooh, that Frankie Trevino’s really fit, you can tell he works out all the time and he’s got a brilliant voice … oh, er, I mean you of course, Foggy.” We agreed to practice together; I will have to perform at my absolute best to be heard over her mighty bass-baritone range.
I carefully wrote out the lyrics for both songs and kept them on my desk, covered by a Perypils newsletter. I peeked at them during the longer calls, trying to commit them to memory. One call went on for an eternity this morning - it was an elderly gentleman, who had called to ask us to stop addressing letters to his “diseased” wife. I kept asking what was wrong with her, but he just got more and more upset. He hung up in the end. Our senior customers did get very confused sometimes. On the plus side, I managed to perfect two whole verses of Greased Lightning during the call!
Jess saw my lyrics when she pinched my newsletter to roll her cigarette on. She read them out loud whilst her customer was on hold. They are quite complicated; I mean “Palomino dashboard and duel muffler twins” doesn’t trip off the tongue very easily, but I’m sure with lots of practise it will be fine. Jess said, “You should pull a sickie Foggy, so you can rehearse properly.”
“Oh, I don’t want to get into trouble; you can lose your job if you’re off sick too often. Look what happened to poor Wiggy.”
“Yes, but he died before they could sack him, didn’t he? So he had the last laugh. Anyway, you’re allowed to have a sickness rate of 5%, you know – you’re entitled to it.”
I tried to calculate my attendance rate whilst changing a customer’s address for them. They weren’t very grateful, complaining bitterly just because I asked them to repeat it a few times. Jess worked the rate out for me in the end - she reckoned I could take one more day as sickness and still be within my entitlement. Brilliant! I texted Myra to see if she wanted to rehearse with me tomorrow and she texted back to say she would, straight after Jeremy Kyle.
I didn’t see much of Lucy today, as she and George were in the meeting room together, discussing the team’s quality figures. There was a lot of chatting going on while they were away until one of the other team managers, Cynthia, came over. Everyone slipped their phones and magazines away. Cynthia scares me; her eyes are very close together and she sort of slides up the office as if she’s on casters, looking at everyone through her all-seeing eyes.
Jess hissed, “Don’t look at her directly, Foggy. You’ll get hypnotised and she’ll interfere with you while you’re under.”
I kept my head down and tucked my mobile out of sight, behind my wheelie bin desk tidy.
I received an email from Cathy asking me to vote on whether I agreed with Lucy being George’s deputy. She said in the email that the team had not been consulted and nobody else had been given the opportunity to apply. There were three voting buttons: Fair, Not Fair and Couldn’t Give A Shit. Cathy said that she was going to re-arrange the team meeting for Friday so we could discuss the results. I saw Jess vote ‘Not Fair’, which surprised me, as she’s a good friend of Lucy’s.
I was able to give the decision plenty of thought because, very fortunately, I didn’t need to listen to what my customer was saying. He’d launched into a lengthy explanation about why he’d come to have so much cash in the house when he’d been burgled, but only the Claims team needed to know that sort of information. I tried to vote ‘Fair’ but for some reason, the voting button didn’t work, so I just mouthed ‘Fair’ at Cathy when she looked over at me. I didn’t see her write it down but I assumed she would after she’d finished reading the BBC News.
When I realised my customer had stopped speaking, I said, “Thank you, Mr Lewis. Just bear with me and I’ll transfer you to our claims department.”
“Hang on! Don’t tell me I’ve got to say that all over again?”
“Yes, that’s right, Mr Lewis. Just tell them what you told me.”
Short silence. “You’re a total brick.”
How nice! It makes the job worthwhile when someone appreciates your efforts.
I had to walk almost the whole way home as my chain came off again and I couldn’t get it back on. My bike really needed a service and I was trying my best to save up for it. Money-wise, I take home £801.92 a month and after I’ve paid Mum the housekeeping and covered the loan payment for the solar panels (I agreed I should pay for them because my bedroom is in the loft, so I get the most benefit), I have £37 a week to spend on myself. So I am quite lucky, really.
When I finally made it home, I found Mum in floods of tears in the kitchen, clutching a piece of paper. “The bastards have got us this time, Morto!” she sobbed as she brandished the paper at me. “Our council tax has doubled – just like that! And me, without a job! How can they do this to us, don’t we pay enough in taxes? They’re bloodsuckers! What on earth are we going to do?”
I was dumbfounded. “Do you actually pay council tax then, Mum? I thought you claimed housing benefit - are you sure they’ve got it right?”
“Of course I’m sure!” Mum was too upset to show me their letter, and shredded it into tiny pieces in her distress. I made her a cup of tea, patted her hand and told her there was nothing else for it - I would just have to up my housekeeping money again. She wailed, “But you need your own life, son! You and Myra should have a place of your own, you should be thinking about raising a family, I don’t want to be an old Granny; I mean, I’m going to be forty-three next month, for Christ’s sake.”
I knew there was no chance of her becoming a grandmother anytime soon. On the occasions Myra drank enough cider to insist I have sex with her, she would always make me wear two condoms. Then she would complain that I took too long and usually fall asleep ages before I’d finished. When I told my mate Barry this, he’d roared with laughter, exclaiming, “Jesus Christ, Fogster! I bet your inner tube has got more feeling in it!”
I gave Mum the £29 I had in my wallet to help towards the additional council tax. I wouldn’t be able to bid for that real faux leather vintage retro biker jacket I’d seen on eBay now, which was a shame - it would have been perfect for the Danny Zuko audition. My forest green jumper had a bit of leather on it, on the e
lbows, so that would have to do. At least Mum had stopped crying now and even cheered up enough to put the oven on for crispy pancakes - chicken curry flavour. Yay! Life is good again!
Sickness entitlement
I was back at work on Monday following a disastrous few days. I took my sickness allowance day on Wednesday, phoning in to tell George I had an upset stomach. Then, in the early hours of Thursday morning, I woke up feeling very queasy and stumbled to the bathroom. Oh my goodness - all hell let loose. I was firing out of both ends. I couldn’t reach the sink while sat on the loo, so I had to retch into the toilet brush holder. I spent the rest of the night crawling backwards and forwards to the bathroom and I was completely drained by morning. The weekend was a horrid blur of nausea and nervous farting.
I still felt as weak as a kitten but I had to come into work because I was so worried that I’d gone over my 5% sickness allowance. Jess worked it out for me again and said, “Oops, you’re at 7% now.” Oh no! “Don’t worry,” she continued, “George doesn’t always bother to work out the percentage, and when he does, he usually gets it wrong.”
I watched George anxiously, but he had his head down - he must be really busy today. Lucy wasn’t in, so that was probably why.