Playing Out by Paul Magrs (books for 5 year olds to read themselves txt) 📕

your own front room, that you were camping out on some adventurous holiday somewhere.

Once, when we had my second husband, we did go on an adventurous holiday, to a caravan in Robin Hood’s Bay, and we took twenty-four Pot Noodles with us, one each for each of the nights, trying every flavour. The front of the caravan was all windows and at teatime we’d leave the canvas blinds open to watch the sun set behind the cliffs and some nights we’d be eating Chinese, or Indian, or Mexican.

We never had pizzas until 1986. It seems like forever. Suddenly the local free papers had adverts for deliveries. You’d wait an hour after phoning on the spur of the moment. Then some lad would arrive on his bike, carrying the boxes up to your door, grinning in his leather rider’s gear with his helmet on top of your boxes. Golden rounds of flabby garlic bread, cans of pop and lettuce leaves in tin-foil dishes. A treat we routinely surprised ourselves with every Friday night, coinciding with Dynasty.

For a while everyone was in padded shoulders, we all had clumpy jewellery, and the men rolled up the sleeves on their shiny suit jackets.

The eighties were the twins’ teens, my forties, and between us we managed to shovel on the weight. My husband then sold second-hand cars and by God, he was a big feller. I’ll tell you about this some other time, but it was on that holiday to Robin Hood’s Bay that we lost him. Swimming in the bay he went bobbing out away into the North Sea, never came back. It was terrifying and horrible, but somehow peaceful, too, to watch him, just like floating away. Like a whale put back out of captivity. That was about the time we all started going green. So we never finished our holiday properly—our first since 1976 (That gorgeous summer! I remember Lake Ullswater rimmed with cracked, parched mud, us eating breakfast, boiled eggs dipped in salt in the heat)—and we never finished all our Pot Noodles off. Had to bring them back with us. They’re still in a cupboard somewhere.

These days the twins both cook and, as I say, we’re all green now, aren’t we? Healthy eating is the watchword round here and they’re trying to convince me, but it seems a faff-on to me. I couldn’t come in from work to clart on with garlicky things and what have you—salads. I’m too old to change all of my dog’s tricks. I piled on the pounds in the eighties and I reckon they’re here to stay for the nineties. Mind, the twins have shed their puppy fat. They did when they were about nineteen. They try not to, but I catch them sometimes, turning up their noses when I bake big cakes or rustle up a nice fry-up for tea. They’ll neither of them eat baked potatoes or cheese on toast or crisps or Mars bars at midnight any more.

So it’s a surprise tonight when I start to think about what to cook for tea and I go through on my way to the loo and, in the dining room, I see that it’s all been taken care of.

Behind me, in the kitchen, I hear Andrew snigger softly. Pleased with himself at my gasp of surprise.

He’s put on a lovely spread. He must have spent the whole day baking.

And I forgot! It had clear gone out of my head.

Tonight’s the night of me soiree.

Andrew hasn’t forgotten and he comes into the dining room to see me staring at his handiwork. He puts his arms around me and gives me a big hug, saying, ‘The water’s on, so you can have a bath and get yourself ready. I’ll bring you a gin and tonic. You’ve an hour or two yet before your guests arrive.’

My guests! How could I have forgotten?

Tonight’s the night I play lady of the mansion.

And our Andrew has done us proud.

What really snags me breath and makes me think, Ah, bless his heart, is that he’s done everything like I used to do it for their birthday parties when they were small. Cupcakes in pink and brown icing, chocolate fingers, bread buns in half with red salmon forked neatly on, and some with my own special blend of tomato and egg, mashed together to a delicate rose colour. And half grapefruits, stuck all over with cocktail sticks—four bristle on plates all around the centrepiece—and on each stick there’s pickles and pineapple and frankfurter bits, cubes of cheddar. The centrepiece is a Victoria sponge, oozing a livid mix of strawberry jam and cream. Its top is soft with sprinkled icing sugar.

And nowhere to be seen—not even on the sideboard where he’s set out the cans of lager, the bottles, bowls of nuts and crisps and three fresh, shiny ashtrays—nowhere is there any of their healthy foods. There’s nothing here that me or any of me friends and neighbours won’t know how to eat or what to call.

I’m sitting in me bath with a gin and a cocktail stick of nibbles. Pink foam riding up over me nipples and I’m easing away all the aches and pains. I’ve got Tamla Motown playing out all around me. Our Joanne’s a whizz with owt electrical and we’ve got four stereo speakers in the top corners of the room. At the time she put them in, standing on a chair with a screwdriver, I kept fretting because I thought it might be dangerous with all the steam. Like we’d all be getting shocks in the bath. But as it is, it’s safe and bloody marvellous. I love to lie there, soaking in me bubble oil with Marvin and Tammi. The world is just a great big onion.

I’ve got a range of different bubble oils. Christmas presents last year, Boots’ Natural Selection, from Andrew. Little bottles inside a wickerwork hippo. Tonight I’m in Fruits of the Forest and it’s lovely.

I need to relax tonight. Have I mentioned yet