Bloomin' Marvellous

It's quite a lonely life being a single mum to two ratbags like the Axis. Except, of course, when they go to their dad's for a couple of days. Then it's a veritable social whirlwind with parties, drink, chattering and general shouting and jumping about. I was recovering from just one such weekend this morning when I popped the telly on for the Pie as the Kong was in bed.


'Oooh Mum! Mr Bloom's on!' shouts the Pie, wickedly. I blush involuntarily. Mr Bloom is a CBeebies character who has an allotment, is obsessed with the correct composition of compost and grows cabbages. He dresses like the Wurzels, is in dire need of a decent haircut, probably is partial to a couple of pints of scrumpy and has a very dubious accent anchored somewhere in the north west corner of England. Men like this tend to make my heart flip when they near. Needless to say, I have a sizeable crush on TV's Mr Bloom. The Pie seems to have picked up on this as he is grinning in a most unseemly manner. 'Muuuuum?'
'Yes, Pie?'
'Is Mr Bloom your favourite?' Dammit.
'Sort of, Pie.'
'Whyyyyy?'

Why? Well, Pie, where do I start? Could it be that his kindly yet confident manner is a sure vote-winner with all but the most hardened of women? Or that his unintentional grubbiness signals a childlike disrespect for artifice that can only invoke a response of 'aaaahhhh, bless'?

The Pie is still looking at me expectantly. I steel myself.
'Well, Pie, Mr Bloom ALWAYS tells the truth. And he doesn't pretend. And...you know where you are with him. '
Pie opens his mouth, stops, frowns, looks puzzled, then speaks. 'Are we in Heaven with him, Mummy?' Clearly, Sunday School has sunk through more than I thought. I pretend not to hear.

The subject of honesty raises its head, somewhat inevitably, all week. Pie tells a little white lie and I come down on him like a ton of bricks. I hate lies. Or, at least, I say I do. Pie doesn't understand why his lie about hitting Kong was worse than him actually hitting Kong. I can't explain it. Instead, I flip out, tell him off, then go in the kitchen and burst into tears. What is going on?

I look at the kitchen calendar. It's 10 (count 'em) years since my mum died next weekend. I wish I could go to sleep and wake up on July 1st, so I miss the rest of June, which is always hell. I ring my aunt in America. She says how much she misses her little sister. I hang up feeling even lonelier than before. How she'd love to have me over, she says. I don't really believe her. It's a safe thing to say, is that, when you're talking to someone 5,000 miles and a similar number of dollars away. I look at pictures from 10 years ago and contemplate ringing my old boss, or possibly some of the friends I had then, but it wouldn't make any sense, and it's something I've got to deal with alone.

I approach the Pie, sitting on the naughty step, and instead of the usual reproaches I grab him and clutch him tight. This, I think, frightens him more than any scolding ever could. He starts to protest. 'But Mum, I DO love Leo, I just...Mum?' I am weeping now, trying to hide my sobs but clinging to my darling boy, my firstborn, bringer of chaos and Lego and chocolate handprints on newly painted walls. His brother, the bemused completer, blinks belligerently at us over the safety gate and shouts our names, unintelligibly to all other observers, but all too audibly to us. Pie puts a hand up to my head and strokes my hair, softly saying 'Mum! Mum, it's ok. Did you lose your rhino? Shall I look for your rhino?' I grab him harder, breathe deep and say 'yes, son. Yes, I did. But I think she's upstairs, now. Don't worry.'