Mad About the Boy (Bridget Jones 3)

‘You did.’

‘Mabel, I saw you hit Billy with Saliva,’ I joined in.

Mabel stared at me under lowered brows, then burst out, ‘He hit me wid a . . . wid a HAMMER.’

‘I didn’t,’ wailed Billy. ‘We haven’t got a hammer.’

‘We have!’ I said indignantly.

Both started spontaneous crying again.

‘We don’t hit,’ I said despairingly. ‘We don’t hit. I’m going to count to . . . to. . . It’s not OK to hit.’

Ugh. Ridiculous expression: ‘Not OK’, suggesting am too idle or passive-aggressive to locate or use word categorizing what hitting actually is (very bad, effing annoying, etc.), so, instead, hitting has to make do with mere exclusion from vague generalization of things which ‘are OK’.

Mabel, regardless of hitting’s OKness or otherwise, grabbed a fork from the table, jabbed Billy, and then ran off and hid behind the curtain. ‘Mabel, that’s a One,’ I said. ‘Give me the fork.’

‘Yes, master,’ she said, throwing down the fork and running to the drawer to get another one.

‘Mabel!’ I said. ‘The next thing I’m going to say is . . . is . . . TWO!’

I froze, thinking, ‘What am I going to do when I get to Three?’

‘Come on! Let’s go up to the Heath,’ I said in a jolly way, deciding it wasn’t the moment to hit the hitting issue head on.

‘Nooooo! I want to do Wizard101.’

‘Not goin’ in de car! Want to watch SpongeBob.’

Was suddenly wildly indignant that own children’s values were so entirely off-key, due to American cartoons, computer games and general consumer culture. Had flashback to own childhood, and urge to inspire and teach them with song from the Girl Guides.

‘There are white tents upon the hillside / And the flag is flying freeeee!’ I sang.

‘Mummy,’ said Billy, with Mark-style sternness.

‘There are white tents upon the hillside / And that’s where I long to beeee . . .’ I warbled. ‘Pack your kit, girls! / Feeling fit, girls! / For a life of health and joy!’

‘Thtoppit,’ said Mabel.

‘For it’s off to camp again / In a lorry not a train.’

‘Mummy, stop!’ said Billy.

‘Camp ahoy!’ I finished with a rousing flourish. ‘Camp ahoy!’

Looked down to see them staring at me nervously, as if I was a zombie from Plants versus Zombies.

‘Can I go on the computer?’ said Billy.

Calmly, deliberately, I opened the fridge, reaching for the enormous stash of chocolate-from-Granny on the top shelf.

‘Chocolate buttons!’ I said, dancing about with the buttons in an attempt to mimic a fairy-themed party entertainer. ‘Follow the trail of buttons to see where it leads! Two trails,’ I added, to ward off conflict, laying a careful line of exactly matching chocolate buttons up the stairs and towards the front door, ignoring the fact that tradesmen may previously have trailed dog-poo traces into the carpet.

The two of them obediently trotted up the stairs after me, stuffing the no-doubt-dog-poo-smeared buttons into their mouths.

On the way in the car, I thought about what I should do about the hitting. Clearly, according to French Children Don’t Throw Food, it should be outside the cadre (but then so should putting chocolate buttons in a trail out of the house) and according to One, Two, Three . . . Better, Easier Parenting there should simply be a scorched-earth, zero-tolerance, three-strikes-and-you’re-out Donald Rumsfeld kind of policy.

‘M