‘What have I got?’ Jacob asks eagerly. ‘We are allowed chocolate as a treat because it’s a special day.’
‘I had to work with what I had available,’ I say, only imagining his disappointment later when he discovers some carrot batons, last night’s prawn crackers and three cold cocktail sausages.
I turn out of our street and head into the centre of the leafy, tree-lined suburb where we live. Roebury Village is full of big Victorian houses and has a tram stop twenty minutes from the centre of Manchester. Thanks to the botanical gardens and pretty shops, it’s always been considered a nice place; when I was growing up, it was where the kids at my school lived if their parents were lecturers, lawyers or, as in the case of one of my classmates, their dad had had a one-hit wonder in the mid-seventies which had led to a brief flirtation with fame and a lifetime of royalties. It’s a few miles from where I grew up, which was in a significantly less posh but nonetheless pleasant neighbourhood with a betting shop on the corner of our street, as opposed to the artisan bakery I’ve managed to acquire these days.
I switch on the Radio 4 headlines as they’re discussing an item about a national shortage of HRT following the ‘Davina effect’. Which is great news when I’ve only just started taking it to combat my own headaches, palpitations, raging PMS and the odd bout of insomnia. I am never sure whether this is caused by my time of life or simply the fact that there really needs to be two of me to run a career alongside our family. But I decided that if there was a tube of gel I could rub onto my arms to lessenanyof these problems, I was all in.
‘Jacob, I forgot to say. I’ve got some good news about the club you wanted to join. I heard from the coach last night.’
Jacob has made a hobby out of collecting hobbies. You name it, he’s tried it over the years – football, drumming, Scouts, climbing. I told him after he’d signed up for fencing classes last year that that was it – no more.
But he has been banging on about wanting to join a baseball team for so long now that I promised to at least look into it. Unfortunately, there aren’t that many baseball teams in the UK and it’s been nigh on impossible to get him even onto a waiting list. But it’s been worth the effort for seeing how much his little face lights up now.
‘Did you get me a place?’ he says, so delighted that I can’t help feeling a bit pleased with myself.
‘I did. You’re now a proud junior member of the Manchester Baseball Club.’
His expression falls.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I don’t want to join that.’
‘I’m sorry . . . what?’ I say, failing to keep the exasperation out of my voice. ‘Youcannotjust keep chopping and changing like this. How many clubs have you joined over the years? Have you got any idea how hard it was for me to get you into this thing? There’re hardly any baseball teams in the UK.’
He blinks, looking a bit shellshocked. ‘I know but—’
‘Butwhat?It’s not on, Jacob. Enough is enough.’
He slinks down into his seat dejected and mutters something under his breath.
‘What was that?’ I snap.
‘It was basketball I wanted,’ he whispers. ‘Not baseball.’
Leo lets out a long, derisory snort. ‘Nice one, Mum,’ he says.
Chapter 3
I finally dispatch the kids to their respective schools then catch the tram to Salford Quays. I’m waiting at the station as a notification appears on my phone informing me that I haven’t logged my breakfast yet – the one I haven’t had time to eat – followed by another one pointing out that I have 14 incomplete tasks on my personal list and a full day of meetings ahead of me. A final ping arrives from Asana Rebel, inviting me to take a relaxing meditation. There isn’t an option that says, ‘Are you taking the piss?’, so I swipe it away and get on.
I have a phone full of apps like this. They each represent a crucial ball in the great juggling act that is my life, even if there are times when they feel more bossy than helpful. I’m not complaining about how things are, by the way – the fact that I seem to spend my life organising not merely myself but everyone around me.
This is my modus operandi; it’s how I’ve always been. Former school milk monitor. Brownies Sixer. Head girl at secondary school. I did well academically not because I’m some genius, but because I had asystem.Every piece of revision was neatly filed and colour-coded, so that by the time I came to my exams, it would have been harder to fail than not. But even I have limits. And these days I have so much ‘on’ that I occasionally feel less like a well-oiled machine than a wonky shopping trolley whose wheels are threatening to come off.
I step off the tram into one of those bright, cool mornings, the kind where shards of thin sunlight bounce off the waterfront.Media City might be a couple of decades old and now home to more than a few of the BBC’s and ITV’s flagship programmes. But it still feels young and buzzy, an energy that’s in keeping with its industrious history. The site sprawls alongside the Manchester Ship Canal and is surrounded by docks that had been operating for centuries. It was through here that the city was once supplied with tea, fruit and oil, raw cotton, grain and timber. But there are no ships now.
Instead, the old stone walls are surrounded a complex of office and residential blocks, purpose-built TV studios and state-of-the-art production centres. In the midst of all this is the UK headquarters of MotionMax+, where I work as Factual Entertainment Commissioner.
It’s my role to find new, unscripted programmes about everything from DIY to dating, alongside fly-on-the-wall documentaries and ‘social experiments’ likeThe One, which was our twist on the ‘hot people on a desert island’show (every channel must have one – it’s the law). Five years ago, this division had a portfolio of nine shows a year. Now, it’s twenty-four. All of this means my job is constantly expanding, which on the one hand means I’m vastly overworked, but on the other is great because, at its heart, I love what I do.
I glance at my watch and peep through the window of Liberica coffee shop, where three baristas are behind the counter, with not much of a queue. Deciding I need a caffeine kick before my first meeting, I step inside and get a notification on my Drinkaware app asking me if I’ll commit to a wine-free day. I click on the tick and stand in line as a text arrives from my boss Andrea.
Did you manage to arrange a meeting with Rose’s replacement?
I bristle at the description. ‘Replacement’ sounds permanent and this is only going to be for a few months.
Yes, I’m seeing hertemporary stand-inthis morning.
