Oh, the life of a published author is glamorous indeed, but I bet J.K. Rowling wasn't down on her knees scrubbing her kitchen floor this morning, as I was.

My girls are at school and there's cleaning to be done. I don't have a daily help, a weekly scrubber, or even a monthy mucker-outer, mainly because all the people I know who do have one are always telling me how rubbish they are and that you can't tell when they've been, apart from the fact that you are about thirty quid lighter and can't find your glasses.

My house is not a show home; it's very old and has a sizable collection of spiders, and, try as I might, I cannot keep it immaculate all of the time. I read an article this weekend about women who live in immaculately ordered homes. These women are obsessed with keeping their houses pristine and uncluttered, but when I looked at the photos it was hard to determine who, if anybody live there. They looked sterile and cold, and their houses weren't that welcoming either. I imagine that such women go at their husband's tackle with a quick squirt of Dettox and a J-cloth before sex, think of Mr. Sheen during, and long for the hot sterility of a 60 degree wash afterwards. I worry about such women. None of my friends are like that; we all live in clean houses, but occasionally there are crumbs by the bread board or smears on the taps, which at least give some indication that somebody lives there. You don't live in an immaculate home, you are a slave to it. Bugger that for a game of soldiers, life's too short to obsess about curtain pleats and cushion plumpness. I've cleaned my kitchen floor, but there are still things to be tidied and clothes to be ironed, and because I'm a slattern and not a saint, I'm going to ignore those things and concentrate on writing.

Something strange is happening to me. I don't know if it's my age, or mental weakness brought on by the hot weather, but I'm starting to do things I've never done before. Last week I made a birthday cake for Alice. Yes, I know I said that life's too short to bake birthday cakes, but when your darling girl asks, how on earth do you refuse? I've always given my girls a choice, but have always tried to favour the delights of a shop-bought chocolate hedgehog cake over one of my rather less exciting offerings. It always worked in the past, but Alice is older now; she knows what she wants; and what she wants is a cake that is homemade. We made the cake together, we had fun and it was easy. Afterwards, I worked out that I could have saved myself a tidy £200 if I'd made a cake for every birthday, instead of resorting to Tesco. How stupid am I? Pretty stupid, but then Nigella, the goddess of cakes, and architect of the foolproof Victoria sponge recipe that we used, can't be all that bright if she thought presenting a live daytime chat show was a good career move. Take my advice, Nige, and stick to what you know.

Not content with baking cakes, I found myself being volunteered for the school sports day. I never volunteer for anything unless it's to help out a friend, and try to keep away from the sports day until the tedious non-competitive team sports are nearly over. Nobody wins, so what's the point? Who the hell do you cheer, whom do you console? Nobody learns to lose, and nobody feels the pure chest-bursting exhilaration of breaking the tape. It's as cold and joyless as salmon in aspic. But this year we got real running races, which is what school sports day is all about. Children were, at last, able to compete, and they loved it.

I found myself being told that I would be helping out in the team competitions, which was news to me. It was roasting hot, and I was all ready for a crafty snooze in the garden, but I had no time for that because I was expected to help out at the 'bouncing the ball in the net' event. I chose to wear a straw cowboy hat, because it was by far the shadiest piece of headwear in my possession and perfectly suited such a hot afternoon. It was a risky move, as I'm probably five years too old to carry off a cowboy hat, but I put it on and sashayed up to the field with all the attitude I could muster. I did get some odd looks, but I think everybody secretly envied me my dappled shade. I kept cool, despite having to be nice to all the children. It's hard to tell a mouthy schoolboy to put a sock in it when his parents are standing right behind you. I confess that as a rule, I don't much like other people's children, which is why I'd never make a very good classroom assistant. I did my duty on the sports field though, and stayed to watch Alice and Rosie compete in their races.

Of course I envied all the mothers their supportive husbands, hot and tired after a day in the office, standing uncomfortably in suit trousers and shirtsleeves, but determined not to miss the momentous moment when their progeny run gleefully down the track and launch themselves across the line. Of course my girls watch enviously as other children are taken up in strong, sinewy arms and hugged until all the puff has left them. We all miss Charlie, and I know nothing would have made him prouder than to see his long-legged baby girl getting second place in the skipping race, or his graceful Rosie running the apple bobbing stall. But wishing and longing are ultimately as fruitless as bobbing with your mouth shut, and we have to make the best of our life as a fatherless threesome. I stopped longing years ago, and now I am content. Life is what you make it, and I am determined to make ours happy. If my girls can't have a daddy, they can have a capable, loving, protective mother. If they cannot have the strength of a father, they can have the support of a mother who will fight for them like a tigress if need be. Our race is not yet run, but we have made it over many hurdles. And when I look to the sidelines, I feel the presence of the man who made me what I am, and who made our darling girls. He is standing in shirtsleeves, chest swelling with pride - my trophy husband; the man who makes every race worthwhile, who makes every battle worth fighting.

So when you see me standing alone on the school field, don't feel sorry for me, because in surviving Charlie's loss, I've already won the hardest race of all.


© Kate Boydell 2004. All rights reserved. e-mail: [email protected]. Close window.