Текст книги "Personally, I Blame my Fairy Godmother"

Автор книги: Carroll Claudia

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 21 страниц) [доступный отрывок для чтения: 9 страниц]

‘Are you joking?’ she nearly guffaws into my face. ‘You have to go to the local health centre to apply for it from the HSE. Oh yeah, and you have to be sure to tell them you’re actively seeking employment or else you won’t get a bean. And you have to say it like you mean it. You’ve no idea what a shower of suspicious bastards they can be.’

‘But how am I supposed to actively seek employment when no TV show for miles will touch me with a bargepole? Even my agent says there’s nothing for me at all until…well…until what happened blows over. Can’t I just explain to them that I’m like…a unique case?’

‘Well excuse me, your majesty. For feck’s sake, Jessie, just look around you. Everyone here is a “unique case”. Now build a bridge and get over yourself. And would you ever take off the sunglasses? Only Goodfellas wear sunglasses indoors.’

‘The point I’m trying to make,’ I argue back at her, reluctantly taking off the glasses and shoving them into my bag, ‘is I’m an un-hireable TV presenter. Which has to make me a special case.’

‘Listen to you, Little Miss Oh Don’t You Know Who I Am. Everyone here is in the exact same boat as you, except none of them got fired for being greedy and grabbing free cars in front of half the country. Now shut up and sign on.’

It’s at this point that I’m about to give up, run outside and open a vein, but lo and behold, miracle of miracles, my turn finally comes. The dole woman is brisk and business-like as she hands me out a UB90 form to fill out, completely uninterested in who I am or what my ‘special’ circumstances are. When she sees the name on my passport, it’s the first time she actually makes eye contact with me, with a tiny flicker of interest in her eyes.

‘You’re Jessie Woods? Oh yes, well, under question fourteen of the Jobseeker’s Benefit Form, where it asks why your previous employment ended, just put that your employment was suddenly terminated.’

Living in total isolation from the world at large as I am now, I’m inclined to forget that the dogs on the streets know all my business. Anyway, expertly groomed by Sharon, I must have answered all her questions right because after less than five minutes she’s going, ‘Next!’

And that’s when it happens.

I turn around and head over to where Sharon’s grabbed a free seat for herself, delighted to be done and dusted, and with a ‘can we go now?’ expression etched onto my face. But there’s two women standing right beside her, one with a buggy and one with a stroller, with about three kids each hanging out of them.

‘It isher!’ one of them says, staring at me like I’m some kind of exhibit in a wax museum. She has tattoos of all her kids’ names on her forearm written so large that even from a few paces away, I can still read them clearly: Kylie, Britney and Rihanna.

‘No, it’s not,’ says her pal, who looks like she’s dipped her head in waaaay too much peroxide.

‘It definitelyis! Sure she got fired from her TV show, didn’t she? Makes sense that she’d be here to sign on.’

‘Jessie Woods is miles better looking than her,’ says Peroxide Head. ‘That one looks like death warmed up.’

Next thing, one of the kids is over to me. ‘Givvus your autograph, will you?’

‘Emmm…’ I stammer. ‘Well, actually, if you don’t mind, you see, I’m in a bit of a rush…’

‘If she takes off the baseball cap, then we’d be able to get a decent look at her. Tell her to take it off!’ says Tattoo Woman bossily.

‘Ehh, excuse me? Take off that baseball cap there for us, will you love? We can’t see your face.’

Just get us out of here, I semaphore furiously over to Sharon, who seems to take the hint and slowly peels her bum off the seat to leave. But now it’s like a ripple has spread through the entire welfare office and all I can hear is, ‘Jessie Woods? From the TV show? For real?’

Next thing there’s people whipping out mobile phones and taking photos. One guy is even videoing me on his iPhone.

‘Maybe she’s doing this for one of her dares!’ some bright spark at the back of the packed room calls out, as I battle my way through the crowd to the door. I’ve lost Sharon and now I can’t even see her.

‘Feck, does that mean there’s hidden TV cameras here?’ another guy with white emulsion paint streaks in his hair mutters to his pal as I inch my way past them. ‘I don’t want to end up as an extra on the telly. I’m not even supposed to be here. I’m working.’

‘She can’t be doing it for her TV show!’ yells a woman’s voice from the very back of the queue. ‘She got fired and the show was taken off the air. And now there’s nothing to watch on a Saturday evening except for bleeding Ant and Dec. I hatethat pair of gobshites.’

Christ alive, it’s a nightmare. By now I’m a public spectacle and what’s worse is I’m still a good ten feet from the bloody door. There’s people grabbing at me and in the mêlée I lose my baseball cap but I just keep battling my way through the throng thinking getmeoutofheregetmeoutofheregetmeoutofhere.

I’m not joking; at one point a tall girl who looks a bit like a model actually thrusts a CV into my hand. ‘I always wanted to work in TV,’ she almost shrieks at me, ‘so if you wouldn’t mind passing that on to your agent or, you know, any producers you might still be on speaking terms with…’

Then some joker sitting with the paper on his knee pipes up at the top of his voice, ‘What’s the difference between Jessie Woods and a pigeon? At least a pigeon can still make a deposit on a Mercedes, waa-haaa!’ He cracks up at his own gag and so do half the dole office and I swear I’m thisclose to bawling when out of nowhere, a rough hand grabs me, grips me tight and strongarms me towards the door, almost lifting me as we barge our way out. I look up gratefully to this knight in shining armour…and it’s none other than Sharon.

‘Will you all relax for feck’s sake?’ she yells at the crowd at the top of her voice. ‘She’s only a look-a-like! Used to make a fortune on the side doing twenty-firsts and thirtieths, but now God love her, she can’t get a gig to save her life on account of what happened to the real Jessie Woods!’

I don’t know how she even does it, but somehow she manages to shove me safely outside with the speed of a presidential bodyguard and all I can do is gratefully whisper a barely audible ‘Thank you’ as I try to catch my breath.

‘No worries,’ she says, cool as you like, fishing out a fag from the depths of her tracksuit pocket. ‘Now all you have to do is find me a boyfriend and we’ll call it quits.’

Later that evening, as soon as she’s home from Smiley Burger and after all her soaps are finished, I go for it. Because let’s face it, after today, I owe her big time and I’m determined not to renege on my end of the deal.

‘Sharon? Can we go upstairs? I need to talk to you. We might also need to use your computer, if that’s OK?’

‘Oh, right. Eh…would this be about…emm, you know what, by any chance?’ she asks, hauling herself up and bringing a tin of Bulmers with her. ‘Yeah, sure, OK then.’

Maggie’s antennae immediately shoot up. ‘What are you two at?’

For a second Sharon and I lock eyes.

‘Nothing,’ Sharon mutters.

‘Nothing?’

‘Well, something all right, but not really…emm…anything.’

‘Oh, if I begged you, would you share?’ says Maggie, thick with sarcasm and, I swear to God, Sharon actually looks mortified.

I’m looking at the pair of them, thinking how bizarre and ridiculous this is. I mean, Sharon looks like a rabbit caught in the headlamps. Like she’s actually embarrassed to tell Maggie what we’re up to. And OK, so maybe she did sneak down in the middle of the night to ask me about this but for God’s sake, it’s not like what we’re doing is something we have to keep as classified information, now is it?

‘As a matter of fact, Sharon has asked me to help her find a boyfriend,’ I say firmly, ‘and I need to talk to her about it privately, that’s all. The only reason we’re going up to her room is so we don’t disturb you watching What Not to Wear.’

‘A boyfriend?’ says Maggie, so shocked you’d swear I’d said, ‘Oh, Sharon’s anxious to join a local Al-Qaeda cell and I might just have a few underworld contacts who might help her out.’

‘Emm…well, you see…’ mutters Sharon weakly.

‘You want a boyfriend?’

First time in my life I think I’ve ever heard Maggie being cutting to Sharon.

‘Come on, let’s get going,’ I say, leaving the room first.

But Sharon stays behind me and when I’m half-way up the stairs I can’t help overhearing Maggie growl at her, ‘And you’re taking dating advice from Cinderella Rockefeller? The most publicly dumped woman in the country? Isn’t that a bit like taking PR advice from Princess Anne?’

‘Just back off and leave me alone, will you?’ says Sharon, slamming the door behind her.

Tell you one thing. That is one helluva dysfunctional relationship.

As soon as we’re safely up in the privacy of her room, she plonks down on the bed and launches into me. ‘What did you have to go and tell Maggie for? Now I’ll never hear the end of this.’

‘Well, excuse me, I hadn’t realised it was a state secret.’

‘You don’t know what she’s like. She’ll slag me about this for weeks.’

‘That’s daft, why would she do that?’

‘I dunno. I suppose she just wants, well, someone who’ll always be here to watch TV with her in the evenings. She doesn’t want me out and about, meeting fellas and dating.’

‘But what about when you were out with other boyfriends you had before?’

She looks at me sheepishly. ‘That’s the thing, you see. I’ve never really…well…you know.’

I don’t believe this. ‘Sharon! Are you telling me that you’ve never gone out with anyone? Ever?’

‘No! I’ve had loads of snogs and flings,’ she says defensively, ‘but never really anything…sort of…long term. Like you had with that Sam fella. Oh, sorry, I keep forgetting not to bring him up.’

‘It’s OK.’

‘But I think Maggie’s afraid that if I do meet someone, then I’ll be out gallivanting with him every night of the week. And then she’ll be stuck here on her own. Or worse, on her own with Ma.’

‘Not necessarily on her own. She’ll have me, won’t she? Come on, it’s not like I can afford to go out anywhere.’

We both crack up laughing at the thought of me and Maggie cosied up together in front of the TV, without managing to gouge each other’s eyeballs out.

‘Seriously though,’ I say, ‘I don’t get it. Why neither of you ever want to get out of the house now and then, is what I mean. It’s…well…it’s…’ I have to stop myself from saying, ‘…it’s beyond weird,’ so I just trail off into silence instead.

‘Well…Maggie says she’s only anti-social when she goes out, then finds there’s no one there that she actually wants to talk to. And we’re close so it’s just comfortable and easy to stay in. Tell me the truth, do you think we’re a bit odd?’

‘No, you’re not odd, you’re…emm…special. I mean, maybe it’s…you know, a bit unusual to see sisters quite as tight knit as you both are, but it’s…nice.’ Nicebeing the only euphemism I can come up with on the spot for ‘freaky’.

‘And then you see, the other thing is I’m always so knackered when I get in from work, I can’t face getting dressed up and going out anywhere. Not when I can just get a takeaway, a few tins and relax here.’

‘Well, then my next question is, how exactly do you ever expect to meet someone? Eligible guys tend not to go around knocking on doors wondering if there’re any hot, single chicks home. You’ve gotta get out of your comfort zone and put yourself in the line of fire. Which is why I’m suggesting that we go online and start you internet dating. Right now. Tonight. I’m throwing the baby into the paddling pool and not taking no for an answer.’

‘Internet dating? Ah Jessie, no,’ she almost splutters on her cider. ‘I want to meet normal fellas not perverts.’

‘It’s not like that any more,’ I reassure her. ‘When I was at Channel Six, half the women on the production team were at it. From the office, when they were meant to be working, more often than not. There’s no stigma about meeting people online any more you know, it’s just a way for busy people like you who work long hours to meet people from the comfort and safety of home.’ I threw in the ‘comfort and safety of home’ bit on purpose to try and lure her in.

‘Hmm,’ she says suspiciously. ‘But don’t some of these fellas have websites that say things like “Retired farmer seeks nubile young lass for fun times. Must have own chicken.”’

‘If they do, then we just ignore them. Simple as that.’

‘But supposing I do meet someone and I go on a date with him and he turns out to be a total weirdo?’

‘Ahh, then that’s what the emergency escape call is for.’

‘The what?’

‘It just means that about fifteen minutes into your date, your mobile rings and your dating wing woman, in this case, me, gives you an out. Just in case you need it. But if all’s well and the guy doesn’t turn out to be some pervey farmer, then you just tell him it was only work ringing and he’s none the wiser.’

‘God,’ she says, looking at me, impressed. ‘You must have done this loads of times.’

‘Actually, yeah. You know, before I met…himself…I was out there too. At the dating coalface. Plus we once did a whole Jessie Wouldprogramme about dating, a few years ago. I had to speed date, read date, internet date and even go eye-gazing dating.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Same as speed dating except you’re not allowed to talk. The idea is to see whether there’s any non-verbal chemistry between you.’

‘And what’s read dating?’

‘A fancy word for multiple blind dating except it happens in Waterstone’s. You’re supposed to get chatting to blokes about their taste in books, then figure out if you’re compatible from there. You know, like if a guy is reading Jane Austen, chances are he’s gay. Or if he’s reading Jeremy Clarkson, chances are…’

‘…he’s a tosser. And did you ever meet a proper boyfriend at any of these dos?’

I blush a bit, remembering. Probably best not to tell her that the only boyfriend I did actually get out of my foray into speed dating was my cheating boyfriend pre-Sam. I don’t mention this to Sharon of course, who’s looking at me with such hope in her eyes, it would break your heart. So instead I tell her what she wants to hear, which is basically a load of lies about love. Yes, you will kiss frogs, I tell her, but dating is just a numbers game and you’ve got to crunch your way through those numbers until you find your perfect match. Who is out there waiting for you, no question. And you’re going to be so happy with him and life will be wonderful and you’ll never look back again. All complete shite of course, but she seems to buy it and half an hour later, she’s even offered me one of her tins of Bulmers while we sit companionably side-by-side at her computer, scrolling our way down through all the online dating agencies.

You’d howl at some of the website names. There’s even one called ForgetDinner.com, you can only presume for would-be couples who want to cut straight to the chase and bypass the whole first date preamble. Then there’s the online user profiles. We actually find one guy who calls himself Mr Ever Done It In The Back Of An Audi?

‘Well, I’ll give him this much,’ Sharon sniggers, ‘at least he’s upfront about what he’s after. Look at this fella here. “Married man seeks fun times with like-minded young lady. Available daytimes but not evenings or weekends.” The gobshite’s even posted up his wedding photo with the wife cut out of it. Tosspot extraordinaire.’

We both cackle at this and for a moment it flashes through my mind that I can’t remember the last time I laughed. In fact, I haven’t even smiled in so long, I can barely remember what my teeth look like. Course it could just be the Bulmers.

Then we stumble across a site called NeverTooLate ToMate.com.

‘Look at their tagline,’ I giggle, pointing at the screen. ‘It says “We delete members unfit to date.” Guerrilla dating clearly is their modus operandi.’

‘That’s what I want,’ says Sharon, taking a swig from her can. ‘A site that filters out all the messers and eejits for you. Go on, click on some of their members so we can have a good laugh at them.’

But some of the guys on this site actually seem relatively normal. Even Sharon is a bit taken aback at the lack of swingers, perverts or openly married men.

‘Ignore all the ones who didn’t bother posting a photo,’ I tell her, scrolling through profile after profile.

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s cowardly. Like going into a pub on a Friday night with a paper bag over your head. And by the way, just a tip. When a guy describes himself as “fun” that means “annoying”. Just like “cuddly” means “morbidly obese and has to be hauled around on a mini-crane”.’

‘Really?’ She’s looking at me like I’ve suddenly transformed into this wise, sage dating oracle.

‘Yeah, sure. Common knowledge. And by the way, “Enjoys pubbing and clubbing” can be loosely translated as “Would suck the alcohol out of a deodorant bottle’”.’

‘Oooh, here’s a live one,’ says Sharon, clicking on another profile. ‘Listen to this. “I may not have gone to college, but I have qualified from the University of Life.”’

We both make gagging gestures and stick our fingers down our throats together, then crease up laughing.

‘Here’s one,’ I say, taking another glug of the Bulmers, which shock, horror, is actually starting to grow on me. ‘An actor, if you don’t mind. Look, he’s done a rep season at the Old Vic and two years at the RSC.’

‘Feck that. I don’t want anyone with a prison record.’

Eventually, Sharon narrows it down to about six guys she’d like to message, or ‘wink’ at as you can do on this site. Right then. Next thing is I have to sign up for her and write a profile. So I hit the ‘Join now’ option on the computer and get the ball rolling.

‘OK,’ I say, ‘now you’re going to need a fun-sounding user name. Something that’ll catch a fella’s eye. And we need to post a photo of you too.’

‘Hang on, I’ve one on my bookcase that was taken five years ago when I had the blonde streaks and was half a stone lighter.’

‘We’ve got to write your profile too, so that means we’ve got to list all of your interests and hobbies too. Except the trick is not to give too much away either; no harm to cultivate a bit of mystery.’

‘Well,’ she says, lighting up a fag and looking a bit lost. ‘My interests are…’

‘Yup, fire away,’ I say, tapping away at the keyboard.

‘Well…watching the telly.’

‘Sharon, I can’t write that, it makes you sound like a couch potato. What else?’

A long, long pause.

‘I like…ehh…’

‘Theatre? Sports? Music?’

‘Yeeee-ah. I sometimes watch MTV, so I suppose it’s OK to put down music.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Well…’

‘Sharon! You must have interests and hobbies apart from watching MTV!’

‘I like…’ she racks her brains to think. ‘Well…food.’

Then I look over at the shelves which are groaning with her chick-flick DVD collection and her Danielle Steels and an idea comes. Half an hour and two tins of Bulmers later, we’ve posted the following profile, under the user name MOVIELOVER: ‘Home bird, loves cosy evenings in, reading, fine dining and all kinds of music, WLTM like-minded guy for friendship and maybe more.’

Not great, I know, but I had a right job getting her to delete the line, ‘Seeks Hugh Grant look-alike for fun times.’ Fun times, I patiently explained, being a well-known dating euphemism for hot, anonymous sex. What’s really great is that Sharon and I are getting on so well and this is the happiest I’ve seen her without a remote control in her hand. Come 11.30, we say our goodnights and I head back downstairs to make up my sofa bed. But, just outside the TV room door I hear Joan in mid-conversation with Maggie. Joan sounds in one of her snappy, irritable moods which is never, ever good news.

‘Sheila Nugent showed this to me at the cheese and wine reception tonight and I don’t want Jessica seeing it, so shove it somewhere that she won’t. That one has taken about a month’s supply of sedatives off me already. If she gets a hold of this, she’ll be streeling around here like some self-medicated zombie for the next fortnight.’

As soon as I can hear the lights and TV being switched off, I know the coast is clear. In I go and start searching around…but there’s nothing there, just leftover tins and an empty pizza box. Nothing out of the ordinary. Next thing, I spot a pile of newspapers beside the fire, waiting to be burned. I scramble down on my hands and knees and go through them, but there’s nothing at all. Then, in the gossip pages of today’s Evening Star,I spot my name, and instantly shove it into the ‘To be burnt’ pile. I’ve resisted all temptation to read anything about myself in the last few weeks; why start now? But then I spot a different name in the same article. Sam’s. I grab at the article, nearly ripping it in a blind panic. I know this column well; it’s written anonymously, fabulously and bitchily by someone who just calls themselves Ulysses. No one has a clue who the mysterious Ulysses actually is, or even if it’s a man or a woman. But given how poisonous the column is, I know plenty of celebs who’d gladly get a hit man after him or her.

Having just returned from a delightful spring sojourn in Marbella, who did Ulysses happen to bump into while strolling in the sunshine? Only a source close to Sam Hughes. For those of you just coming round from a coma, Sam has recently broken up with former TV presenter, Jessie Woods. (Did Ulysses dare invoke the phrase ‘has-been’?) My mole tells me that while Sam had enjoyed a delightful holiday, sadly he cut it short for ‘personal reasons’.

Which set Ulysses to wondering why. Another lady love on the scene already, whom he was anxious to rush home to? Surely a catch like Sam need only pick and choose from a bevy of beauties available to him? But my source hinted to me that the real reason is far more romantic; Sam simply missed his ex-girlfriend and was unable to enjoy a holiday so far from her sparkling company. So, who knows, maybe Ms Woods is a little luckier in love than she is with work. Could news of possible reconciliation be in the air? One thing is for certain, wherever Ms Woods has been shielding herself away from the public gaze lately, she may very well find herself on the receiving end of a phone call from a contrite and lonely ex any time now. My Deepthroat assures me that a reunion appears to be little short of imminent. Just remember, you read it here first.

Chapter Ten

The really critical thing here is for me to stay utterly calm. Zen-like, if you will. Because this is a clear-cut, A or B situation. Either Sam cut his holiday short to rush back and beg me for a reconciliation, or…in fact, no, there is no B. Because Sam already seeing someone else, so soon after we broke up is just completely unthinkable. In fact, maybe in a weird way, we actually needed this time apart so we could both realise just how much we mean to each other. Or rather, maybe Sam needed this time out to cop onto himself, because while he might well be on his way to becoming the next Richard Branson, like most men, he’s a complete gobshite when it comes to matters of the heart. And if all the daytime TV I’ve been watching recently has taught me anything, it’s this: there is only one impossibility in life and that’s trying to keep two soulmates apart (thank you, Oprah). So basically, all I have to do is sit tight and wait for the phone to ring.

Which it will. Course it will. I mean, it said so in the paper. ‘A reunion is little short of imminent.’ That’s what it said. I’m guessing that the ‘mole’ referred to was either Nathaniel or Eva because come on, I mean who else could it be? I called them, got no response, left a few messages for each of them, then gave that up as a bad job. Because, let’s face it, I have FAR bigger things to focus on, don’t I? The main thing is for me not to be the one to blink first. At least, not now that the tide’s finally turning in my favour. I shudder a bit, remembering that as far as Sam is concerned, I’ve been acting like someone out on day release since we broke up, but that was then, this is now and I make myself one solemn vow. This time, it’ll be different. Now that he’s clearly on his way back to me, it’s not too late to try and regain some degree of self-respect.

The best thing, I decide, is to get on with my usual morning’s work and not even think about going near my phone, because everyone knows the watched phone never rings. So, like the model of patience and restraint that I’ve newly become, I deliberately leave the mobile at the very bottom of my handbag in the hall, and head into the kitchen to start my day’s work. Trouble is, I keep dropping things every time I think I hear a noise that just might be the phone. By 10.30, I’ve smashed two of Joan’s revolting peach side plates (with ivy leaves growing round the edges, gak, gak, gak) when I could have sworn I heard a text coming through, but it turned out to be a Mr Whippy van on the street outside. Easy enough mistake to make; my ring tone and the ice cream van are virtually identical and both equally annoying. Then, I let a china shepherdess I was dusting smash to smithereens on the floor when the front doorbell rang. (Which was no harm, actually; there’s so many of them dotted around the place, it looks like there was a mini Laura Ashley explosion in here.) Well, it has to be Sam, it just has to, I figure, nearly impaling myself on the hall table as I ran to open it. Who else could it be? Reasonable assumption, given that it would take a very brave neighbour to call here to Wuthering Depths, The House That Manners Forgot. No, he’s probably figured that there’s just no way of saying what he wants to over the phone, i.e., grovelling apologies and profuse expressions of undying love, you know yourself. Miles better just to call here and sweep me off my feet with flowers, champagne, the whole works.

But when I fling open the door, with my most ‘surprised’ smile hardwired onto my face, it isn’t Sam at all. Turns out just to be some guy trying to sell raffle tickets to raise money for the local hospice. I’m a bit deflated but quickly brush it aside. It’s only mid-morning. I have to be realistic; he only got back to Ireland yesterday, I need to chill out here and give the guy some time. He probably went straight into his office this morning to catch up with everything, but no doubt is saving the big romantic reconciliation scene with me later.

Just hope Maggie is back home from work in time to see it, hee hee.

Anyway, the point is that this time tomorrow, I’ll probably have moved into Sam’s house, with all my boxes, bin liners and all, and life will be rosy again. Course I still won’t have a job, but with him beside me, somehow that won’t matter quite so much. I certainly won’t miss sleeping on a lumpy sofa, I won’t miss Maggie and her never ending put-downs or Joan and her mood swings, but in a funny way, I will miss Sharon, who’s turning out to be far more sisterly than I could ever have imagined.

OK, you know what? Housework = crap idea. I’m way too jittery to get anything done, so to pass the time I knock on Sharon’s bedroom door and find her glued to her computer screen, tapping away on the NeverTooLate ToMate website. She’s on her day off and her plans for the day appear to be sit on arse in front of computer and find cute guys to wink at.

Perfect. Couldn’t ask for a better distraction. Plus there’s that smug feeling of gently guiding someone else towards love and romance, while knowing deep down that this time tonight, I’ll be the one with the boyfriend.

‘You won’t believe this!’ she screeches excitedly at me before I even have a chance to sit down.

‘I’ve news for you too, but you go first.’

‘I got up about five times during the night to see if any cute guys had messaged me and guess what? Seventeenmessages so far!!! Seventeen!Can you believe it? And the best bit is I never even had to go outside the front door to meet them! Didn’t even need to shoehorn myself into a pair of Spanx or put on make-up or anything. You’re a bloody genius, Jessie Woods. Why didn’t I sign up for this internet dating lark years ago?’

She’s still in her pyjamas and, I can’t help noticing, is so animated she’s forgotten to even come downstairs for her normal breakfast of leftover pizza.

‘That’s fab!’ I say, pulling out a chair and plonking myself down beside her. ‘OK, so let’s scroll through all your messages and then start eliminating all the eejits from the eligibles.’

‘Good plan. Hey, get a load of your man here; I think I might end up deleting him.’

‘Why?’

‘Because how could I ever bring him back to this house with Maggie sitting here? You know what she’s like; her favourite hobby is slagging off visitors.’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘For feck’s sake, look at his photo, will you? If a fella is covered in bruises and has most of his front teeth missing, then the chances are he’s a bit sensitive to criticism. Maggie would start having a go at him and he’d end up annihilating her.’

‘Well, I know we shouldn’t reject anyone based on their photo at this point, but his profile doesn’t exactly scream “hopeless romantic” either, now does it?’

We both read it together, then crack up giggling.

‘STOCKY, 30, SHAVED HEAD, INTO HEAVY METAL SEEKS SIMILAR FOR RAW, HOT FUN.’

‘Can I delete this one here?’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘For feck’s sake, Jessie, he looks like a younger version of Santa and his user name is Desperado.’

‘Show me his profile.’

‘He’s a sixty-four-year-old divorcee with four kids. He’s a non-smoker and his tag line says “Get me out of this rut.” Gakkety gak gak. Can you imagine me as a stepmother? With Ma as a shining example to guide me?’

I won’t argue with her on that one, so I let her delete. Anyway, we manage to kill a whole half hour like this before it even crosses my mind to go downstairs and check my mobile for messages.

By 11 a.m. though, I’m starting to get just the teeniest bit antsy, so I run down to my handbag, whip out the phone and keep it close by me. No harm in that. I also show Sharon last night’s paper and fill her in on this latest twist in my love life, mainly because I do really sincerely hope she’ll keep in contact with me after I move out of here.