The Meltdown of a Banker's Wife by Gill Davy-Bowker Page A

this. She vowed never to make cakes again. Her mother had made biscuit-type sponges and so had her gran … Surely she should have been warned by such precedents.
    â€˜You’re frightening Willy!’ shouted Amy to the builders above the din. She cupped her hands protectively around Willy’s little velvet pouch and then screeched,
    â€˜Look … there’s one of Willy’s friends running from the pipe! He’s homeless! Mummy, stop them!’
    Yes, thought Mel as Amy picked the creature up tenderly, I will have to plan other things with Kelly and Co for today. It would be far too distressing to stay at home. God only knew how many insects could be suffering as the day progressed. By the look of the animals, they would also have to go out somewhere.
    â€˜See you later, love. Another day at the mines. You planning anything good today?’ asked Alan as he raced through the door.
    â€˜I really have no idea.’
    â€˜How about the beach?’ Alan suggested. ‘Blow the cobwebs away! Wish I could come!’ And for once, Alan sounded as though he really meant it.
    â€˜Yay! We want to go to the beach! Can we, Mummy!? Please!’ shouted the children.
    â€˜OK. Let’s tell Kelly about it and get the animals ready.’
    The children had already gone to rummage for buckets and spades, long hidden beneath piles of toys. Michael’s fishing net was broken so he started to cry.
    â€˜We can get another one,’ Mel soothed as she frantically looked for swimsuits, towels, mobile phone and decided to buy picnic stuff from the supermarket because no edible food was left in the kitchen.
    â€˜Don’t worry, love … the house will be safe with us! We’ll make sure it’s locked up this evening and your kitchen will be tidy,’ promised the builders. Mel was doubtful. The kitchen looked like a bad day in Baghdad. But hope springs eternal, as they say.
    â€˜Yep. I’d love to come to the beach,’ enthused Kelly on the other end of the mobile. It seemed Kelly wanted to be anywhere but at home with her mad advertising executive husband and the exploding kids.
    A lot of people had had the same idea, apparently. The roads to Brighton were loaded with vehicles carrying varying numbers of children, animals (both real and inflatable) and dinghies. They got stuck behind a car where the children were pulling faces through the windows and the Alsatian dog had its head sticking out of the passenger side window, with its tongue being pulled sideways in the wind as they drove along at little more than a speedy snail’s pace. Every so often a big glob of dog spit landed on Mel’s windscreen and this, along with the corpses of a million insects, made it increasingly blurry, no matter how many times she sprayed the windscreen wash at it. After an hour and a half, they finally broke free from the London stranglehold of streets and got onto the relatively free road down to Brighton. Almost immediately there was a clamour from Amy and Matilda to go to the services and since Mel could hardly see through the windscreen, she was not averse to doing just that. Several trips to the toilet and drinks and toys later, they were on their way again.
    At last the sea appeared on the horizon, glistening and inviting. It’s so good living on an island. You’re never too far from the sea, geographically speaking, although the road system may have other ideas.
    Parking was the next problem. The world and all its inflatable animals seemed to have descended on Brighton and finding a parking space was like hacking through the Burmese jungle looking for a very tiny object that had camouflageditself. After another hour, they had finally parked and were searching the small print on all the parking signs so as not to get a parking ticket from the ever-vigilant ‘Nazi’ parking people that lurked in every corner and dark alley. Too many times had Mel been caught by some tiny