Joanna Nadin

When I was about nine, my sole desire was to own a Twirly Curls Barbie. This was a normal Barbie (in the American sense of the word, i.e. not at all) but with the added genius of a key in her back that meant you could make her lustrous nylon locks grow or shrink at will. Now I am, well, all grown up, my sole desire is to own a key in my back that can make my less-than-lustrous, but quite nylon-like locks grow in seconds.

Ninety-nine per cent of the time I do not pay much attention to my hair. Because, ninety-nine per cent of the time my hair is either a quarter of an inch long, or about to be rendered a quarter of an inch long by my tattooed legend of a hairdresser Eliot Ness (catchphrase, in broad Trowbridge accent: ‘I am going to make you look totally mental’). But I have thrust myself, or rather been edged unwillingly, into the purgatory that is ‘I am trying to grow my hair’. This happens, on average, once every three or four years, and is rarely of my own volition. Because, believe me, it is more than trying. On a scale of one to childbirth, it skirts around the ‘write a 60,000 word novel in a month, every month, for about two years’, whilst being barred from Facebook, cups of tea, and Caramac bars.

It would be fine if I had a normal hair (i.e. straight, and goes in the right direction i.e. down), and a normal hairline (i.e. humanoid). But I have hair the texture and density of moss, which encroaches on my face in a Cro-Magnon style, and grows outwards in a Sideshow-Bob style. As my brother points out, I look like a strategically shaven monkey. And worse, as soon as it gets more than half an inch long, I begin to resemble David Miliband i.e. slightly crazed, with a sphagnum helmet.

And as soon as it gets more than half an inch long, its upkeep takes over several hours of my schedule. There is washing, drying (with various diffuser attachments), styling, rewashing as style has gone horribly wrong, and of course, the endless visits to chemists in the Quest for the Perfect Hair Product.

I lost years of my life to this pursuit as a teenager. I have experienced joy: The day they invented mousse I knew how Fleming felt when he discovered Penicillin. I have experienced loss: when L’Oreal decided to discontinue Perfect Curls. This stuff had the exact same colour and consistency as sperm, but I was undeterred, and, lo, I was rewarded. This was truly the ambrosia of the Gods, because for once, it actually did what it said on the tin. I no longer looked like Robert Plant, but a sort of midget Julia Roberts, albeit with a bigger nose. But less than a year later my holy grail was cruelly snatched from me by the wicked stepmother that is market forces – clearly those of us with lichen-hair are few and far between – and the quest began again.  As it did yesterday with several hours in Boots and a bagful of products that all promise to give me the glossy ringlets of my pre-Raphaelite daydreams.

Yet today, I look in the mirror, and all I can see is David Miliband in drag. I give it three weeks before Eliot is making me look mental again. Because it cannot be more mental than this…

I blame High School Musical – a film I blame for a lot of things (chirpy American accents, cheerleader outfits, being constantly told to ‘get my head in the game). But today, I am blaming it in part for Millie’s obsession with the pursuit of love i.e. Mummy when will I have a boyfriend in my class because all the boys are naughty and smell except Luca and I have not spent enough time with Luca to know? Answer – when you are 25 and he has passed several rigorous intelligence checks plus a musical knowledge quiz. I am also blaming Valentine’s Day, which has had a feverish run-up, outdone only by Christmas and last year’s fifth birthday. A fortnight ago she made her cards (all six of them – she is generous with her love). Today she counted those she had received. Four (Bradford-on-Avon Joe, Katherine next door, me, her Dad). Or five if you count the mysterious one sent purely to “Number 13”, although it is possible it was for the house itself i.e. one of the other terraces has fallen for its fading glory, seemingly inured to its shoddy plumbing and slug menace. Anyway, by her own counting she is at least one down. All eyes are on Sam in Year 2, who has so far failed to deliver the goods. Although he is in bed with chicken pox that Millie lovingly donated two weeks ago, so he does have a legitimate excuse.

I have warned Millie that love is not all it is cracked up to be, mostly involving not eating, feeling sick, and getting minty about dirty teacups (so kind of like my Mum with gastroenteritis). Plus sometimes you spend a whole bunch of time trying to get rid of love, i.e. worrying that your mentalist ex with the teeny tiny tappy Mr Tumnus hands will arrive on your doorstep on Valentine’s day in a gesture he thinks is romantic, but is in fact a sure sign of needing medical intervention.

Millie’s answer? ‘Yes but how do you get your head actually in the game Mum?’

Me? I got none. But who’s counting.

1. I know I am lucky.
2. I have not accepted the fact that I will never win an Oscar or the Grand National.
3. I have had plastic surgery.
4. The first time I met Tony Blair, I curtsied. I was 29.
5. I cry a lot. Mostly at music.
6. At various points in my life, and hairstyles, I have been mistaken
for: Yvette Fielding, Jennifer Saunders and Tamsin Greig. None of which
are entirely flattering.
7. I can sing the books of the bible off by heart.
8. I used to write John Prescott’s agony column.
9. I’m a pretty good newsreader.
10. I have chosen my Desert Island Discs.
11. The first record I bought was Buck’s Fizz ‘Making Your Mind Up’.
The second was The Jam ‘Eton Rifles’. Which negates the first.
12. I am constantly saddened that The West Wing isn’t real.
13. I have never seen Casablanca or Citizen Kane.
14. I always want a Hollywood ending.
15. I love train journeys.
16. I was once sick at lunch in primary school and tried to blame Julia Tennick.
17. I have never read Pride and Prejudice.
18. I still know the playlist for The Duke jukebox off by heart.
19. I once had a job washing Roland Gift’s underwear.
20. I still want a pony.
21. I hated university.
22. I have always voted.
23. I fell in love with Marc Bolan at the age of six.
24. I have a season ticket for Arsenal that I have never used or even seen.
25. I’m a hopeless romantic.

I am obsessive about games. It is a genetic thing. All Nadins are ferociously competitive at everything from golf to Buckaroo (or at least we would have been had Buckeroo not been banned in our house due to other ferocious Nadin traits on grounds of being a) dangerous and b) common.) It doesn’t mean any of us are any good at them of course.  Thus follows Nadin trait No. 39 i.e. throw cards / counters / golf clubs down and sulk for several hours if not days.

Anyway it is painfully clear that Millie has inherited the “I will win at any cost or God help you” thing. This morning we are playing “I went on holiday and I took…” (Which is tedious. But is less horrendous than the marathon sessions of High School Musical Top Trumps I have had to endure this week: “99 style points beats your 91, Millie.” “But I have Sharpay and she is blonde so I win”). Millie is not happy with my decision to take “a cup of tea”. “It will spill in the car, Mummy”. “I will be careful”. “No you must choose something else”. “No”. “Yes, you cannot take tea”. “Right, but you have so far crammed our imaginary car with: Gingernut and Rosie the chickens, some eels, a horse, a ladybird in a glass jar and, inexplicably, Afghanistan. The car will be full of chicken poo, broken glass, wet snakes and half a desert.” “Yes, but tea will make it messy”. “Fine then I will bring a dead vole.” “Good, Mummy. That is much better.”

At which point I sigh wearily and fetch the High School Musical Top Trumps.

I am troubled by the notion of reality. So too is Millie. Though, one would hope, in vastly different ways, given the age gap, and the fact that I do not demand that my toy monkey is lightly chilled in the freezer compartment before I drink my milk.

This week Millie is somewhat taken with the notion of invisibility i.e.
Millie: Mummy do you believe in invisible?
Me: No. Except for the air. That is invisible.
Millie: And fart.
Me: Yes. Fart is invisible.
Millie: And my pants.
Me: No. Your pants are not invisible. You are just not wearing any.
Millie: But I am.
Me: You are not.
Millie: I absolutely promise I am wearing invisible pants, Mummy.
Me (attempting to change subject whilst wrestling pants onto child): Oh look. There is a fox.
Millie: Foxes are not real.

You get the point. The thing is, does it matter about the pants and foxes? Does it matter that she thinks Barack Obama and Zac Efron live together? I mean, I still believe that, one day, I will win the Grand National, possibly disguised as a boy. Or do a competition standard merengue with Patrick Swayze before joining the Peace Corps. No one puts me in a corner…

There are laws, i.e. actual real ones, written on pigskin in Norman French or some other inappropriate language and kept in dark and fusty dungeons in the Houses of Parliament, guarded by a withered man in tights. And then there are laws, i.e. totally made-up ones, written on a WH Smith spiral-bound notepad by my mother, and kept by the phone in a lemon-fresh kitchen, guarded by my father, who, while he has been known to wear tights, is more often clad in Pringle golf wear, which is more comical than menacing.

But after 39 years (in three weeks, and counting) I have decided it is time some of these laws are broken (I broke the real sort a long time ago, to no visible ill effect). So, in the next few weeks I will be testing out the following, long-held, furiously-argued Nadin myths. I mean truths:
1.    As soon as you get a cat, you will no longer be able to go on holiday, or possibly even leave the house. Because, of course, neither neighbours, nor automated cat feeders are “real”.
2.    If you don’t consume a bowl of porridge before you go to bed, you will die a slow, horrible death. Or at least wake up in the night.
3.    If you don’t consume calcium, Vitamin C, zinc, iron, fluoride and possibly boron supplements, you will die a slow, horrible death.
4.    If you do consume Wagon Wheels you will die a slow, horrible death.
5.    If you prune a Euphorbia, you will die, though more immediately.
6.    If you wear high heels, your feet will slowly turn into claws and you will be rendered immobile, and possibly die a slow, horrible death.
7.    People with beards are up to no good. Especially ginger ones.

Bring it on…

I think I have discovered a cure for the national obesity ‘epidemic’ that is currently sweeping the nation / ITV schedules. It is not a miracle pill. It is my mother.

In the past, specifically when I have been at least 300 miles away from my mother, I have, indeed, struggled to get into bikinis. And jeans. And many clothes, in fact. But now that am within a 34-mile (James counted them) radius, I have miraculously shed pounds. It is not through choice. It is because I have been broken down by persistent food monitoring.

Here are two actual conversations that have occurred in the extended Nadin household in the last year:

Mum Nadin: Do you want a tomato Joanna? (slaps away hand of Dad Nadin) not you, Christopher, you have three things on your plate already.

Mum Nadin: What do you want in your sandwich?

Joanna Nadin: Ham please.

Mum Nadin: No, you had ham at lunch.

Joanna Nadin: God, you are so unfair (goes and sulks in bedroom in manner of 13-year-old version of self)

In case you hadn’t guessed, my Mum is, in fact, Janet Riley, erstwhile mother of Rachel. (Not to be confused with actual Janet Riley, Saffron Walden’s only purveyor of fine quality fabrics). There is no messing with Mrs Nadin. Am thinking of hiring her out to the government. Or GMTV. She makes that army man in the hat look namby-pamby.

Just when is too young to start sex education? I ask this not because I am vexed by the hoo-hah in the papers this weekend about whether or not schools should give out more condoms / fewer condoms / no condoms at all, pretend sex doesn’t exist and teach tapestry and how to bake macaroons instead, but because my daughter, all of four, is starting to ask QUESTIONS.

E.g. Mum where do babies come from?

Me: John Lewis.

Millie: Are you sure?

Me: Er… (crosses fingers behind back) yes.

Millie: Can you get me one?

Me. No. Not until you are at least thirty-five and only if you find a man and marry him.

Millie: I will marry Freddie (six years old and only interested in Daleks and Tai Kwon Do).

Me: That is nice.

Millie: Can you have a baby?

Me: No, they are annoying and cry and are sick a lot.

Millie: Maybe I don’t want a baby.

Me: Excellent. Good idea.

Millie: But what if Freddie wants a baby? I will run away and hide in the den. But not in the bit where Catherine did a poo (two years old, likes to poo outdoors, also in love with Freddie).

Me: Brilliant. I think that went well.

So that is sex education done. Until she is at least eleven. Then I will leave it to Miss Beadle and her plastic penis model to explain it all. Or maybe she can do tapestry instead.

Am thinking of writing a new book. It will not be fiction but will be brainy and philosophical in nature. It is because I seem to spend huge swathes of time trying to think up answers to increasingly ridiculous questions. For example:

• How does a chicken know it is a chicken?
• When I’m dead will my eyes be shut?
• What is poo for?
• Why don’t chickens have duvets?
• What if I want a drink of water when I’m dead?
• Why don’t cats wear pants?
• How does Lola fit in the telly?
• Why does bees not make Marmite?
• Why is Afghanistan?
• Why does the Eggheads always win?
• Can I shoot water up Diver Dan’s bottom?

The trouble is I don’t the answers. I mean, how DOES a chicken know it is a chicken? I don’t even think ours does. It eats rich tea biscuits and pancakes, tries to nest on a doormat and flies. Even without the worrying slightly cannibalistic tendencies of eating egg-based products, what kind of creature is that? Ideas on a postcard please…

HURRAH! I have been shortlisted for the Queen of Teen Book Award, which is kind of like the Orange Prize for Fiction, but with more sequins and bigger dresses. This has led me to reassess my previous diagnosis of self as one of life’s losers. A conclusion I came to after winning the following paltry list of prizes in my thirty-something-years’ long existence:

1.     The Umbrella and Yoghurt Pot race at St Mary’s Primary in 1979 (not really a test of athleticism so much as co-ordination of poking brolly inside empty Ski tub and keeping it on there for 50 yards).

2.     A Toners and Shaders hair dye from Jackie magazine in 1983 (not really a ‘prize’ so much as a giveaway)

3.     The Downing Street Quiz Night (a test of team nerdism, so should have triumphed, but, in fact, won by cheating – i.e. only knew total number of PMs in history by faking a toilet break and counting all the portraits on the back stairs).

4.     Er… that’s it.

But am now on same piece of paper (am assuming the shortlist is actual piece of gilt-edged, rose-scented paper) with Meg Cabot, Louise Rennison, Jacqueline Wilson and other literary giants. This is it, the turning point. From now on am going to be utter winner. Definitely… maybe.