Free Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband by Sam Holden Page A

just a pilot, sweetheart, and it probably won't
come to anything.'
    Raised eyebrow.
    'You're really going to do it?'
    'I'd really like to, yes.'
    'And who's going to look after the children?'
    'We'll have to get a nanny.'
    Sally took a deep breath.
    'This wasn't the idea.'
    'I know, but we've been over this. It's not as though
we're filming all the time.'
    Sally drained the glass and then poured herself
another.
    'OK,' she said. 'You do it. But don't expect me to get
involved.'
    'Um . . .'
    'What?'
    'Well, I'm sure they'll want some shots of us as a
family.'
    'No way.'
    'Please Sally, come on.'
    'No way. Anyway I don't think work would be exactly
thrilled about it.'
    'It would only be for a few seconds.'
    'In that case, they can manage without me.'
    'It's not the same.'
    'I'm sorry Sam, but I really don't think I have an
option.'
    I left it, and we prepared and ate supper almost in
silence, both of us flicking through magazines.
    I hate all this. I hate the rowing, the bickering, the
constant feeling that we're on edge. Perhaps I should
chuck in the whole WonderHubby thing. Perhaps Sally is
right – it is just a waste of time, and could be seen as
simply something to massage my ego. And if I chucked
it in, would that put a smile on Sally's face? I doubt it.
The damage has already been done, and besides, she's
still having a rotten time at work.
    And then again, why should I give it up? It IS a good
idea, good enough for one TV station and one
production company to spend time and money making
it. How wrong can they be?
    Wednesday 20 February
    This time, I decided to leave the children at home, or
rather with Emily. Despite her pass – and I'm sure there
will be more – we're still on good terms. I think Emily
probably makes passes at so many men that she's pretty
unabashed about the whole thing. Mind you, I would
have left the children with just about anybody, as,
predictably enough, the train was delayed and
overcrowded, and I couldn't face a repeat of our last
little outing.
    The channel was a pretty impressive place – huge
marble atrium, trees, waterfalls etc., and the normal
plethora of flatscreens and incredibly attractive women
walking around. Why does the media attract such good-looking
females? In all my years as a management
consultant I came across about three women whom I
found remotely appealing, and yet today I must have
seen at least twenty in the space of three hours. Maybe
my taste has declined as I have aged, but I'm not THAT
old, and I like to think my standards are pretty high.
After all, my wife has never had even the slightest tickle
with the ugly stick.
    The commissioning editor was called Dave Waldman,
and he was one of these immensely enthusiastic people
who must be infuriating to work with. His catchphrase
was 'dig', which he said often, and was emphasised by
clicking his fingers with a supple throw of the wrist.
Also, he was bloody young – late twenties perhaps – and
had I not known him to be in a position of authority, I
would have taken him to be some sort of junior in the
graphic design department.
    He didn't really ask me many specific questions, but
one thing he was concerned about was the families we
were going to use.
    'How are you going to get hold of them?' he asked.
    I didn't have an answer to that, and I looked at Dom,
who didn't seem particularly flustered.
    'Shouldn't be a problem,' he said. 'We've already
started looking for them. There are thousands of these
oiks— I mean people, who are desperate to appear on
shows like this.'
    'Dig,' went Dave. 'And do you have a plan B, if the
people aren't coming good?'
    'Sure,' said Dom. 'The normal plan in these
circumstances.'
    'Dig,' said Dave, this time a little more conspiratorially.
    'What's the normal plan?' I asked, doing my best not
to sound like a naïve schoolboy.
    Dom and Dave looked at each other with a little smirk.
    'We like to call it "blending the truth",' said Dom.
    'Dig,' said Dave.
    'Blending the truth?' I queried.
    Dom