Victoria Smurfit

In which our star columnist has a real-life emergency that may just assist her performance on stage.

‘Mummy! up! Up!” I have to react fast, because I know that when I turn around I’ll be dive-bombed by a two-foot dynamo. Athlete-slick, I spin on one heel and catch my youngest as her legs go from under her. I am just tucking her under my armpit when a burning rope is dragged through my stomach. Not literally, you understand, but inside my daily-growing bump it twists and pulls. A pain shoots from hip to hip and I plonk to the floor

How did it come to this? Today was not supposed to be that sort of day. I was all dressed up this morning. I’m going to act in Fiona Looney’s new play, October, at the Olympia, and I had agreed to meet the director for a chat. There’s nothing trickier than trying to fulfil your leader’s wishes if you can’t understand a word he’s saying. Every job has a language. TV and film have a similar lingo, but luvvie-speak has a timbre all of its own. After many years on celluloid, I may be rusty. The nerves loosened my bones.

I spotted the director a mile away: he looked artistic. We began to chat about our children. As I flicked away some white mush crushed into my shoulder, he expounded on the Steiner schooling his children were receiving. (Oh. That translates to my ears as ‘No television.’ What, no Dora? No Bob, the only under-paid builder? I mean, where is Bob’s Jag?) I tried to tune out my inner chat so I could listen to the man.

Reprimanding myself for allowing my girls some brainwashing adverts was not helping this meeting. Focus, woman. The baby kicked. Hard. Is there no peace? The food arrived and my mind slid back into gear.
The director was honest. He takes his job seriously but not himself. We had a large laugh and a little bitch. We had read a similar character study from the play. He’s not too high-art but I think if he needed to be, it wouldn’t be a problem. As my virtuous, vegetable-heavy main course arrived, I knew I was in.
But now I’m out.

Down and out on the kitchen floor and I seriously cannot get up. What is going on? My eldest holds her dolly’s hand and I need to clasp the other one so she can drag me to standing. The cramp subsides and we resume our football game in the back. Dolly is winning as the heavens open. Again.
(The summer has been marked by rain and a credit crunch; mosquitoes and bankers are being made redundant. Small shops are shutting. Large puddles form and tears pour. Only the nay-sayers and reservoirs are winning. Miserable. Last week I overheard two yummy mummys at the gym discussing how to save money. Shocking! This is D4, after all. How bad could this get? Botox could go underground. Weekly pedicures may be abandoned. Hair might grow again. Has Cowen thought this through?)
A knife shoots through me. The stomach wall turns a screw so tight my sides feel like they are meeting in the middle. The breath is beaten out of my chest with surprise. What to do? Have a bath, call himself and stay calm. I am only halfway through this pregnancy and baby is not cooked enough to arrive. I will it to stay put. Please.
As the mother of two girls, I thought I knew everything there was to know about being with child – the bits that swell (ankles, tummy), the parts that shrink (brain, wardrobe) – but this was something I had not even contemplated. What if junior arrives early? Would the wee thing survive? How would I cope if it didn’t? Did I tempt fate by buying a new babygro last week?
All sorts of crazy is crashing around my head as another pain pulls itself through me. Himself takes charge. He flags a cab and I waddle to the door. If only the dog could mind our two girls, then he could accompany me. I’m scared. Every bump in the road feels like it is a birthing opportunity. Hold tight, baby. The cabbie joshes about, needing a blue light, hot water and towels. Tears burn.
Jesus, I hope not.
We round the corner past hundreds of For Sale signs. Property prices and the hirsute pursuits of ladies are no longer a concern. My lungs snatch a load while another twist renders me speechless. I see it! The hospital pops into view as I peel myself from the car. I know where I am going in the quiet of a late-night medical lobby. Third floor. I spy a midwife and she whisks me in. I beg her to tell me I am not in labour. Please. I allow a thought of great gratitude for being seen so fast.
Don’t let me have failed this wee one. The nurse pushes my tummy and asks me questions. I focus, breathe, cramp.
“Have you had a baby recently?” she asks.
“Yes, just over a year ago.”
“Your body is tired, and...”
“...and?”
“Madam, you are not in labour.”
“Oh thank you! Thank you. The baby?”
“The baby is grand. You have chronic indigestion.”
“Oh,” I squeak.
The humiliation! But as my cheeks go red, my narcissistic actor’s brain wonders, ‘Can I use this in my next performance?’
Well...yes... I suppose.
Phew. My ego and my baby are safe. A good night.

Comments

[Robson Danton Green]

Dear Ms Smurfit,
Our claim to fame.
Last week my nephew was employed as a Secutity
Officer atone of your uncle Sir Michael Smurfit'spaperBased Companies in Norwich.
Looking forward to seeing you on ITV tonight.
Cheers
Robson Danton Green.
Walberswick Quiet and beside the seaside
and Durham.

[homey]

smurfit your hot

[Daniel Murray]

Hi Victoria, I was at the VIP awards and got some lovely images of , not hard : ) but thought you might like them.
(not for publication)
alternate e mail danielmurray04@gmail.com
phone 087 7549926