Lady Moppet’s Post #10: The Baby Shower

Image by James Mellor via Flickr

 

The first sign of trouble was a message from John requesting that I join him in the throne room.

“Oh – tell him I’ll be down in a minute.” I was refilling the gas in my hair curler from a canister. I was still messing about with it when John stormed in.

“What the hell are you doing? How dare you keep me waiting?”

“Darling, do give me a moment. This is a bit fiddly.”

He snatched the styler from me and threw it across the room (fortunately it didn’t land in the fire).

“You can’t cower up here, Moppet. Bloody come and see what you have done.”

He dragged me down to the throne room and pushed me towards the throne with a triumphant, “That’s what I’m talking about,” as I was protesting that I hadn’t done anything.

The throne was swathed in lavatory paper.

I stared at it.

“…don’t know if this is your half-baked idea of a joke,” John was saying, “or if this kind of thing is considered amusing where you come from, but I can assure you – “

“But I don’t understand – why are you accusing me?”

He ripped a square from one of the strands and waved it in my face.

“Little Princess Quilted Toilet Tissue. With Aloe Vera. Do you deny that this is from your privy? Only the best for Moppet’s behind!”

“You use the same stuff yourself,” I pointed out. “And anyone could have taken it.”

On my questioning the servants, it appeared that the crime must have taken place between six and seven the previous night.

“Well,” I said triumphantly, “that’s exactly when I was giving Oscar his bath. I particularly remember because we were playing with his inflatable Titanic and his inflatable iceberg.”

“Oscar! He might have done this.”

“Except that he was in the bath, playing with the Titanic. Look, darling, it’s just a silly practical joke – I think that rather than going off half cocked and making unfounded accusations, or executing lots of people, we should simply remove the lavatory paper and wait to see if any more information comes to light.”

Unfortunately, this was not the end of the matter. A couple of days later I was again summoned to the throne room.

“Here comes Chief Inspector Moppet,” announced John as soon as I walked in. “Let’s see what she has to say about this.”

In the centre of the room was Oscar’s blue plastic potty.

In the potty was a steaming pile of horse dung.

“Well?” demanded John.

“Well…um, I don’t quite know what to say. I mean, obviously it’s there by mistake.”

There was a silence.

“Moppet, I have to receive a delegation of bishops this afternoon. They don’t expect to walk into my throne room and find themselves face to face with a heap of horse shit.”

“I realise that.”

“If I wanted a pile of steaming excrement in the throne room, I think I could manage to organise it myself.”

“Well, quite.”

“You have to get your son under control.”

“I’ll talk to Oscar,” I said.

When I questioned Oscar about the potty his big blue eyes filled with tears. That was how I knew he was responsible. Otherwise he would have thought the whole thing hilarious.

Once again, he had an alibi. I decided to let the matter go.

Two days later it happened again.

No-one was quite sure at what point the potty had appeared in the throne room. But it had, and John had accidentally stepped in it.

Oscar, again, had been elsewhere at the time. But I knew I couldn’t protect him much longer.

“He’ll have to be whipped, Moppet,” John declared. “You’ve coddled him long enough.”

“Corporal punishment is not the answer. I will not have you or anyone else lay a finger on our child.”

“You’ll do as you’re told,” roared John.

We took Oscar to family counselling.

There was still no proof of his involvement in the strikes on the throne room, but it was plain that all was not well in his little world. By this time my pregnancy was showing, and every time I picked him up, he tried to kick my stomach.

The counsellor explained to us that in his own very special way, Oscar was telling us what he thought of our decision to expand our family.

“But, God’s arse, he’s got dozens of brothers and sisters! Why should he care about two more?” John wanted to know.

“Lady Moppet has no other children. Oscar perceives these new maternal siblings as a threat. He needs lots of love and attention at this time.”

“He needs a good thrashing,” John said.

The counsellor thought that if Oscar felt “more involved” in what went on in the throne room, he might have less desire to sabotage it.

So Oscar sat on John’s knee while he gave audiences and held councils. This actually seemed to work.

“He doesn’t say a word,” John told me, “but he drinks it all in. And then he asks some quite clever questions. I think he takes more after me.”

While John and Oscar bonded, I awaited the birth of the twins.

“Well, Mopsy Bunny,” said John to me not long after this, “you’re pretty far along. I think it’s time we held the baby shower.”

“Baby shower? But that’s not a British custom. And anyway, it’s only for the first child. I bought all the buggies and changing mats and things I needed for Oscar.”

“I thought we’d ask for castles. Gold, bolts of silk, books and so on. Oh, and I want a Nespresso machine. George Clooney has one.”

“But darling, you don’t understand. I can’t throw my own baby shower, a friend or relative would have to do it for me.”

“Melusina Granger has very kindly offered her services.”

“Oh no,” I groaned.

Over the last few months I’d seen rather more of Mel than I wanted to. She kept “dropping in” to get “inspiration” for the sequel to The Wicked Mistress. In vain did I protest that the character she was writing about bore no resemblance to me, that I didn’t like the books, didn’t like her and wanted her to stay away. She was impervious. Just a few days before she had bounced into the solar while I was trying to take a nap.

“I tell you what, Moppet, I could do with tea and a bun. I’m absolutely exhausted. Last night, what was I doing but minding my own business, writing chapter three, when you totally ran away with the story! It was only supposed to be a paragraph about you travelling north. It was going to rain, for a bit of atmosphere. And what do you do, Moppet, what do you do but tear off your clothes and start pleasuring yourself in plain view!”

Unfortunately, John had chosen that moment to walk in.

“What’s this?” he roared. “Moppet pleasured herself in plain view?“

It had taken a long time to explain.

“I don’t want a baby shower,” I said.

“Oh, you don’t. Moppet does not want a baby shower. Do you quite realise, Moppet,” said John, “that you are having twins? Two more sons to provide for. I think that until you actually get off your backside and show some signs of providing for them yourself, you shouldn’t object to my attempts to do so.”

He had a point. I went along with it.

I ought to have expected trouble when John announced that he was going to station some of his mercenaries in the room where the shower was to be held, “in case things get rough.”

I sat in an armchair with my feet up on a stool. Mel sat in another armchair next to me, holding a clipboard.

“Right,” she announced gaily once the ladies of the court were seated on stools in a circle, “we’re going to start with some games.”

“The posters said refreshments,” pointed out one of the ladies.

“There will be tea, coffee and cake after the games.”

Looks were exchanged.

“No wine?”

“Baby showers are non-alcoholic,” explained Mel. “Moppet’s up the duff here, and so are half of you, so I really don’t think anyone should be drinking. Right. The first game is called ‘Find the Turd.’”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I thought you said, ‘Find the Turd.’”

“So I did. ‘Find the Turd.’”

Find the Turd? Find the Turd?

I thought there’d been rather too much turd-finding in the castle recently, without introducing more.

“It’s a genuine twenty-first century baby shower game,” Mel told me proudly. “I found it on the Internet.”

Oh, God.

“Right, ladies. Underneath your chairs you will find a nappy. The lady whose nappy is soiled will win a prize!”

They perked up slightly at the mention of a prize. The nappies were disposable, made by Little Princess, and caused some puzzlement. No-one seemed to have won.

“Come on Moppet,” said Mel briskly. “Open your nappy.”

Gingerly I extracted my nappy from under my chair. And examined it.

The interior was smeared with a solid brown mass.

“Wispa bar,” explained Mel. “Well, ladies, Moppet has won!”

There was some desultory applause, and a lot of muttering.

“Your prize, Moppet, is a ceremonial cradle!”

“But shouldn’t someone else…I mean, I’m the guest of honour. Let’s mix up the nappies and try again,” I suggested.

“Bloody cooperate,” hissed Mel at me. “Okay, ladies, onto the next game! It’s called ‘Guess Moppet’s Girth’! Guess how many inches round Moppet measures, and the person who comes closest will win a prize.”

They quite liked this one. They took ages over it. I had to stand up, sit down, turn round while they chuntered and discussed and finally scribbled numbers onto little bits of paper in frowning secrecy.

“And you, Moppet,” ordered Mel. “You have to guess.”

“But I know.” John had taken to measuring me every day. He and Oscar had a fascination with the size of my stomach, although Oscar had had to be reassured about his fears that “Mummy would burst.”

Mel held out a pencil and paper. “I know you do, so don’t mess this up.”

Of course I won.

“Moppet’s prize,” announced Mel, “is a Nespresso machine. Okay, one last game! This is called ‘Give Your Money to Moppet.’ It’s very easy to play. I pass round a sack, and you put some money into it. Whatever you have on you.”

They very nearly rebelled at this point, but the mercenaries put their hands on the hilts of their swords threateningly and they had to give in.

The heavy, clinking bag was handed to me.

“And now the refreshments,” said Mel. “You can leave your gifts for Lady Moppet on the table on your way out. But first, three cheers to show Moppet how pleased we are for her!”

Dead silence.

“I said,” continued Mel menacingly, “let’s give Moppet three cheers to show how pleased we are for her.”

There was a very subdued “hoorah.”

As soon as I could I escaped to find John.

“Good haul?” He took the sack and weighed it in his hand.

“How could you put me through that? I have never been so embarrassed!”

But he was only interested in gloating over the Nespresso machine.

“Only decaf for you, Moppet. I can try all the different flavours, but you can’t.”

***

Lady Moppet has given birth to twin sons. Mother and children are doing well.

Adventures in Time Travel

Tags: king john, lady moppet of yorkshire, melusina granger, oscar