Small World by Jem Clarke

Jem Clarke is in his very, very early fifties, is five foot zero inches tall and has never left the family home in Cleethorpes, which he still shares with his parents…

What a strange, overheated summer I had.

I began checking the thermometer before determining whether it was worthwhile engaging in conversation with my parents. Despite paying no heed to climate emergencies, they become even more unreasonable at approximately 28°C.

At one moment, though, they were affable. They asked me, ‘What do you want for your birthday?’

During my childhood, my parents weren’t good in this area. They once gave me a doll when I asked for an eagle-eye Action Man, and a glitter factory when I asked for a chemistry set.

I’ve since learnt to lower my expectations. ‘I’d quite like a towel,’ I said.

‘Towel? Towels? What’s wrong with his towel?’ Mother said, nudging father for a reaction. But he was too busy scooping up grapefruit portions from the breakfast table. ‘Everything going on in the world and this one wants a softer towel…’

‘Not softer,’ I explained, ‘just newer… er, less odour-giving. It’s become musty, Mother, to be honest.’

‘Well, to be honest, if you had fewer baths, you wouldn’t need a new towel. And look at your fat belly. No wonder you’re going through towels when you’ve got that much new surface area to scrub dry.’ She suddenly reached over and grabbed the top of my elasticated, easy-comfort pants and pinged them against my smallish paunch.

Father had to physically restrain her.

‘Maybe just a birthday card?’ I asked.

I sat in my bedroom, conserving energy and closing curtains during the day. This was the silver lining of the heatwave. It made me feel like a teenage student again, slumping in a chair in a darkened room on a weekday. Not to be sniffed at.

Mother’s fat-shaming was like Demis Roussos having a word with Pavarotti. Still, I searched the internet for a virtual personal trainer/life coach.

Seven pounds a month would get me ‘advice on working out and on working out life from PT-certificated Michael Walkswithoutwings’ as well as ‘tough-love messages’ and ‘self-love messages’ texted from the man himself.

In fact, I had the self-love covered, and Mother was all over the tough love.

I went downstairs to tell Mother I now had my own personal trainer. Despite the government’s express guidance, both parents were now making merry in the midday sun, gardening during the heat apocalypse!

I went out to confront them, with a suntan spray concealed behind my back. ‘You’re gardening without hats,’ I said.

‘It’s not a fashion show,’ Mother said. She walked past me with secateurs – so I kept things polite.

‘Look – all I’m trying to do is keep you and Father away from heat stroke and heat exhaustion.’ I spritzed Father’s bald spot with suntan lotion. I don’t think he even noticed.

(Later, he felt the top of his head and looked at the trace white fluid left on his fingers, mumbling, ‘Damn birds.’)

As I aimed at Mother, she began helicoptering her tiny arms to knock my nozzle-aim off, repeating, ‘Thank you but no, thank you but no’ – a strategy she’d perfected when confronted with the man jangling the collection plate at the door of the crematorium.

‘Real collection plates are silent. If it barks, it’s a begging bowl,’ she has explained to many a confused funeral guest over the years.

Suddenly my phone vibrated to life. It was Michael Walkswithoutwings. Turns out that’s his real birth name and he’s Native American. Unfortunately, his gym is in Doncaster, Maryland, USA, and not Yorkshire. The journey to his gym would lose all the pounds needed to hit my target weight; my knees and my mother would object.

Mind you, Michael said that it’s only 18°C in Maryland. I can’t say I’m not tempted.