Synopsis

Sandy Lovett's confused mother and chaotic life are having an effect on her waistline. She knows she needs to change her life but doesn't know how until she buys a risqué dress which sets in motion a sequence of life-changing events.

After years as a mother, carer and full-time employee, Sandy quits her job and places her mother in a care home, and life seems on the up. But disaster is never far away for the hapless Sandy as her mother’s obsessions continue to wreak havoc and her husband’s business begins to fail. Short of cash and needing a flexible job, Sandy joins a sex-chat service. At The Beaver Club Sandy discovers a talent for selling telephone sex - a skill she later regrets when she meets unscrupulous local politician and prospective MP, Trewin Thackeray.

The Changing Room is a comedy-drama for all those whose glass is half-full. Preferably with gin and a big fat cherry.

Excerpt

“Did I tell you I used to play cards during the war?” says Mum.

“Yes, you did,” I say, trying to disguise the weariness in my voice.

“We played for hours in the shelter. I learnt poker, bridge, crib and rummy. They called me The Whizz Card Kid. When I got evacuated I lived with Mr and Mrs Swanson. They had a big house near Bletchley Park.”

Mum leans forward conspiratorially and taps the side of her nose. “Mr Swanson did something top secret.”

“Really?” I say, trying my best to sound interested, even though I’ve heard this story numerous times. I stir my crème de menthe with my orange Matchmaker and suck it luxuriously to alleviate the boredom.

“Yes. He was a code breaker. Only we didn’t know back then. It was all very hush-hush.”

Mum picks up another card, studies her hand intensely, and puts down the three of spades. This seems odd as she’s only recently put down the two of spades.

“Hmm, curious,” I say, smoking my Matchmaker like Sherlock Holmes. I take another puff of my Matchmaker and rue the fact that Dr Watson is not here to assist me – or indeed anyone with some new conversation. Evenings can be very, very long with Mum.

“Of course, even though Mr Swanson was a code breaker, he couldn’t beat me at cards,” says Mum. “Not even when I drank some of their home brew cider and got tipsy.”

“Well, I’m not surprised you beat him,” I say. “You’ve always had an excellent memory.”

And don’t I know it, I groan inwardly. I could repeat all of Mum’s stories in my sleep. In fact, I could repeat all of Mum’s stories in my sleep, whilst inebriated.

“I was the best in the class at tables,” boasts Mum, interrupting my train of thought. “Ask me any and I’ll know the answer!”

Mum’s eyes light up with excitement at the thought of a maths challenge. I decide to go with the flow. “What’s seven times seven?”

“Forty nine!”

“Six times eight?”

“Forty eight!”

“Nine times seven?”

“Sixty three!”

“What’s nine times three, multiplied by two, minus thirteen?”

“Forty one!” exclaims Mum, striking the table.