---In the shop buying some beer for Mr. Fox.
Quite suddenly my mum's far too extrovert, gossipy friend jumps behind the selves.
Mum's friend: [glancing curiously over the bottles in the trolley]
Having a sauna-day? Are you sure that is enough?
Me:
a) Yes.
b) No, actually I drink three bottles of wine a day. It's not enough. Why don't you go now and tell the whole village what a boozer I am.
Mum's friend: [looking curiously at the bin-bags I bought]
Oh, you buy those cheap ones.
Me:
a) Yes.
b) Bugger off you curious b****.
Mum's friend: Your mother told me about that phone-incident. Don't do that anymore. It's not good to waste police's time.
Me:
a) Oh, ha ha, no I surely won't.
b) I'm going to kill my mum now.
---Later having a coffee with mum and some relatives
Mum: Are you sure of what you are doing? Isn't it good to be what you are? There must be thousands of well-paid vacancies open for those art... erm... something...what you are.
Me: I want at least try this...
Mum: If you'd go to study something else. A doctor sounds nice.
Me: Mum, I'm 33.
Mum: How about an assistant nurse then?
Me: Mum, seriously.
Mum: Have you got any money?
Me: Yes.
Mum: That's nice. [gives me a tenner]
Mum: Oh, almost forgot I bought you a present.
Me: Thanks! I have always wanted ... this revitalift antiwrinkle-cream.
8 comments:
Ah, mothers.
I'm so happy my mum can't read this.
I will go now and sing this lullaby:
Momma's gonna keep you right here under her wing
She won't let you fly, but she might let you sing.
You never know, the anti-wrinkle cream might taste nice on rye bread with smoked salmon if you run out of cream cheese.
Ahh, we've got rye toast and cold smoked salmon... [I'll go bankrupt if I will end up liking it.]
Sounds like a nightmare. Glad i'm not the only one with an interfearing mother (my mums speciality is eves dropping on my telephone conversations)
IP;
A1. I was virtually in England and thought it was just half past twelve. I have a jetlag, actually a bloglag.
A2. Not unprintable: bitca.
A3. What a fine idea. He might occasionally bowl my mother over.
A4. We use foxhound tails in the fox earth. Tenner is not a fortune, I suppose.
MB; My mother tends to be as horrible nightmare as I am.
I should probably be grateful then that my mother fully supports my own decision to bankrupt myself whilst trying to make a career out of writing :)
Also, following my Mum's birthday celebrations, I too have had quite enough of the friends of my parents.
Some bloke: Do you remember what you wrote in my 55th birthday party visitors book?
Me: [dreading to think] No.
Some bloke: You were about 10.
Me: Oh [anticipates something unutterably precocious].
Some bloke: I wasn't sure whether to be insulted.
Me: [sensing dangerous ground] Erm, what was it?
Some bloke: It was something about being a recycled teenager.
Me: [still none the wiser] Oh, right. [assuming that this answer will suffice] I think that was probably something I got off my Dad.
[quite some minutes later]
Some bloke: So what's your assessment now?
Me: [genuinely not a clue what he's talking about] Erm, what?
Some bloke: Of me. [adopts more open posture, for display purposes persumably]. Have I changed much?
Me: Err... [opens and closes mouth, then makes vague lost for words type gesture]
Some bloke: For the better, maybe?
Me: Erm, yes?
Some bloke: [still staring expectantly]
Me: [shrugging] I suppose so. Why not?
I think I was saved at this point by the arrival of some food. As was he.
And my parents wonder why I hate social occasions.
Poor you, OPC. I hope rest of the party was bit better :)
A recycled teenager sounds very interesting indeed...
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