My Mother is a nightmare

I went out dancing with my Mother and her lovely friend last month. I did not have fun. For a start, they both looked nicer than me. ‘Why are all your clothes so nice?’ I asked my Mother wistfully. ‘Can I have some nice clothes too?’ ‘Darling,’ My Mother began kindly. ‘You are laughably poor.

Of course you cannot have any nice clothes. Now stop stealing my tights, I can see you putting them on under your jeans.’ (My Mother is old. I wasn’t sure how good her eyesight was any more. Apparently, still fine). We arrived at the club. My Mother does several things (removes tights from much younger, poorer legs; stores the ‘good wine’ in secret places; pretends to be listening when I’m asking her for advice) but there are three things she simply won’t do. One, cross the road anywhere other than at an officially marked designated crossing. Two, carry anything apart from her handbag. Three, wait in the cold. It is damn near impossible to go out with my Mother. Even exiting the taxi is a nightmare. Wait til I tell you about the dancing.