Tag Archives: Mother

January 2, 2013 · 11:17 am

Can we not just have some intercourse?

Christmas is over- which means it’s a great time to remember it. (Obviously- because that’s how memory works. Otherwise we just call it ‘noticing things’). Here are my Christmas memories:

Christmas this year was at my Mothers. My Mother, despite her penchant for throwing parties and lunches, is not a natural hostess. She has an off-putting habit of hoovering the kitchen floor whilst you are still at the table, eating; or plumping sofa cushions up whilst you are sitting against them. Unwilling to serve anyone younger than herself, she encourages her children to ‘grab a drink from the fridge’, and is later apoplectically angry that we have drunk the ‘very expensive’ red wine. (Why the red wine is in the fridge to start with is a whole other issue).

We were 5 for Christmas- my Mother, her paramour, my little brother, my little sister and myself. Originally, my little sister wasn’t meant to be there at all- as a junior doctor, she had to go into work. As a junior doctor, however, she was about as helpful as an iPhone charger for a Blackberry, and got sent home early. ‘Don’t tell Mum,’ I encouraged her. ‘And I’ll go in first, then you follow as a surprise.’

Which, like most of my ideas, initially worked wonderfully. Until my Mother made an enormous fuss over my little sister, plying her with champagne and attention, whilst asking me to ‘find that big bowl’.

To her credit, my Mother’s Christmas lunch was faultless- mounds of impeccable food and really excellent wine. In fact, there was so much food that my little brother begged post mains, ‘Can we not just have some intercourse?’

As we stared at him in bewilderment we realized he meant ‘a small pause in-between courses’. It was funny enough to almost forgive him for beating me at charades.

‘We have movies!’ My Mother announced excitedly after lunch.

My sister and I nodded politely, wondering when it would be appropriate to tell my aged Mother that DVDs are pretty universally available these days. ‘It’s a Wonderful Life,’ She announced, pressing play. ‘Why is this such bad quality?’ She asked crossly, rounding on us. ‘Look- it’s in black and white. This was a very expensive DVD player.’

Worn out with explaining how time and technology work, my little sister fell asleep on the sofa next to me. My little brother had slunk off upstairs, presumably to investigate the differences between a ‘goose’ and a ‘duck’ (this was another excellent conversational addition from him), so I was the only offspring still present to witness my Mother’s outstanding critical commentary of ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ – which, according to her, ‘should have been called ‘this life is terrible, please get me out of my small town’. I left before she saw the next movie, but am eager to hear her wise and insightful thoughts on ‘Ted’.

‘That was fun,’ My little sister said cheerfully on the way home. I turned to glare at her. ‘You spent most of the day asleep,’ I pointed out. ‘Yes,’ She said happily. ‘Well I was a bit worn out from all the love and attention I had been receiving. Did you ever find that big bowl, by the way?’ I glared at my little sister, who, completely unaffected, told our cab driver, ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’.

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October 17, 2012 · 10:59 am

No need to be naked

This morning, I had a meeting with Nike. Initially, I misread the email, so thought the meeting was from 8.30-10pm. i had been told I could bring a guest, and, unable to find anyone decent who wanted to be awake at such a hideously early hour, I invited my Mother.

As it turns out, it was less of a ‘meeting’, and more of a ‘Train to Run’ class, with an ‘Nike Master Trainer’. This was annoying for several reasons, the first being that I had to stop laughing at my Mother for turning up in running kit.

The class was a Women’s only training group.

I personally can think of few more competitive, judgemental situations a person can put themselves in. Luckily, I had brought my Mother. We had a perfectly splendid time, falling over in the balance drills, yelling in the strength portion, laughing while we failed to understand the partner training bit.

By the end of the hour, we had achieved the perfect ‘instantaneous-move-from-lounging-to-doing-the-proper-exercise-because-the-coach-was-approaching’ manoeuvre, and were feeling tremendously proud of ourselves.

‘Quick,’ I whispered to my Mother. ‘There’s going to be a rush on the showers.’ In a burst of speed unseen in the actual running class, we dashed from the studio to the changing rooms.

I grabbed my towel, my Mother grabbed someone else’s washbag, and we hopped into the showers. ‘This is not my washbag,’ My Mother called out to me. ‘I know,’ I replied, slathering myself with the fancy free shampoo attached to the wall. ‘I thought you were upgrading.’ Apparently she was not, so she hopped back out of the shower and returned with her own toiletries. (I personally feel that everyone uses far too many toiletries. There is only one thing you need in a shower. Shampoo. It is the all-purpose washer. Think of it as the ketchup of washing. It goes on everything).

Due to my Mother’s unusual approach to other people’s possessions, I had plenty of time, bored, fully-dressed, in the female changing room. Here are my observations:

1. No-one is able to look elegant when trying to remove their knickers whilst holding a towel around their waist. It is the most ungainly and attention-drawing position of all poses, despite the forced nonchalance of the performer’s face.

2. There are women who, if I looked like them naked, I would never ever bother to clothe myself, but instead occasionally, Anna Karenina like, drape the odd fur across my exquisite body if I felt chilly, yet are bizarrely shy in public changing rooms. (Naturally, as they hid in the corners and tried to change without an ounce of skin being on show, I sought to put them at ease by staring at them and smiling broadly).

3. I am all for body-confidence. However, there simply is no need to lovingly blow-dry one’s hair stark naked. it is almost impossible for the women who are sharing your mirror to apply their eye-liner in a straight line.

4. Not enough women, despite my continued, bullying efforts, are wearing matching underwear. I am considering spot checks on the tube in the morning. I am pretty sure Boris will back me.

5. My Mother takes forever to get showered and dressed. I am not sure if this is because she is tall, or because she is old. Either way, I had very much outstayed my ‘casual observer’ position by the time we left the changing room. I hope you all enjoy these insights, because I’m not sure I’ll be in a position to make any more anytime soon.

 

Gil took us through drills from Nike Training Club’s new running specific classes. These specialised drills will be available for all runners free through the Nike Training Club app and Live classes around the UK –
http://www.facebook.com/NikeTrainingClubUK/app_129270587159812

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September 19, 2012 · 12:24 pm

My housemates are idiots (and I’ve run out of shampoo)

I have run out of shampoo. I usually steal shampoo from my Mother’s house when I go over to visit, but the last time I was there my hands were full of stolen wine, and I forgot. So, this week, I have been experimenting. Not with different types of shampoo, but with the varying levels of generosity and attention to detail of my two housemates.

The shower room (which, handily, is separate from the toilet) is a very useful source of information. In fact, I might go so far as to say it has yielded more personal data to me than the time when my housemates were out, and I went for a quick rifle through their stuff. Let me quickly describe our shower room. It has a mirror which opens to reveal 3 shelves (of which we each own one). We have put in a freestanding set of drawers (there are 4, but the bottom one holds bathroom cleaning products), and along the base of the bath (at the opposite end to the shower-head), are three further baskets.

‘It is quite impossible that we need this much storage in the shower’, I told my little sister when we bought it. ‘No-one can possibly possess so many toothbrushes.’

I was right about that, although we currently have 5 toothbrushes in the toothbrush mug (former houseguests- please feel free to re-claim your possessions. Though not those awesome theatre binoculars, I use those to make myself feel like a giant when I read articles).

What I had failed to consider was the amount of cleaning product my housemate and little sister would think it was appropriate to possess.

The bath baskets are open, so every single time anyone accidentally wanders into the shower room looking for the loo, they can instantly see the profligate and excessive spending habits of my housemates.

My own basket, it is true, looks particularly scarce this week, its facewash and razor in the midst of an existential crisis about their role in the grand scheme of things as they lie in the black expanse on basket. But even with the reassuring presence of their shampoo friend, my basket remains a Zen-like zone of simplicity, when compared to the brilliantly coloured, stuffed baskets of my housemates.

This week, I have been forced to examine their contents more closely than usual (obviously I don’t want to start washing my hair with exfoliating wash or leave-in colour-protect conditioner), and I have come to the conclusion that my housemates are mugs. Which is brilliant, because it means I can happily continue to ‘borrow’ shampoo from them both, in the full knowledge that they are just dying to return to Boots and give more of their money to Herbal Essences.

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June 28, 2012 · 9:57 am

I am not my Mother’s favourite

One of my favourite games as a child was to ask my parents piercingly revealing questions:

‘We’re on a boat,’ I told them sternly. ‘And it is sinking. You can only save one of us. Who do you save?’

My Father was particularly good at these questions, analysing the situation from all angles, weighing the relative merits of his offspring and spouse before offering a judicious response. My Mother always picked my little sister. ‘OK,’ I said desperately. ‘Let’s say it’s just you, me and Dad. And Dad can swim, but I can’t. Who do you pick?’ ‘Your little sister,’ My Mother would reply without hesitation.

A recent Lakeside Shopping Centre survey shows that 94% of Mothers spend more on their child’s wardrobe than their own. I have no doubt that this is true. What I would be far more interested to know is which child they are spending all this money on.

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May 18, 2012 · 10:35 am

Showing my Mother that I’m a grown-up

I have invited my Mother to an event. ‘I would like to invite you to this event,’ I emailed her last month. ‘Let me know if you’re free- I think the tickets will sell out pretty fast, so I’ve already got our two.’ I sat back smugly and waited for the glory that was sure to ensue. See, the event is this:

http://www.bl.uk/whatson/events/event130829.html, and I’m pretty sure now that I’ve invited my Mother to it I have secured my place as the favourite. ‘This will be such a nice, bonding thing for the two of us to do,’ I thought as I searched my floor for some clean socks. ‘And now that I’ve generously paid for the tickets, I think Mum will finally see me as a proper grown-up. And possibly take me out to dinner.’

My Mother replied. ‘Darling, I would love to come. Can you get another ticket please? I would like to bring my gentleman caller.’ I robustly ignored this email, and called my little sister. ‘I do not want her gentleman caller to come,’ I whined down the phone in an exceptionally grown-up fashion. ‘This was meant to be a fun thing we did just the two of us.’ My little sister encouraged me to talk to our Mother. I took a more sensible approach, and ignored her.

The event is next week, and this morning my Mother sent me another email. It was titled, ‘the 25th May’, and read as follows:

Darling

1. Was this a real invitation?

2. If yes can ****** come? (she obviously didn’t censor his name, but I am. He doesn’t deserve any more attention)

3. What time does it start and end?

4. Will you require dinner afterwards?

Let me know

Love

Mum

It seems my excellent plan to ignore this problem has not worked, and I need to take a different approach. So, as a mature and reasonable grown-up, I have written this blogpost. I think you’ll all agree that this was the most adult thing to do.

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April 10, 2012 · 10:29 am

I re-write books for you

I was born in the 80s, and two of my Mother’s books that I remember most clearly from that period are:

‘How to get a flat stomach in 14 days’

and

‘Feel the Fear- and do it anyway’.

My Mother will now be furiously denying that she ever owned any such books. But she did. If you give me a moment, I can tell you a little something about their covers. (Precisely what you would imagine, only with more embarrassing photos. And jagged, ‘you can do it!’ font).

(At 7 years old, I was pretty much their target audience)

Anyway, once I had finished reading all the baby books (I can tell you three different ways to breastfeed twins simultaneously) I started reading these books. They were incredibly boring. It was almost as if the authors had spent all their time and energy on the title, and had run out of steam before they began writing the actual book. (Other examples of this: ‘Pooh gets stuck’ and ‘Finding the joy in Alzheimer’s’).

So I have decided to write these books myself. Also, my Mother has a rabid fascination with giving things away, so the original books are long gone. OK,

‘How to get a flat stomach in 14 days’:

Days 1-12: live normally.
Day 13: eat nothing.
Day 14: flat stomach

‘Feel the Fear-and do it anyway’:

Absolutely idiotic. Fear is one of the few things that separates us from lemmings. I have no idea what the ‘it’ that you want to do is, but stop it. (Although, if you are the kind of person who buys a book titled ‘Feel the Fear-and do it anyway’, I’m pretty certain the ‘it’ isn’t that exciting). You strike me as the type of person who ‘seeks medical advice’ before going on a step-machine. Or turns off your phone before you board a plane. Or washes grapes before eating them.

Which happily leads me to my next book:

‘How to stop wasting time’:

Don’t wash fruit.

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March 7, 2012 · 1:39 pm

WIE and working for my Mother

I flew back from NY yesterday, which sounds terribly glamorous. Unfortunately I went straight from the airport to my Mother’s office, because in a moment of weakness (and poverty) I agreed to cover for her PA.

I arrived at my desk at 9.30am, to be greeted by a note from my Mother. ‘Welcome! Much work for you. Please do. Will be in at 11ish.’ I was not precisely sure what to do, so I pottered around the office showing everyone the excellent salt n pepper shakers I had purloined from Virgin Atlantic. 11am came and went, and I was still having a lovely time. At 11.45 my telephone rang imperiously. ‘Hello,’ My Mother shouted cheerily. ‘Please come up to my office. I have arrived.’

 (My Mother believes she is so sylph-like that it is imperative she announces her presence at every occasion, to save being over-looked. I would like to point out that my Mother is enormously tall, wears absurdly bright colours and shouts a lot. It would be easier to over-look a rat running across your face while you slept.

 The rat-thing has actually happened to my little sister, who prefers us not to bring it up. Naturally, I try to mention it as often as possible).

 ‘Hello Mother,’ I said politely as I entered her office. ‘Something has happened to your hair.’ ‘Oh darling,’ My Mother replied. ‘I have just been to see my hair chap. (My Mother’s life is littered with ‘chaps’, all of whom perform various tasks most normal people do for themselves). She proceeded to offload work onto me, metaphorically and physically (‘No darling, it really would be much easier if you took all of the files at once. Can you not pile them higher then just feel your way down the stairs?’).

I need a new job. Ideally, I need my Mother’s job, but she seems to be pretty firmly ensconced, so I’m looking elsewhere. In fact, tomorrow I will be looking all day, at the WIE symposium. (For those of you sadly out of the loop, this is the Women Inspiration and Enterprise symposium, taking place in celebration of International Women’s Day).

I expect the stellar line-up, who are there to ‘equip women with the tools and confidence to succeed’, and who include  Jo Malone, Kathy Lette and June Sarpong will be completely prepared to pass their impressive, well-paid jobs to me. In fact I notice that they will be launching the WIE Mentorship Scheme- I would be the perfect candidate for this. (I would like to run it, naturally).

For tickets: www.wienetwork.org. But don’t come if you want to steal my job.

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February 7, 2012 · 11:46 am

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.

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January 9, 2012 · 12:49 pm

Least said, soonest mended

My Mother calls me. ‘Hello?’ I say. ‘Darling,’ she begins worriedly. ‘Did you know that you went out today without your make-up?’ ‘Um,’ I reply slowly. ‘Well, I was just popping over to see you quickly then returning home to shower.’ ‘Oh,’ my Mother replies. ‘So you thought you’d only subject us to it?’

I’m not quite sure what to do with this sentence. For a start, my Mother has taken to referring to herself as ‘us’. ‘Well,’ I say. ‘I’m just in the newsagents buying some sweets, and then I’m off home to shower. I’ll try and sort everything out then.’ ‘Oh good,’ my Mother says, relieved. ‘I just thought I should tell you.’ My Mother’s greatest motto in life is that nothing should be left unsaid.

My friend was surprised by her one morning as he was coming out of the bathroom in his boxers. ‘Darling,’ my Mother called out loudly. ‘You have a friend here who isn’t wearing any clothes.’ (My Mother had popped by to deliver some mail.

My Mother has a very peculiar and unique mail-related illness. All important, much waited for mail is misplaced or discarded, while circulars and Boots advantage points statements are hand delivered to my house. ‘Darling, I know how annoyed you were last time I didn’t forward on your contact lenses. So I just thought I’d be careful,’ she tells me, shoving Dominos flyers into my hands). ‘Well,’ my Mother continues. ‘He’s very tall and muscly, isn’t he?’ She turns to my boxer-clad friend. ‘Did you end up here by mistake?’

A few weeks later we were at a family lunch to celebrate another infuriating achievement by my little sister. ‘I met Lucy’s new friend,’ my Mother says casually to my Grandmother. My little sister grins across the table at me. ‘Did you like him?’ she asks innocently, carefully moving her legs out of kicking range. ‘Well, I think next time I’d like to meet a little less of him,’ my Mother replies thoughtfully. ‘Oh darling,’ she says, turning to me. ‘Don’t frown like that, you’re already terribly lined.’

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December 2, 2011 · 10:38 am

‘Borrowing’ friends

I am meeting my new friend for dinner and a show. I have ‘borrowed’ this new friend from my Mother, whose paucity of friends makes this pretty inexcusable. Nevertheless, I am chaining my bike outside the restaurant, and popping into the box office to pick up our tickets. I realise as soon as I enter the restaurant that I am too hot, so begin an elaborate winter-layer striptease, handing over jumpers and scarves to the bewildered waiter. I place our theatre tickets on the table, and pop to the loo. (I realise once I am on the loo that theatre tickets are eminently stealable. I am panicked. I barely touch the fancy hand moisturizer). On my return, the waiter is still there (though he has disinvested himself of my delightfully fashionable outer-wear. I assume he has hung it all somewhere. Or perhaps he has sold it. Oh gosh. What if he’s made a voodoo doll using DNA scraped off my clothes?

I surreptitiously test my limb freedom by raising my left arm slowly. The waiter looks at me and I cunningly turn it into a wave at the very last second. The last thing I wish to do is anger the voodoo-making waiter). I sit down carefully.

My new friend arrives. We are seated at a banquette, which means one of us gets to recline in comfort, and the other one of us gets a normal chair. ‘You sit on that side,’ I say generously. ‘I know old people like the comfy side.’

Things are going splendidly. I imagine by Christmas I will have appropriated all of my Mother’s friends. (Please see earlier comment. 3 and a half weeks is perfectly adequate to steal the remaining 4). We order vast quantities of food. I am thrilled. My new friend doesn’t drink, so I order a particularly expensive alcoholic beverage for myself (to even things out).

During our meal I entertain my new friend with tales from my life, carefully chosen to highlight my best qualities. ‘And then I said something so absolutely hilarious that the whole room erupted in laughter! I tried not to let it phase me though, of course.’ (This is a good one because it shows me as both witty and modest). Sometimes my new friend tries to speak, but I interrupt her often enough to show that this is not my idea of a good conversation.

I request the bill (I like to draw different famous people’s signatures in the air when requesting restaurant bills. This time I used a quill, and was William Shakespeare) so my new friend pays.

(It’s like the cooking/ washing-up divide. You only need to do half. Please pass this on, it’s saved me a great deal of trouble). We walk across the street to the theatre. As I pre-emptively tell my new friend what ice-cream she should buy me at interval, I know this is a friendship that is going to last.

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