My son came home yesterday to get all the stuff he left here over the summer. I’m putting him on my car insurance for 24 hours so he can drive to Manchester and to the various friends’ houses where he has the rest of his belongings scattered/stored.
It was a record breaking hot sunny 1st October. We took the dogs for a walk through the woods, the woods where there is a pub at the end and had a pint in the beer garden.
I am not quite sure how this happened, but we ended up in the chippy. We both had a mini rissole, chips, peas and curry sauce. It was only three quid for both of us and no cooking or washing up. We ate them in the car. Then we dashed up to Morrison’s with my “get a free bottle of Encona chilli sauce” voucher. They’d sold out.
Driving back in the car we got to talking about how I am turning into my Mum. My lovely dear old Mum who, in the nicest possible way, used to talk absolute rubbish. She would ask pointless rhetorical questions such as “where are they going?”, “what are they doing?” about total strangers. The sort of things a toddler would say. My dear old Mum, who’d raised a family, held down a full time job, had one or two good wins on the bingo and went cold turkey to get herself off the tranquilisers the docs used to put so many women on in the 1970’s. My Mum who was so easily loved and adored by so many people. My Mum who had managed to hold everything together for so many years, was talking shite.
The thing is, I don’t really feel old. And it is only after the words have bypassed my brain and come out of my mouth that I realise how stupid they are. I understand why my son gets frustrated with me like I used to get frustrated with my Mum.
Its 6 years at the end of this month since my Mum died. What I wouldn’t give to hear one more rubbish, stupid, daft rhetorical question.
Where are you Mum and why aren’t you here now? I’ve got a rotten cold and I want my Mum. So what if I am nearly 55? Although this may sound like a rhetorical question, it is, in fact a statement.
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