Tag Archives: mother

Happy New Year I left my boots


In among the flurry of New Year greetings came one from Littlesis, “Happy new year I left my boots at your house.”  Apart from making me laugh at the randomness of it, I’d probably have sent it in two messages rather than one sentence, I already know she’d left her boots behind as she’d left them in the stupidest place and I’d fallen over them twice before I had the presence of mind to put them away

Littesesis is known for being a bit forgetful. Boofuls and me usually have a little bet with ourselves about what she’ll leave behind this time  and where we’ll find it. Tissues in the bed is the favourite one.

Just for the record Littlesis (I now she reads this) YEEEAUCH!

She’s can be a bit scatty,  just like my mother.

It reminds me of the time  (don’t know why ) when I was driving Mum home from somewhere, can’t remember where but it’s not important. Half way back on a busy, rush hour  M6 motorway she began to have an angina attack. “It’s ok, I’ve got my tablets, carry on driving.” Was her reply to my instant attempt to pull over and ring an ambulance.

As I continued to drive in the rush hour traffic, Mum began the scrabbling in her bag . She always reminded me of a little mouse with the scrabbling. She was never able to find anything in her bag quickly because of all the junk in there so retrieving anything involved a five minute scrabble. On it went;

Scrabble, scrabble, scrabble, wheeze, gasp, clutch chest, scrabble scrabble. Clearly getting more panicky by the second she scrabbled more and more frantically in her bag. Of course the more panicky she got, the less chance there was of her actually finding anything

“Oh my God, Mother! I’m pulling over.”

” No, no, I’ve got them, I can’t get them out. You try.”  And with that she flung the bag at me so I could find her tablets.  The floppy bag landed on my lap with a  soft ‘phluuuump.’ Inviting me to try and find anything with one hand in the myriad folds of fabric.

Scrabble, scrabble, scrabble, steer, flash, “sorry!”  scrabble.

Keeping one eye on the traffic and the other on my Mum I steered with my  left  hand and scrabbled with my right, praying for a small miracle to happen.

I finally located the bottle but could I get it out of the bag?  Could I hell.  I could feel it, I could hold it but I couldn’t for the life of me (or Mum) get that bottle out of that bag. What the hell..?

Eventually I worked out that the lining in the bag had ripped and Mum had inadvertently dropped the bottle inside the lining. Once I’d worked  how to get to the bottle it didn’t take long to get a couple of tablets out, steering with my knees as Mum was shaking too much by this time to do anything that involved fine motor skills and would have dropped them all over the floor, which would have involved yet more scrabbling.

She managed to take the medication and quickly began to feel better. If only the same could have been said for me, I was a gibbering wreck by this time.

” Bloody Hell, Mother! I could do with a couple of those myself, now!!!

The rest of the journey passed uneventfully, it’s a good job really as I’m not sure my nerves would have stood any more excitement.

Life with Mother was always a  roller coaster ride, she had more lives than your average cat and I’m certain she used up every one of them with escapades like this one.

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Early doors


It’s two in the morning and here I am blogging despite having an early appointment tomorrow. What’s going on?

Well, let me fill you in.

About an hour after climbing into my pit for some much needed shut-eye a band of merry workmen decided to turn up and do some work in the field directly in front of our house. These guys clearly enjoy their work. I could tell by all the laughing, shouting and jocularity, floodlights lighting up the area, smashing of holes in brick walls with lump hammers, generators running and general disturbing of my peace.  That, combined with Mr Snory adding his two penn’orth to the general melee with his latest selection of snores delivered at ear splittingly loud volumes to make sure I didn’t miss any of the finer nuances in the  tone and pitch,  finally drove me downstairs. Ggggggrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!

So, ho sodding hum. What am I going to do now?  (twiddles thumbs)

Shall I tell you how it suddenly occurred to me tonight that I have finally turned into my Mum?

We had a chinese take away tonight on account of the fact that I haven’t been food shopping for ages and the fridge, bread bin, cupboards and freeezer are all looking more than a little depleted. Our house is an anorexics paradise at the moment.  I opted for a special chow mein and a glass of shiraz. Very nice.  Just after I’d finished eating my  fellow photography geek friend phoned so I sat happily chatting to her for a while and indulged in another glass or two of wine.

Dangerous combination for a diet that, chinese food and red wine. As we all know, an hour after eating a chinese you’re hungry again and red wine always gives me the munchies in the way that a spliff gives people the munchies (so I’m told by those who have tried such things).

Boofuls, however did not enjoy his take away, his dish of the day was sweet and sour chicken with chips. It was disgusting, even by my standards and that’s saying something. It was so disgusting that it went in the bin. If that meat was chicken I’ll paint myself purple and run naked down the street shouting ‘cock a doodle do.’

‘Yes, it’s all very interesting but what’s it got to do with turning into your Mum?’

Patience, dear reader, I’m getting there.

While I was in the phone chatting to my friend and hiding from the James Bond film that Boofuls was watching, he popped his head round the door and announced he was going out for a decent chinese. What he came back with was fruit teacakes.  Mmmmmmmmm!!

Of course as the evening wore on the munchies set in, in an absence of chocolate in the house my attention turned to the teacakes. I buttered one and sat on the settee absent mindedly eating it when I realised that what I was actually doing was ripping bits off it and sitting there like a gerbil with a bit in each hand as I munched – exactly as my Mum used to do. The times I took the mickey out of her for her gerbil impression and now I’m doing it too!!!  Oh. My. God.

As if I don’t already see her every time i look in the mirror, now I’ve picked up her mannerisms as well!

There may be a lot of truth in that saying: ‘If you want to know what the girl will be like, look at the mother.’