Even though I’m not Catholic, I had been feeling a bit of guilt. I decide to phone my Mum, hoping for some sensible, intelligent, conversation that doesn’t revolve around:
- Ex-neighbour S: hasn’t she put on loads of weight since you last saw her?
- Relative Y‘s gynaecological problems in great, great, great. (I’m a modern man. I don’t blush when women talk about menstruation, the menopause, period pains, sanitary towels, etc. I just find the topic a week bit uninteresting on a Saturday evening. Don’t you?)
- Braech of confidentiality about someone elses’s personal problems.
- Who’s the next victim of the guillotine, just like the tricoteuse women, knitting away.
Conversations with my mum tend to be somewhat negative. If you have a bonfire, she’ll empty her bladder over it.
“It’s taking a while to get a new tenant in my house.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have used that agency.”
Sadly, my sister, V, is a mini-me of my mum, only with:
- A single-digits reading age
- A vocabulary of swear words that would embarrass the average dock worker
- Even less tact and emotional intelligence than her mother
Yesterday I mentioned to our mother that V had un-friended me.
Why? What have you done?
Not, “Why? What happened?” An immediate accusation.
There was a discussion about Northern Ireland. I was asked what I knew about Northern Ireland. I explained I had relatives who had served there in the British Army. V leapt in with a diatribe against Dad. I told her politely that this was not the right forum to go into family disputes when people were debating Northern Ireland. Nobody else is interested anyway.
Cue immediate defence of V.
But your dad is an (expletive deleted).
Ginge in Germany:
But a public discussion about is not the right place to hang your dirty laundry in public.
A curt reply:
That translates as:
You are right, but I am not prepared to speak against my mini-me.
Do you not see why that is wrong?
Do you not understand?
It just doesn’t sink in. Sometimes, frankly, I wonder if my mum has autistic tendencies due to her tactlessness and lack of empathy towards other. In the end I give up and say that Schatz and I havae to head out now, catch you later.
Sometimes I feel like just not bothering to call her and see how long it takes for her to contact me. Regrettably I know it’s all my fault. I chose to be born with the wrong set of “equipment” down below. My fault. Hands up. I admit it. I am ashamed of the bad choice I made.
Honour your mother and father, yes, good idea. But honour and respect don’t come at the drop of a hat. Honour and respect have to be earned.
Have a commanding day, won’t you!