My ordinary life

I know the language of your laugh, tripping over circumstance I know the story of your walk, I taste the sugar in the salt I taste to savour your little ways, the colours that you choose to paint your day

Thursday, December 01, 2005

You don't call, you don't care

Guilty of not calling more my dear sweet 56 year-old old-fashioned, Scouse Jewish mother more than once a week for a "reasonable length of time", she called me this morning at work to tell me how wonderful the Gruckmans' barmitzvah was.

Scarcely knowing the Gruckmans, since I roared out of home in my beige Fiesta, called Harry, 13 years ago, my 31 year-old ears paid homage to my mother's incredulous ability to serve up a dish of information (she thinks I will find interesting) with a nice dollup of extra fat guilt on top. You have to hear it rather than read it but the jist goes along these lines.

Me: Hello mum. Sorry. I was not ignoring you. I was working out my new phone.

Mum: Yes, the barmitzvah was fabulous. (In a tone, which says, thanks for not asking)

Me: Huh? Whose? (Genuinely forgetting what she is talking about but sensing her disappointment)

Mum: Well, yes. The food was wonderful, your dad had the salmon, and was sat down most of the evening but had a good time, Daniel asked me to dance twice, I thought Paula had asked him to ask me but he just came up on his own. He is such a lovely boy. Cousin Paula said if her kids turn out half as good as you and Mark, she would be lucky. Yeah, well. We danced the Amarillo and the speeches were terrific. Kerry from down the road was there, you remember, she was the teacher at KD, who has not worked since a heavy blackboard fell on her, she has a stick now and lives next door to the Salkies in Prestwich. Phil and Adele Tray were there, Lisa's just had a little boy, her third, but you are not interested in that. It was such a nice occasion, I rang them Monday to tell them how wonderful it was, the band was marvellous, they gave out sunglasses to the kids and umbrellas for It's Raining Men.

Me: Wow. Umbrellas. (I honestly cannot recall the previous 1,000 words, so it's my only chance to show I have been listening)

Mum: Have you spoken to your brother?

Me: Yes, I am seeing him Saturday. I have to go now, am at work, but will chat later. I have my Xmas party tomorrow so will catch you over the weekend

Mum: Well enjoy it and just be careful. I have sent you your Orange bill and bank statements in the post. You should have them by Friday. Let me know if you don't

Me: OK (Fearful of the consequences for the Post Office and wondering how careful I need to be when sitting and eating at a table)

Bye Mother.