Sun 19th April 2009

I spent the journey to mother’s staring into a horse’s anus. I was stuck behind a horse wagon and always feel a bit nervy about overtaking long vehicles.

When I eventually arrived, we went for another Sunday lunch (my mother and I, I mean – not the horse obviously). Remarkable meal it was too. Although I’m disappointed to note that the pork and crackling I ordered was actually devoid of any of the crackling which had clearly been listed as a part of the dish. Similarly my mother’s turkey and stuffing was devoid of any stuffing.

Mother wished to complain to the waitress about these glaring omissions, but I did not deem such ancillary items worth causing a scene about. Instead I made my protest by rejecting the pudding menu and influencing mother to do the same. This kind of passive/aggressive act is much better than lodging real complaints. Although they may believe they have got away with their negligence, the owners are blissfully unaware that their curmudgeonly refusal of the ancillary (but near essential) items had actually cost them £7 in desserts. And by not being vocal about our chagrin, mother & I have probably safeguarded any meal revisions from being spat upon.

Mother also cut my hair today. I am rather grateful she is both my mother and a hairdresser, as this makes her licensed to make a personal mention that my hair is getting too long. Under my hapless supervision, my sideburns have also been allowed to spread like an untamed path of weeds. I imagine you will be able to tell when mother has passed on, as you will probably see me wondering the streets like some sort of homeless vagrant. But for now I am lucky – free of the burdening necessity of self-awareness.

“Would you like anything doing to your fizzog?” she asked, after completing the craft my latest recede denial.

“If you could make it look handsome, that would be great” I joked, under the pretence of unawareness that she was referring to my chops.

“Don’t say that!” she protested. She seemed to rally against my self-deprecating sense of humour.

“Anyway”, she added, “You are beautiful on the inside, and that’s all that counts!”

Well thank you very much mother. Thanks for spoiling your unconditional motherly role of filling me with love and confidence, with all that “beautiful on the inside” schpeel. So even you believe you’ve sprung a grotesquely hideous mess from within your loins do you? I know I am 31 and you have not been introduced to many girlfriends of late (any girlfriends of late), but does that really confine us to the compensatory last-chance saloon of the “at least being beautiful on the inside?” schtick. Well cheers for that. If you’re going to say something politely vacuous, you might as well have said I was really handsome. Why not use your choice of insincere clichés to humour my sense of self properly?

And in any case, the half-hearted claim you actually opted for can’t possibly be true! I am well aware my insides are far from beautiful ,given the much documented rotten and bloody state of my bowel. What barbed compliments your have torn me with! And just how ugly do you consider me to be in any case? How visually pleasing am I in relation to, say, the horse’s anus I’d followed earlier?

That same horse’s anus I had to endure for about ten miles, just to visit you and your backhanded insults in the first place!