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!
Mon 13th April 2009
In an attempt to fully appreciate the spate of nice weather we’ve been having I went for a nice long walk. There is something liberating about having a really long walk, with nothing but an MP3 player for company. I headed through a pleasant wooded area on the outskirts of our village, before cutting through on to the canals.
As I stepped on the towpath, a barge was travelling alongside. I remembered I was still wearing my earphones and didn’t want to appear ignorant, so I took one of the plugs out. I looked at the driver and gave him a puffy-cheeked smile and raised my eyes to him at acknowledgement. The man pleasantly reciprocated with a nod and mumbled a quick “Alright?” It was a brief exchange between two strangers both enjoying the solitude of nature on a beautiful day. I pressed on with my journey.
I like barges. It is nice when they are moored up and you can look at the spritely names and imagine what it is like to live inside. But if there is one thing I am less keen on about barges, it is that they travel precisely at walking speed. Because after about half a mile, we were still side-by-side. And the driver & I kept catching each other’s eyes, caught in a cycle of occasional acknowledging glances. And even though neither of us seemed particularly keen to instigate a proper conversation, it would have felt rude just to put my earphones back in.
We continued to ignore each other’s presence bar a few cursory glances, until eventually I couldn’t stand the awkwardness any longer. I subtly picked up my walking pace, whilst being carefully conscious not to appear like I’d burst into some sort of spontaneously bizarre power walk. Whoever said it’s nice and relaxing to get out into the country?
As I stepped on the towpath, a barge was travelling alongside. I remembered I was still wearing my earphones and didn’t want to appear ignorant, so I took one of the plugs out. I looked at the driver and gave him a puffy-cheeked smile and raised my eyes to him at acknowledgement. The man pleasantly reciprocated with a nod and mumbled a quick “Alright?” It was a brief exchange between two strangers both enjoying the solitude of nature on a beautiful day. I pressed on with my journey.
I like barges. It is nice when they are moored up and you can look at the spritely names and imagine what it is like to live inside. But if there is one thing I am less keen on about barges, it is that they travel precisely at walking speed. Because after about half a mile, we were still side-by-side. And the driver & I kept catching each other’s eyes, caught in a cycle of occasional acknowledging glances. And even though neither of us seemed particularly keen to instigate a proper conversation, it would have felt rude just to put my earphones back in.
We continued to ignore each other’s presence bar a few cursory glances, until eventually I couldn’t stand the awkwardness any longer. I subtly picked up my walking pace, whilst being carefully conscious not to appear like I’d burst into some sort of spontaneously bizarre power walk. Whoever said it’s nice and relaxing to get out into the country?
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