Nine-fifty-five of a Sunday evening and the phone goes. It’s the mothership, who else?
MOTHER: “I’m just ringing because I’m on your thing here, you know your blog and I’m after seeing a rogue apostrophe. You need to get on to that. I mean I know you know, but it’s an elementary mistake and one you’d be annoyed if people picked up on. You really ought to run these by me first. Quite obviously they’re done in haste.”
ME: “I’m on to it!” I correct the error and enquire about her day. Then she gets on to the real reason she’s called.
MOTHER: “I’m just thinking, and perhaps you’ll disagree, but is it wise to go round putting that sort of information on line about yourself?”
ME: (EXASPERATED SIGH) “What sort of information?”
MOTHER: “Phrases such as “Roaring drunk”. I wouldn’t go round admitting that if I were you. You don’t know who reads this blog and I’m telling you, if it were any of my friends they would be disgusted. I think it’s quite dreadful really.”
ME: “Well if they went on and read the blog they would see that it was a few glasses of wine and some beer, probably the mix of which did me in. I was out for a meal with friends and got a bit carried away. I wasn’t shooting up crack.”
ME: “And regular readers know I’m prone to hyperbole.”
MOTHER: “You’re prone to something. But all very foolish, in my opinion. What are you doing now?”
ME: “I’m just having an Indian with a beer.”
MOTHER: “A WHAT? I thought you were off it!! Is that not what I’m just after reading?”
ME: “I’m reducing it, and it’s one beer. It’s also getting warm.”
MOTHER: (AGGRIEVED TONE): “I’ll be on my way then.”
ME: “I think that’s probably best.”