The Aged Ps have just phoned. Mother is in ecstasies over The Kindle which Father bought her for her birthday. The same Kindle which she took one look at and said, "What the hell do I want that for?" The same Kindle which I told her she would love as it would mean she wouldn't have to buy books which she is constantly telling me are a "waste of space". The same Kindle which she told me she wouldn't be able to work as she is not "technologically minded".
"Well, I have to tell you, I love The Kindle. It is marvellous as now I don't have to buy books, which are such a waste of space. You ought to get one, you know. You have far too many books."
"Yes, Mum."
"Shall I tell you what I'm reading? It's that Alan Hollinghurst's The Stranger's Child."
"Oh?" I say, tentatively. I take a very deep breath and hold on to the side of the table to prepare myself for the onslaught which is bound to ensue. Mother is not an empathetic reader and prefers non-fiction as a rule. Why she is putting herself through reading anything by Hollinghurst is beyond the bounds of my comprehension.
"Well!" says Mother, with some feeling. "I suppose YOU would like it. But it's all about that Bloomsbury Set -" ('Bloomsbury' being on a level with some of the more explosive swear words in Mother's vocabulary) " - and there really is far too much detail about the - you know - shenanigans."
I remain silent, toying with the idea of saying that no, I don't know about the 'shenanigans', but then remind myself that I don't want to start one of her homophobic diatribes. It always amazes me that a woman who read Classics can be so easily affronted by depictions of sexual relationships in modern fiction. Presumably she closed her eyes during those passages in Virgil, Ovid, Homer, not to mention all those gods in the guise of bulls, getting it together with humans. And then there's the Greek literature . . .
Just as I have this thought, Father chips in on the other phone. "Don't forget the Ancient Greeks were quite into that sort of thing, dear."
"Yes, obviously the Ancient Greeks were," Mother says, talking to Father now, forgetting that she called me and could have this conversation with Father if they sat in the same room. "But that's no excuse for people going on about it these days. I have no desire to read such Filth."
"So why are you?" I ask, interrupting quickly before Father can quote Ancient Greek at me.
"It's the Book Club, isn't it?" Mother spits. "They always choose Filth. What are you reading in your Book Club?"
I grit my teeth. "Women in Love," I say quietly, hoping she won't hear and will start talking to Father again instead.
"Oh my God! D H Lawrence! More Filth!" Mother shrieks.
Father chuckles. "Did I ever tell you about the time my mother gave me Lady Chatterley's Lover?" he says.
"Yes, you did actually," I say.
"I was only 14 and good old Mum thought it would be educational," he continues. "It was only when I asked her why she had made me read a boring book about mining that she realised she had given me the expurgated version by mistake!"
"Pah! Typical of your mother to give you Filth to read," my mother crows. "After all, she was a Nudist!"
(Grandma and Grandpa met in a Naturist camp in the 30s, but I may save that story for another time . . .)
"No, but that's the point, dear - she didn't--"
"So, this Kindle," I cut in hastily. "You like it then?"
"Oh yes!" Mother cries. "The best thing is, it's quicker to read than a real book - which is such a waste of space."
"Quicker?" I ask, puzzled. "How's that then?"
"It doesn't have page numbers!" Mother announces.
"Er, right . . ."
"It just tells you the percentage of the book that you've read. AND you can make the type bigger. AND it's easy to carry around and just so handy. Not like a book, which is--"
"--such a waste of space, yes," I say. "Well, I'm glad you like it. I thought you would."
"There's just one thing," Mother says.
"Yes?"
"I do wish they would invent a way of editing out all the Filth."
"Well, I have to tell you, I love The Kindle. It is marvellous as now I don't have to buy books, which are such a waste of space. You ought to get one, you know. You have far too many books."
"Yes, Mum."
"Shall I tell you what I'm reading? It's that Alan Hollinghurst's The Stranger's Child."
"Oh?" I say, tentatively. I take a very deep breath and hold on to the side of the table to prepare myself for the onslaught which is bound to ensue. Mother is not an empathetic reader and prefers non-fiction as a rule. Why she is putting herself through reading anything by Hollinghurst is beyond the bounds of my comprehension.
"Well!" says Mother, with some feeling. "I suppose YOU would like it. But it's all about that Bloomsbury Set -" ('Bloomsbury' being on a level with some of the more explosive swear words in Mother's vocabulary) " - and there really is far too much detail about the - you know - shenanigans."
I remain silent, toying with the idea of saying that no, I don't know about the 'shenanigans', but then remind myself that I don't want to start one of her homophobic diatribes. It always amazes me that a woman who read Classics can be so easily affronted by depictions of sexual relationships in modern fiction. Presumably she closed her eyes during those passages in Virgil, Ovid, Homer, not to mention all those gods in the guise of bulls, getting it together with humans. And then there's the Greek literature . . .
Just as I have this thought, Father chips in on the other phone. "Don't forget the Ancient Greeks were quite into that sort of thing, dear."
"Yes, obviously the Ancient Greeks were," Mother says, talking to Father now, forgetting that she called me and could have this conversation with Father if they sat in the same room. "But that's no excuse for people going on about it these days. I have no desire to read such Filth."
"So why are you?" I ask, interrupting quickly before Father can quote Ancient Greek at me.
"It's the Book Club, isn't it?" Mother spits. "They always choose Filth. What are you reading in your Book Club?"
I grit my teeth. "Women in Love," I say quietly, hoping she won't hear and will start talking to Father again instead.
"Oh my God! D H Lawrence! More Filth!" Mother shrieks.
Father chuckles. "Did I ever tell you about the time my mother gave me Lady Chatterley's Lover?" he says.
"Yes, you did actually," I say.
"I was only 14 and good old Mum thought it would be educational," he continues. "It was only when I asked her why she had made me read a boring book about mining that she realised she had given me the expurgated version by mistake!"
"Pah! Typical of your mother to give you Filth to read," my mother crows. "After all, she was a Nudist!"
(Grandma and Grandpa met in a Naturist camp in the 30s, but I may save that story for another time . . .)
"No, but that's the point, dear - she didn't--"
"So, this Kindle," I cut in hastily. "You like it then?"
"Oh yes!" Mother cries. "The best thing is, it's quicker to read than a real book - which is such a waste of space."
"Quicker?" I ask, puzzled. "How's that then?"
"It doesn't have page numbers!" Mother announces.
"Er, right . . ."
"It just tells you the percentage of the book that you've read. AND you can make the type bigger. AND it's easy to carry around and just so handy. Not like a book, which is--"
"--such a waste of space, yes," I say. "Well, I'm glad you like it. I thought you would."
"There's just one thing," Mother says.
"Yes?"
"I do wish they would invent a way of editing out all the Filth."
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