Mother is gearing up for her Christmas Day Speech which she prepares every day as a rival to Her Majesty's. Ever since the Queen announced she had had an "annus horribilis", Mother has felt the need to compete. Once the lunch has been consumed, the crackers cracked and the pudding set on fire, Mother can be relied upon to sit back, sigh and say one of two things: "Well, I'm glad that's all over." Or "I have to say it's been a dreadful year."
Every time she phones she makes it clear that she is getting her material together early this year and gives me tempting little trailers so that I can have some idea of what I am to expect on the day.
"Well," she says, with feeling. "What do you think about Jeremy Clarkson?"
She knows very well what I think about Jeremy Clarkson, so I decide to keep my mouth shut. As it happens, it doesn't matter very much what I think as she leaves just about enough time in the conversation for me to draw breath before diving in with:
"If you ask me, it's ridiculous that he was forced to make a public apology. I mean, you can't say anything about anyone any more without being forced to make a public apology."
Actually, I think, you seem to do a very good job of saying exactly what you think whilst avoiding making apologies, public or otherwise.
"I mean, next they'll be saying we can't say the Greeks are lazy shits," Mother continues. "Which they palpably are. I mean LOOK at the state of their economy."
I make a mental note to warn Husband of the topics which will crop up over Christmas. Perhaps we can play "Aged Ps' Bingo" while they rant away to each other.
"Well, it's all the fault of their language," chips in Dad, who predictably has picked up the other phone. "Don't get me wrong, it's beautiful, but any culture whose language contains verbs which have four moods, three voices and three numbers as well as being conjugated in four main combinations of tense and aspect with a full complement of moods for each of the main tenses is bound to be a bit - moody!" he chortles.
Mother guffaws with glee at this Classicists' in-joke.
"Dad," I edge in, tentatively, "that wouldn't be Ancient Greek you're talking about, would it?"
"Ah," says Dad. "Well, doesn't matter much, does it? It's all--"
"Greek to me. Exactly," I finish. "So, apart from following Jezza's exploits and spitting tacks about the Greeks, how's life?" I ask.
Except I don't, as they have already moved on to howling about the state of the Euro and the perfidiousness of our Gallic neighbours.
"So what do you think about David Cameron's decision not to back the Euro?" Mother asks.
"I--," I begin.
"Tell you what," she says dangerously. "Don't tell me now. Let's save that discussion for when we come to stay next week."
I groan quietly and reach over to turn on the gas oven, ready to stick my head into it once I've put the phone down.
Every time she phones she makes it clear that she is getting her material together early this year and gives me tempting little trailers so that I can have some idea of what I am to expect on the day.
"Well," she says, with feeling. "What do you think about Jeremy Clarkson?"
She knows very well what I think about Jeremy Clarkson, so I decide to keep my mouth shut. As it happens, it doesn't matter very much what I think as she leaves just about enough time in the conversation for me to draw breath before diving in with:
"If you ask me, it's ridiculous that he was forced to make a public apology. I mean, you can't say anything about anyone any more without being forced to make a public apology."
Actually, I think, you seem to do a very good job of saying exactly what you think whilst avoiding making apologies, public or otherwise.
"I mean, next they'll be saying we can't say the Greeks are lazy shits," Mother continues. "Which they palpably are. I mean LOOK at the state of their economy."
I make a mental note to warn Husband of the topics which will crop up over Christmas. Perhaps we can play "Aged Ps' Bingo" while they rant away to each other.
"Well, it's all the fault of their language," chips in Dad, who predictably has picked up the other phone. "Don't get me wrong, it's beautiful, but any culture whose language contains verbs which have four moods, three voices and three numbers as well as being conjugated in four main combinations of tense and aspect with a full complement of moods for each of the main tenses is bound to be a bit - moody!" he chortles.
Mother guffaws with glee at this Classicists' in-joke.
"Dad," I edge in, tentatively, "that wouldn't be Ancient Greek you're talking about, would it?"
"Ah," says Dad. "Well, doesn't matter much, does it? It's all--"
"Greek to me. Exactly," I finish. "So, apart from following Jezza's exploits and spitting tacks about the Greeks, how's life?" I ask.
Except I don't, as they have already moved on to howling about the state of the Euro and the perfidiousness of our Gallic neighbours.
"So what do you think about David Cameron's decision not to back the Euro?" Mother asks.
"I--," I begin.
"Tell you what," she says dangerously. "Don't tell me now. Let's save that discussion for when we come to stay next week."
I groan quietly and reach over to turn on the gas oven, ready to stick my head into it once I've put the phone down.
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