Carry on Moaning

Mother is following the general trend of neediness. She phones to tell me that she is feeling miserable.
"Oh?" I say.
"Well, y'father's got to go into hospital to have his varicose veins removed."
"Yes, poor Dad," I say.
"What do you mean, poor Dad?" Mother scoffs. "Poor me, more like!"
There is a prolonged silence while Mother waits for me to concur.
"It's so much worse for me than it is for him," she says, when it transpires that I do not concur.
"How's that then?" I sigh.
"Well, he's got to have a general anaesthetic, hasn't he?" she says.
"Yes, poor Dad."
"It's all right for him," Mother sniffs. "He'll be out of it; he won't know what's going on. Whereas I," she pauses dramatically, "I will be up all night, tossing and turning and worrying myself sick about whether or not he'll survive."
"What have the doctors said about this operation?" I ask.
"What do you mean?"
"Have they reassured you that it is a simple, routine operation? Have they told you not to worry? Have they--"
"Oh yes, they've said it's a 'routine' operation all right, and they've said that there's 'nothing to worry about', too, but what do they know? You know my opinion of the medical profession . . ."
And she's off.
I pour myself a glass of wine and allow my mind to wander while Mother recites the well-known chapter and verse which is "her opinion of the medical profession". I often wonder if this opinion stems solely from the fact that her younger brother is a GP.
"Are you listening?" Mother says.
"What? Oh yes, of course. So, give my love to Dad and wish him well," I say.
"Thanks, love!" trills Dad.
I jump and spill my wine. "Flip!"
"Sorry, love," Dad chortles. "Didn't mean to scare you. I was just listening in."

I call the next day to see how Dad has got on. He is home already and sounds chirpier than ever.
"I had a lovely time," he says. "I had salmon for tea and, between you and me, it was nice to have a break from - things," he adds cryptically.
"What's that?" Mother barks down the other phone.
"Nothing, love!" Dad replies, and replaces his receiver with a clatter.
"Dad sounds very chipper," I say to Mother.
"Humpf," says Mother. "Yes. It would seem so."
"That's good," I say.
"Whereas I," she pauses dramatically, "I was up all night, tossing and turning and worrying--"
"And as it turned out, you didn't need to," I say. "The doctors obviously knew what they were talking about and everything has gone smoothly."
"Humpf," says Mother. "I wouldn't go so far as to say that. You know my opinion of the medical profession . . ."
Indeed I do, Mum, indeed I do.

The Message is Clear: Ignore the Cats at Your Peril

There has been no time to blog of late. I could put this down to the deadlines I've been working to. But the truth of the matter is that every single member of my family has been unbelievably needy of late. All right, so I admit that there may be a correlation between the two. It's true that I have had my head in the clouds and have ignored the laundry, the shopping and the housework and that this behaviour is not conducive to looking after my family. Or the animals. Especially the animals.

The cats have demonstrated their desire for attention in a number of ways, ranging from the disturbing to the downright weird. They have tried the more subtle approach of bringing me a selection of rodents in varying stages of dismemberment (message: This is what we will do to you if you don't notice our existence). But I am deaf and blind to this, as they have done it many times before.

They have launched a concerted attack on the stair carpet just below my study (message: We'll keep unravelling this until you fall at our feet). I am less deaf and blind to this and am certainly more vocal, but they are the losers as all that happens is that I scoop them up and tip them out into the garden.

But the latest show of protest, discovered this morning, is enough to make me realise they mean business. Overnight they have taken the fat balls from the bird table, crunched on them, spat them out and left the slimey remains just outside the front door where I can conveniently slip on them and do myself an injury. (message: Things have gone too far. We have decided: you must die.)

I go outside to inspect the crime scene and attempt to read the evidence. The fat balls were contained in a plastic dispenser, supposedly to prevent anything but a bird to be able to get at them. This dispenser was hanging from a hook on the side of the bird table. This morning the contraption is lying on the ground, the lid has been removed, one fat ball has been expertly extracted and the remains are smeared over the patio in a cleverly laid death trap. But most startling of all is the realisation of what ninja-like moves the cats must have made to release the dispenser from the table in the first place, for rather than simply jump on to the table and bash at the tube until it fell, they have clearly employed considerable dexerity in dismantling the whole shebang. The beam of wood on which the tube was hanging has been prised away from the main body of the bird table and is now on the ground, nails lethally sticking up skywards; a second death trap in case the first fails, perhaps?

Something winds itself softly around my legs. I look down to see Psycho Cat, blinking up at me slowly and deliberately.
"Raaaoooow?" she says.
"Grrrrr," comes the answer from the wall above my head. It is Jet, Psycho Cat's sister.
It is clear what they are thinking. The Fat Ball Plan failed. Time for the Pincer Attack.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

My children have decided they need to take me in hand. I say this as though this is a new phenomenon, but in fact they have done this many times before, whether it is to give me advice on my dress sense, my moodiness, my terrible of habit of swearing like a trouper (especially whilst driving), or, more recently, my sense of humour (incredibly embarrassing and very unfunny, apparently).
Today they have launched a new line of attack, and this time it focuses on my career.
"I think you should re-do your website," says Small Boy, banging his school bag down on the table decisively. "Me and William have been looking at really cool websites today and learning about how to make them ourselves. And yours is not really cool enough."
He is absolutely right, of course: updating my website has been on my To Do List for at least a year.
"I have already made a start on making my own website, so you could have a look at it for ideas if you like," Small Boy says casually.
"Your own website?" I say. "And what would you be needing with a website?" No sooner have the words left my mouth than warning bells sound in my befuddled mind. "Oh, wait a minute - this isn't for some hare-brained money-making exercise, is it? You're not planning to sell the chickens' eggs, are you? Or the cats? Actually, I wouldn't mind if you sold Psycho Cat, although I don't think you'd get much money for her--"
"NOOOO!" Small Boy exclaims, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Not anything stupid like that. I've made a website about lemurs." He spreads his hands as though stating the obvious to an extremely dim-witted individual.
"Lemurs," I repeat. "And what have you, personally, got to do with lemurs?"
"I like them," he says, still giving me that you-are-an-A-Grade-loony look.
"Right. So why a website? I thought people made websites to promote things or sell things or--"
"I AM promoting things. I'm promoting lemurs," says Small Boy. "And I'm going to do a link to your website too, so you'd better hurry up and make it look better, otherwise it'll be embarrassing."
"OK," I say, feeling distinctly brow-beaten.
"Talking of your work," says Daughter, who has been listening to all this with faint amusement, "I have been reading the manuscript of that book you were writing over Christmas."
"Oh, that's nice. Thank you, darling!" I say. It has been years since Daughter has deigned to show any interest in any of my books, being far too old and sophisticated these days for the childish stuff I write.
"I think it's coming along nicely," she says graciously. "But I think you need to make it more descriptive. Our English teachers always say we should set the scene. I don't think you've done enough of that. And I think you should think about whether this is a one-off title or whether it's going to be part of a series, as that will affect how you develop the relationship between the main characters."
"Right. Well. Thanks. You've certainly both given me a lot to think about," I say, reaching for my notepad.

Blimey, who needs an agent when you have kids?

Here, for those of you who are interested in lemurs, is the link to Small Boy's website:
http://www.wix.com/thomasdjwilson/elf
(The graphics are so lovely that I am ashamed to give you the link for mine...)

The Aged Ps' Health Check

I call the Aged Ps one evening and have the rare pleasure of a chat with Dad without Mother picking up the other phone and echoing everything he says or correcting it. Dad, however, is sounding a little downtrodden.
"Y'mother thought it would be good idea to have a health check," he informs me wearily. "I can't say I see the point. If you find out something's wrong, you only worry. But she says she's worried already and she'd rather know exactly what she has to worry about."
"Oh dear," I say. "Well, best just to go along with it I suppose."
"Hmm. It's costing us a fortune though."
It transpires that said health check is to be carried out at a local hotel; the same hotel at which my grandmother's wake was held, I realise. I choose not to mention this fact.
"Bit weird, having a medical appointment in a hotel, isn't it?" I venture. It's not even a nice hotel. The last time I went there the paint was peeling off the walls and the food was along the lines of the catering I remember from school i.e. grey, cold and mostly unrecognisable as actual food.
"Yes," says Dad sighing. "But you know y'mother."
There is no answer to that.
We finish our chat, which surprisingly lasts for a good twenty minutes before Dad says, "Well, as you've probably realised, y'mother isn't in at the moment, so I'll get her to call you when she gets back."
"No really that won't be necess--" I cut in hastily.
"OK, bye then love." Dad puts down the phone.
Half an hour later, the phone rings. It is Mother. She proceeds to tell me everything I have already been told by Dad, only in a much more strident manner.
"I told y'father he needs to lose weight and watch his cholesterol," she barks. "So we're having a--"
"Health check, yes," I say.
"--at the hotel--" she goes on.
"Down the road," I say.
"And it's going to cost--"
"A fortune," I say. "I know, Dad's already told me."
"Oh, has he?" she said. "And did he tell you that I had to nag him into it? He never listens to a word I say."
I wonder why . . . "Didn't you have a check recently?" I say aloud. "I thought you'd had your cholesterol levels checked before Christmas?"
"Yes," says Mother. "But you know what I think about the medical profession. They don't know what they are talking about half the time. I think you can never be too careful and it's always good to get a second opinion - "
From a bunch of people in a hotel, I think. Hmm, yes, they're bound to give you more peace of mind than your own GP.
" - I need to know if I'm going to have an aneurism or a pulmonary embolism or a massive stroke," Mother finishes accusingly, as if I am personally plotting her downfall by one of these methods.
"OK!" I say, in my fake cheery voice. "Well, good luck with all that then."

I call the next day to see how they have got on. Dad answers. He sounds distinctly grumpy. "Well, we went. In The End," he adds ominously.
"Oh?"
"Yes. When it came to it, y'mother had a last minute panic, didn't she? She was up all night saying she didn't want to go as if there was something wrong she didn't want to know about it because it would make her worry, which is EXACTLY WHAT I SAID IN THE FIRST PLACE!"
"What's that?" Mother has picked up the other phone.
"Hi, Mum."
"Oh, it's you," she says.
"Yes. How did the health check go?"
"Bit disappointing really," she says. "It turns out we have absolutely nothing to worry about and we'll probably live for another twenty or thirty years at least."
"That's - great!" I say cautiously.
"No it's not," Dad retorts. "It means I'm going to have to go through this whole palaver over and over again for years and years until y'mother is satisfied that we actually do have something to worry about."
"Well, you know the medical profession," says Mother. "They don't know what they are talking about half the time. I think you can never be too careful and it's always good to get a second opinion."
"Yes, Mother," I say.
There really is no point in saying anything else.

On The Twelfth Day of Christmas My Mother Said To Me

Mother calls to remind me that it is time to take the Christmas decorations down. "I know," I tell her. "I probably should have done it before the kids went back to school but I can never bring myself to. I wish I could leave them up for the whole of January to be honest." "Oh no!" Mother exclaims in horror. "You can't do that! It's terribly bad luck to leave them up after Twelfth Night." And why would that be? I feel like asking. Will a nasty beardy man called Herod come and slit Small Boy's throat if there are still fairy lights around the door on 6th January? Will three wise visitors arrive bearing gifts and then sorrowfully tell me that they are not for me and could I please point them eastwards? "Are you listening?" Mother says. "Yes, sorry, just looking at the decorations and feeling sad," I say. "Well if the Christian church hadn't ruined the perfectly good festival of Saturnalia we wouldn't have to worry about Christmas decorations at all!" says Mother, gleefully. "Yes mother," I say. It's normally the best response when such topics arise, I have found. Even if there are a million other responses I can think of. "So you won't forget, will you?" she continues. "Sorry, forget what?"  "To take the decorations down. We can't start the new year with bad luck. Not after last year. And it was a terrible year, wasn't it--?" "Yes, no - I won't forget," I cut in hastily before I am subjected to a re-run of Mother's Annus Horribilis speech. As I put down the phone I ponder over the many superstitions I have been brought up with. Mother's list of Things That Will Bring Bad Luck include: Crossing on the stairs Walking under ladders Throwing salt over your shoulder after you've accidentally spilt some Horseshoe hung upside down over a door Breaking a mirror (SEVEN WHOLE YEARS BAD LUCK for this one) Seeing one magpie (she always commanded that we quickly look for another - although I would say more than one is worse, the pests...) Putting new shoes on the table "What was Grandma calling about?" asks Small Boy. I tell him and explain about the superstitions. "It's funny, though," I say. "Because I was born on Friday 13th, and she's never said anything about that." "FRIDAY 13th?" exclaims Small Boy with a shiver. "Ooo, no wonder she's never mentioned that." "Oh. Why?" "That would be like admitting that she's the mother of a zombie-vampire," he says, raising one eyebrow. "And that would be the worst luck of all." I suppose he's got a point there. Although if that nasty beardy man did come and try to slit Small Boy's throat, maybe I could take a chunk out of his neck in revenge.