My mummy scolded me.
I know she scolded me because I could hear her smiling down the telephone and we all know that smile. It’s right up there with the rictus grin of, you’ll pay for this when you get home.
My crime is lack of ‘phoning.
It shows itself thus, I don’t ‘phone. Anyone. Think of it like an allergy. All sorts of people have them and mine is to telephoning. Now you have to have sympathy for me because allergies are a very big deal.
Apparently when people ask how I am my mother has to tell them I’m alright and not mention to them that she never hears from me because I never ring.
I am a very, very bad girl.
I added that bit, mostly because I know it is what my mother was thinking.
I suppose I can’t really blame her. Now my children are, or are almost, adults, I don’t hear very often from them either and I do miss them. I suppose it’s my punishment for being a very, very bad daughter.
Yes, alright, guilt is making me pout. Every few days I think, “I wonder how Mum is?” That should be the signal to ring her, instead I just sit and wonder.
I might need a kick up the backside.
Perhaps I’ll shock her and give her a ring at the weekend. Then she’ll say, “what’s wrong with you?” and I’ll have foxed her.
See, we never really grow up when we’re dealing with our mummies.
Snork – mummies!
(She would smack me for that, you know, or give me the dead eye and the ‘why me?’ expression.)
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