Merlot Soaked Rituals.

Well in the manner of all Mothers, mine is prone to blowing things out of proportion.
If I allow  Finley to go up the stairs all by himself he will, of course, fall  down and break his neck.  If I decide on a whim to drive out of the zone marked safe on my Mum’s internal map (within ten miles of her house), I am being “bloody ridiculous”.   If I contemplate going out two nights on the run, her pursed lips say it all. If I even consider taking up internet dating I will be setting out to meet all manner of lunatics and if, oh God forbid, if, as happened the other night, I fail to answer the phone at nine o’clock at night, there is absolutely no doubt whatsoever that within the hour she will be required to identify my blood splattered body.
Bless her silly heart, she worries about things that never, ever, never, enter my naive little head.
But oh the aggravation.  Take the evening phone calls…
Now that I have adapted my little life to reflect my circumstances, my nights have taken on a pattern I do not like to disturb. Call me set in my ways, call me a titchy bit mental, in fact call me Shirley Bassey if you want to: but don’t stand between me, my prawn salad, my glass of merlot and  a lavender scented bath.
Just don’t. Or you will feel the full force of my thirty four year old wrath.
Most people take heed. But not she. There I was gently drowning my cares away in a room full of steam when in a distant  land  I heard the phone ring.  And ring and ring and stop. So I breathed a sigh of relief and shaved my legs. But no sooner had I defuzzed my right knee, than it rang again. And rang and rang and stopped. Then even before I’d had a chance to draw breath and clean my ears, my mobile started ringing in an urgent fashion it reserves for harrying calls from my maternal parent…
There had to be something wrong. I jumped out of the bath, left a trail of footprints from the bathroom to the bedroom, tapped out her number and DEMANDED to know what the heck was wrong??
Aaaah silly me. How dare I? I mean really how dare I?? Was it fair to have her worrying at nine o’clock at night? Where the hell had I been? Why- if I carry my phone around all day everyday cannot I not have the foresight to take it into the bath just in case she decides to ring to check whether my back door is locked? I mean really!! Just how selfish can I be?
Lordy.
Frankly I have three things to say about this…
1) You are never too old to be told off by your Mum. A thirty something daughter is no match for a raging, worried, fifty-something Mummy. But I love her regardless.
2) All the BrocanteHome, peace and quiet, calm your nerves and chase away the blues rituals in the world won’t make a jot of difference if you cause your Mum so much grief in the middle of the night that she considers sending out a search party for you. Best text her before I get in the bath tonight…
and…
3)  I have a date on Wednesday night.  He’s lovely.  And yes I know that’s nothing to do with anything but  I wanted you to know, and above all else I want you to promise me  you won’t tell my Mum…
She’ll only  worry.  God help me if he keeps me out  after 8.30pm.