It’s my own fault, really.
I don’t come down home from Dublin often enough, or call enough either.
I expected a bit of light, perhaps even warm, conversation when I got back home but I’d forgotten that your primary purpose as an adult child when visiting home is just to be talked at.
My mother, who is an absolute dote of a woman, should have worked torturing prisoners of war.
I managed to dodge her for a lot of Christmas Eve but she made up for it yesterday. Here’s what she asked me, or at least what I can remember before my nose started bleeding and I passed out.
You’ll see that these aren’t all questions, but all were said in a tone pointed enough to take your eye out and therefore designed to provoke a response.
“Would you get up early in the morning?”
“Is everyone in their twenties addicted to Snapchat?”
“Is it all homelessness in Dublin?”
“Your father is hyper.”
“Would you eat a dinner every day?”
“I suppose I do everything wrong.”
“What would you think if I joined a new choir?”
“I’d love to have done the Christmas swim but there’s so much going on.”
“Your cousin’s doing very well – they’re all surprised”
“Who gave the dog ham?”
“What wages would your friends be on?”
“The gym is all different these days.”
“Do you know who’s after moving back down home?”
“I wish I could visit the Holy Land.”
“Do I look old?”
“Don’t even talk to me about Donald Trump. I call him ‘The Langer’.”
“We’ll never have enough toilet paper.”
“You’d be no good on I’m A Celebrity.”
“Did you see about that family in the paper?”
“The day’s not even finished and she’s asking for the receipts for everything.”
“That tea towel is not to be used.”
“There are still spaces on next year’s walking holiday.”
“Will I sing a song now?”
“You have to support the local shops.”
“Take your sister with you.”
“Would you ever go for a drink in Dublin or is it all nightclubs?”
“We’ll go abroad for it next year.”
“I would have said you were a bit old for that.”
