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The clocks go back
Oct. 27th, 2012 11:26 pm Railway track
Something blocks the line again.
I'd like to begin with something of a gay cliche. Just for a complete change, obviously. I present to you a textual vision of my mother,
I write this post not quite in the kitchen sink, but most definitely back in the shire. It's my mother's birthday, and I completely eschewed all Halloween silliness to come down to spend time with her. Admittedly for her birthday present I got her a nice plant (no agenda, just pretty) and two Sarah Waters novels (definite agenda). So far she's only commented on the plant, but this is to be expected.
Generally the last twenty four hours have been pretty good. I've managed to be a respectable version of me, without feeling like I'm plastering Laura Ashley wallpaper all over myself. Going upstairs to do my face then reappearing on time, dressed and ready to walk the fifteen minutes* down the hill to the restaurant led to a brand new Mammy Lashism:
'Oh. *stares floorwards* You're in your proper feet and everything'
I was wearing high heeled shoes, and she didn't sound dissaproving. I briefly wondered if she saw me through new eyes. For a while A's crutches seemed like auxiliary limbs when she couldn't put weight on her legs, perhaps my heels have taken up a similar position in my mother's mind.
For those not in the know, my mother and I have come to blows about anything that is very feminine or dressy and thus in her eyes something to be commented upon. At best for being unpractical or at worst, and more usually for being sluttish or ridiculous. This led me to think about some other classic words of motherly wisdom she has come out with over the years:
-'Now, remember before we go to ASDA you've got to make sure you've covered up your bosoms. There are muslims up there'.
-'My collection of books about Richard III is nearly filling that shelf. At the second coming, they'll know which one of the roses I'm with'.
-'Oh you're back wearing reading glasses. Very ageing'.
-'You may as well have that lightbox, it's up in the loft. It's that one of your dad's. He said he was depressed, but it was just Glasgow'.
-'I've thought about that course of yours and it's a bad idea. My friend Sue was telling me about her Sheila who tried to do that counselling and it was all an awful bother. Then she got back onto heroine.'
Needless to say, I learnt the art of understatement from somewhere. Things are by no means ideal with the parents, perhaps they never will be. I still go through a small mental checklist of making sure my tattoos are always covered, keeping conversation topics neutral and maintaining an invisible cyber-femme facade. Like a cyberman being slowly converted from the inside out, I carefully hide my emotions and personality. Perhaps they do too.
Like a dance, I seem to come one step backwards to make several forwards. Appearing to follow, yet resisting. Leading but responding.
*I know, the age of miracles hasn't passed.
Something blocks the line again.
I'd like to begin with something of a gay cliche. Just for a complete change, obviously. I present to you a textual vision of my mother,
I write this post not quite in the kitchen sink, but most definitely back in the shire. It's my mother's birthday, and I completely eschewed all Halloween silliness to come down to spend time with her. Admittedly for her birthday present I got her a nice plant (no agenda, just pretty) and two Sarah Waters novels (definite agenda). So far she's only commented on the plant, but this is to be expected.
Generally the last twenty four hours have been pretty good. I've managed to be a respectable version of me, without feeling like I'm plastering Laura Ashley wallpaper all over myself. Going upstairs to do my face then reappearing on time, dressed and ready to walk the fifteen minutes* down the hill to the restaurant led to a brand new Mammy Lashism:
'Oh. *stares floorwards* You're in your proper feet and everything'
I was wearing high heeled shoes, and she didn't sound dissaproving. I briefly wondered if she saw me through new eyes. For a while A's crutches seemed like auxiliary limbs when she couldn't put weight on her legs, perhaps my heels have taken up a similar position in my mother's mind.
For those not in the know, my mother and I have come to blows about anything that is very feminine or dressy and thus in her eyes something to be commented upon. At best for being unpractical or at worst, and more usually for being sluttish or ridiculous. This led me to think about some other classic words of motherly wisdom she has come out with over the years:
-'Now, remember before we go to ASDA you've got to make sure you've covered up your bosoms. There are muslims up there'.
-'My collection of books about Richard III is nearly filling that shelf. At the second coming, they'll know which one of the roses I'm with'.
-'Oh you're back wearing reading glasses. Very ageing'.
-'You may as well have that lightbox, it's up in the loft. It's that one of your dad's. He said he was depressed, but it was just Glasgow'.
-'I've thought about that course of yours and it's a bad idea. My friend Sue was telling me about her Sheila who tried to do that counselling and it was all an awful bother. Then she got back onto heroine.'
Needless to say, I learnt the art of understatement from somewhere. Things are by no means ideal with the parents, perhaps they never will be. I still go through a small mental checklist of making sure my tattoos are always covered, keeping conversation topics neutral and maintaining an invisible cyber-femme facade. Like a cyberman being slowly converted from the inside out, I carefully hide my emotions and personality. Perhaps they do too.
Like a dance, I seem to come one step backwards to make several forwards. Appearing to follow, yet resisting. Leading but responding.
*I know, the age of miracles hasn't passed.
