Thursday, 24 January 2013

Quiet? Me? (Living With Mother 1)


"For goodness sake speak up son, you really should enunciate properly”

There is a degree of irony my living back at Mum’s. Not so much with the why’s and wherefores’ but rather how the wheel has gone full circle since I left thirty seven, nearly thirty eight years ago.
I left home when I was twenty one. I was about to be married. I guess that’s ironic enough in itself given the circumstance of my return but that is not the irony I wish to speak of.

Nor is it the fact I am now living back in the bedroom I first slept in when I was thirteen. It is the noise level. Yep, that’s right the noise level. Not my noise level but my Mum’s. It isn't that she has recently converted at eighty eight to playing rap full blast or heavy metal. The only heavy metal in my mother’s life is the solid cast smoothing iron that used to belong to her mother, my nana.
When living here before I used to play my music loud - Beefheart, Beethoven, Beatles and Bowie – a fistful of B’s.. Mum would often throw my door wide and tell me, in no uncertain terms, to turn the volume down. Now it falls upon me, or should were I not such a coward, to ask her to do the same.

You see Mum is deaf in one ear and has to have the TV turned up to enable her to hear whatever it is Lewis is saying to Hathaway, what Poirot is whispering to Miss Lemon or what Jimmy Stewart is stuttering to Lauren Bacall. It is so overbearingly loud that I have to grit my teeth and make do. Conversation is of course impossible. When we need to speak Mum hits the mute button.

We watched 'The Best Exotic Hotel' again recently. The music, all that Bhangra that I like, made my ears throb.

Seriously.

But that is still not the irony I want to speak of. It is this. After a misspent youth playing music at dangerously high levels, yesterday, after siting searching for new prospects for Providence in the quiet solitude of my new/old bedroom, I thought I should see how Mum was. She commented as I walked into the living room how quiet I am. Quiet? Of course I’m not quiet. You, dear mother, are bloody loud. So loud in fact you wouldn’t hear me if I had a bevy of blonde beauties beating my backside black and blue with birchwood in my broom cupboard bedroom!

Quiet? Me? A far cry from what she used to say thirty years ago.

 
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all words and art are copyright © of Russell 'C.J' Duffy.To view my books on Amazon/Kindle go here: https://www.amazon.com/author/russellduffy -- For another side of CJ go here: sOMeThiNg For tHE wEeKeND, SiR?

8 comments:

Perfect Virgo said...

Curious how life has a way of completing circles. Hope you find some sanctity (and sanity!) in the old familiar environment.

Perfect Virgo said...

that's *sanctuary, of course!

Russell Duffy said...

Sanctity may be difficult but sanctuary and sanity maybe!!

:)

Tempest Nightingale LeTrope said...

I keep praying I can avoid having to move back in with my mother. She's in some ways a very generous person, but she is also very judgmental and overall doesn't approve of my choices in life.

Nessa said...

Boy, you sure are into b's today. Going batty, are you?

It is the point when our parents reach 80 that they revert to child and we the parents.

Flash 55 - emit yna gnippots on

Russell Duffy said...

Tempest>>>Ditto. Mums are like that aren't they?

Russell Duffy said...

Nessa>>>Barmy as a bag of bullfrogs. Batty as a bunch of???

Nessa said...

belfries?
bananas?
boistress boys bouncing balls?