|This could be me. |
The clothes, not the Colin Firth.
It's not that she has poor taste.
It's just different taste to mine.
It's 78 year-old lady taste.
Mother buys clothes for real or imagined holidays. All frocks are for sunny days in Greek temperatures. All trousers are measured against the yardstick of 'golfing in America' or 'travelling clothes unlikely to attract a pick-pocket's attention'. The general standard for all of my mother's clothing purchases is: If it's not got sequins on it then, frankly, it's not for her.
Reader, cast your mind back to Bridget Jones and how her mother left a Christmas outfit out for her on the bed when she came to visit. My girlfriend and I peed ourselves laughing in the cinema because that could have been MY MOTHER and my friend knew my regular hell that is 'My Mother's Passed-Down Clothes'.
So it came to pass that on Sunday morning as Tartarus and I roused ourselves from sleep she poked her head around the bedroom door and said: "I've just laid out some clothes for you to take a look at."
"Ah, right-o" I said weakly.
Tartarus started sniggering.
"I bought myself these pyjamas from QVC and they don't really fit me. Can't wear a legging to bed, you know."
For the MILLIONTH time I wondered why she didn't just package them up and send them back to QVC, they positively INVITE you to do that if you're not happy with something. Like a crotch that cannot cope with leggings in bed.
Feeling pretty sure that my own crotch would not be happy with leggings in bed, I took a look at the pile of stuff.
'Today," I thought, "I will be FIRM and not take anything that is horrid."
On top of the pile were the jammies. Complete with fuchsia pink dressing gown. Tartarus giggled. I LIKE fuchsia pink. I lifted the jammies - crotch-gobbling leggings and all - and dropped it into our tiny overnight suitcase.
Tartarus stopped giggling. 'You won't be wearing that? In BED? Your mother's PJ's IN OUR BED?'
Reader, I wouldn't mind if we were Active in the Conjugals Department, but that track is now overgrown with weeds through lack of use. If you catch what I'm saying.....
"What difference does it make? Jammies are jammies," I retorted with the wisdom of Buddha.
The next item was a t-shirt. Heavily sequinned of course. Butterflies. I really didn't want it and laid it to one side.
Next up was a massive, MASSIVE purple cowl-necked sweater. I am also rather partial to purple. Into the case it went.
And a nice lime-green skinny knit sweater with a bow.
I think I must have gypsy blood - I very much like odd colour combinations. My dad always thought that my mother's side of the family had some sort of strange blood. We likes our garish sparkly stuff. But I'm verrrry particular - not my mother's strange sparkly stuff.
We're either of roma extraction or else we're colour-blind. One or the other. Could be both.
Of course, the sparkly t-shirt DID come home with us because despite my best efforts to be HARD and BOUNDARY AWARE, my point of view is never any match for my mother's. I am Andy Murray to my mother's Roger Federer - I try hard, REALLY hard, but she always beats me in the end.
I'm sure that I'll wear it sometime. Maybe the next time I'm playing golf on a Greek course when I'm on a cruise.....