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Visitgate

9 Jan

Mother cut the apron strings but still found it difficult to let go

 

Tory Boy is on his way back to uni this morning.  It has been wonderful having him here.  When he was here.    He arrived on Sunday afternoon and went out on Sunday night.  Monday afternoon; Tuesday night; stayed out all of Wednesday night, arrived home at 4pm on Thursday; then it was just a last jaunt out last night (Friday) before leaving five minutes ago.  Yes, it was lovely having him home, though he does have a tendency to treat it as if he lives here. 

Being a possessive sort of mother, I worked out how much time he was actually here: if he arrived at two-seventeen last Sunday and left just now (making 141.3 hours); spent 73.6 hours visiting his mates; 82.13 sleeping; and 7.7 hours on bathroom and personal duties, I calculate he spent 9.8 minutes in our company.  Scandalous!   

No, wait!  He did watch six minutes of Celebrity Big Brother with us when he came in on Tuesday.   Woopdedoo.  To rub salt in the wound caused by my First Born shoving a knife in my back as he stepped over my prostrate body on his way through the front door to visit one of his 733 friends also come home to ignore their mothers, he casually commented this morning that he would miss the dog and Sky News.  No mention of the woman who suffered no contractions, no swollen ankles and no morning sickness for nine months, other than a slight nausea, alleviated by a magic pill from my doctor.  Outrageous.   And no mention, either, of the twenty-two kilos I grew about my person on his behalf.  Ungrateful. 

On his way out he raided the freezer for goodies: cheese, German sausage and potato hash; eschewing vegetables, naturally, and any attempt on my part to offload the stuff that we never get around to eating but which is too good to throw away.  I can’t chuck it because I know there are starving children in Africa; but if I post it to them it will have gone off by the time it arrives.  I think he’s rather selfish not to think of them and eat up my leftovers on their behalf. 

You might not be aware of potato hash: it is the ultimate comfort food, particularly in this weather; a delicious meat mush.  It is the Hub’s mother’s recipe and requires two key ingredients to lift it above the average stew – celery and a pressure cooker.  The celery was the Hub’s Dad’s idea, and I’m sure he bought his entrance ticket to heaven with it.  You can’t taste the celery, but the hash is utterly dull without it.  The pressure cooker means it’s ready in a couple of hours.  This is vital, or you would be drowning in slaver because of the gorgeous aroma wafting through the house and distracting you from important cleaning work. 

There is a slight drawback when I prepare this meal: I am afraid of the pressure cooker.  It sits hissing atop the stove, daring me to adjust the temperature and just waiting to explode the moment my back is turned.  However, a greedy stomach will always find a way.  The Hub supervises the making of the meal: More potatoes!  Less leeks!  Vary the onion size! so he merely adds to his not-at-all onerous duties by sending me to look at which red line the top knob is at; report back; and adjust the heat setting up or down, as necessary.  I’m too scared to enter the kitchen when the pressure cooker is on the stove so I stand in the doorway and check it out; if it needs adjusting, I send in one of the children. 

Well, that sounds like the Hub at the door, back from taxiing TB to the station.  I expect him to be grumpy because he got slow in his sneeve when he was scraping the car.  He was also annoyed that I told him eight times to remind TB in the car to phone me when he gets in to Lancaster in an hour’s time.   TB tends to complain after my fifth reminder, so I offload it on the Hub.  I just like to know where TB is; what he’s doing; who he’s with; if he has enough money and a clean handkerchief.  It’s not unreasonable, is it?   

If you are reading this, Tory Boy, behave yourself: Big Mother is watching you.

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