Selfishness is a human trait which quite rightly draws justified criticism, especially if it becomes a dominant trait. Where our egocentric pendulum swings and eventually comes to rest is often fluid and is undeniably influenced by our environment and those around us. When I reflect upon the Oscar Wilde quote, “Selfishness is not living as one wishes to live, it is asking others to live as one wishes to live.” I totally get it. In my more sanguine moments, I aspire to the mantra of altruism. But am I selfish? Hell, I can be. I am human after all.
When it was suggested by a close friend that I should write about my Mum, since she had become an unsuspecting sidekick in my Facebook diary, I immediately thought about the daft times we had shared, particularly during the last eight years in which both my Dad and wife died. Yet the next morning I felt a sense of guilt when I acknowledged that for huge chunks of my life I had been self-centred often to the degree that I had taken my parents for granted. Both of them have been instrumental in shaping me as, on the whole, a decent human being yet somewhere along the way I had managed to slacken an incredibly special bond in the hustle and bustle of everyday life. As a parent myself I have come to the conclusion that I feel that my kids are doing the same to me and frankly I don’t like it! So, in part this is my way of reclaiming the most fundamental of all relationships and reminding you, dear reader, that we share the same beginnings. We both came into existence within the safety of our mothers wombs. If that is not enough to be grateful for then think about, but don’t dwell upon, the trauma we caused to our mothers when we met the universe for the first time. So Mum I am sorry for being, occasionally, a selfish twat, and I love you!
Context is important to this yarn. I am fifty-seven and my Mum is seventy-eight. Incredibly bright and agile, save a slightly dodgy knee, she has a brilliant sense of humour, still chastises me especially when I swear, and loves to debate. Trust me if you are in a quiz team you need her as your captain. I am lucky to have inherited some of these characteristics and I very much enjoy swearing.
The following passages are written in order to chronical our more recent adventures with the hope that if you are lucky still to have a Mum, and like me have taken her for granted, redemption is always within your reach. Scrolling back through my Facebook posts I have plumped to recount from 2016 onwards when I began to regularly share the funny and most poignant moments of a famous double act that was rekindled in earnest when my children unashamedly rowed back on a promise.
The kids, my mother and I had negotiated the tragic death of a Mum, daughter in law and wife, Theresa. Sometimes life changing events can be so extraordinarily colossal that a partial antidote can be a dose of the moderately ordinary. We will never truly recover from what happened, yet I sincerely believe that our collective human spirit is equipped to deal with it. So what better way than a holiday in the sun? My two kids, mum, and I agreed to spend a week in the Tenerife sun and since I knew the island reasonably well I was in no doubt that there would be plenty of diverse things we could do together and, should the experience become too dull, separately as well. As I researched the cheapest flights my son Adam decided to forsake this vibrant vacation opportunity for a somewhat tedious time in Thailand with his mates. I suppose the pull of the magnificent shrines, vibrant street life and breath-taking natural history were marginally better than the largest of the Canary Islands. Yet when would he have the time to have a beer and chill whilst visiting the plethora of cultural icons in places such as Bangkok? Slightly bemused I was left totally bamboozled when Lucy excused herself too citing work demands. Oh well, I was proud of her dedication to the cause. Then the gravity of the situation hit me. Those couple of charlatans had dropped me well and truly in it! My own version of ‘Driving Miss Daisy’ was going to be a tough gig.
At the airport I was reminded of the kids when they were around five, darting away at right-angles to my intended trajectory. Mum was no different as she was pulled in by the magnetism of the duty-free outlets. As I had secured the cheapest flights we had separate seats. Having successfully ushered her onto the plane I sank back into my seat feeling reasonably confident that the majority of the passengers had yet to pick up on the fact that I was on my way to a resort famous for its sea, sunshine, sangria, and sex, with my mum! If anyone, especially any of the several twenty-odd year olds, was to realise this I would surely have to fain a heart attack in order that I could be removed from the plane without having to open my eyes. Once safely into the sky I settled down for the four-hour flight. As the refreshment trolly inched its way towards me I thought that I deserved a beer. Then my cover was blown as I heard Mum bellow, “My son is sat over there. He will pay for my cup of tea with his credit card”. If this wasn’t enough to destroy any semblance of street cred she turned her head and pointed at me. Beam me up, Scotty! On landing at Tenerife South airport, I kept my head down as we scuttled off the plane. Bundling mum into the hire car we were soon in Puerto de Santiago where the gated complex allowed me to chill in the full knowledge that she was unable to escape.
In the morning I opened the apartment fridge and grabbed a water. Swigging it back I instantaneously spat it out all over the kitchen floor. What the heck (mum would disapprove of the actual four-letter word that I used) was that? Wiping away the excess she made an appearance and looking rather sheepish asked if I had opened her vodka supply that she had stored in a water bottle. Once I had regained my sense of taste, I decided to share my tribulation discreetly on Facebook and before I knew it Timothy and his mum had gained a small, but growing, following. I had rapidly been bestowed the name of Timothy in honour of the classic BBC comedy ‘Sorry’ depicting the forty something year old son (played so brilliantly by Ronnie Corbett) who still lived at home with his authoritarian mother Phyllis and browbeaten father Sydney. And so, this and subsequent journeys were shared with the masses that inhabit social media land:
“Let the fun begin! Taking my Mum on holiday. I hope that the inheritance is adjusted accordingly.”
I had been previously scarred during a jaunt to Ibiza when Lucy invited us over whilst she was working the club scene and rather surprisingly booked my Mum and I into a one bedroomed apartment with single beds. Awaking I looked over and was immediately reminded of a mortuary scene from my policing days. My Mum was stationary with a white sheet covering her face. In Tenerife, this nightmarish scenario returned:
“A little concerned this morning. No sign of Mother. Made more noise in the bathroom than is created at Meadow Lane on a Saturday afternoon and still no sign of movement.
Have shower and begin to worry …
After a series of knocks on the door @ 9:20am, “It can’t be! No! Oh, I was waiting until it got to 20 past seven!”
For two frigging hours!
Note to self: next year it’s my sisters turn along with a spare battery for her alarm clock!
I need a drink or three …”
Her choice of right-wing news was always a topic of irritation, but I had to concede that I rather liked the back-page quickie. The crossword, of course:
“My mum just told me about an interesting article that she read in the Daily Mail.
Are these grounds for adoption?”
Technology and Mum is never a good mix although she never tired of reminding me who had wiped my backside, ironed my shirts, and cooked for me:
“Three minutes into tutoring my Mum to use her new iPad to send holiday pictures back home and I am already thinking about legal defences to murder.”
In Tenerife I finally grasped the meaning of the ethical law of Karma:
“When I was four apparently I pissed my Mum off. Now she is seventy-seven she is taking her revenge.
“Don’t you just love it when auto correct inserts ‘duck’? This algorithm was clearly invented by my Mum.”
“Wait here and I’ll get the car and pick you up. I pull up to see mother attempting to get into another similarly white car with some Spanish motorist looking rather confused.”
Remarkably early into our seemingly odd adventure, we began to giggle then laugh out loud! I wasn’t expecting that:
“On holiday with my Mum:
“You’ve had too much beer!”
“No chips!”
“I think we’ll sit here.” (for hours)
“Don’t forget my Daily Mail!”
“Take a photograph of that.”
“Stop swearing!”
I love feeling like a 5-year-old naughty boy again!
Mums are cool! If yours is still around don’t take her for granted.”
Awkward conversations…
My Mum: “I Google stuff like water butts.”
Me: (sensing a funny) “Be careful not to order a butt plug!”
Mum: “What’s one of those?”
At the end I was proud to introduce her formally to her adoring Facebook fan base:
“Our last night in Tenerife! For those that have been following mother and I, here she is!
Our trip (sponsored by Poligrip & Ralgex) has been fun!
Hopefully, Channel 4 will give us our own show sometime in the future.”
My Mum is cool and so is yours! It may have taken me a few decades to realise this truth and I fully appreciate that this eureka moment was driven by circumstances rather than intention, but I’m glad it happened! Sure, she is still a pain (as am I) but she is my friend and that is priceless!
© Ian Kirke 2020 and all photographs