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Tuesday, June 08, 2004

Happy Birthday, Ma Binding

While I hold great truck with the nature side of the nature/nurture debate, I have to say that my dear mother had more than a gentle contributing effect upon my being raised a screaming mary. And as today's her 48th birthday, I thought I'd give you a bit of an update as to what she's been up to.

One trip to Ibiza with my sister and one dalliance with a mechanic later, and it seems that she's well and truly over the lumbering oaf of a creature that is my father. This is a Good Thing, and not just because of all the mechanic jokes we could make in front of her, to her lessening embarrassment. Sex wasn't really taboo in our house, but neither was it discussed in any great length. My sex talk from my father occurred when I was fourteen and consisted of him stumbling drunk into my bedroom and saying, "Now son. About the birds and the bees..." In honesty, schoolmate Paul had stumbled into my bedroom drunk a few months earlier and I'd far enjoyed learning more about the bees and the bees.

So, mother is back on the horse, as it t'were, and well on her way to becoming the scourge of Singles Nights in Birmingham. A few weeks back, she was in attendance with her two chums and slightly under the weather due to a cold. She'd been taking her antihistamines, benylin and then vodka shots, and while her two companions had managed to sink their teeth into some gentleman flesh on the corner of the dancefloor, my dear mother was now hanging around the bar, blotto. To her, some fuzzy, blurry man-shape approached to get a drink, and they get chatting. The next moment:

"Oh, Lee. I don't know what happened! Next thing I know, I'm hanging off his face for the rest of the night..."

Alas and alack, all was not to go to plan, though: while she was happily showing the text message she'd received the following day around work - 'with four kisses!' she took great pains to point out - the subsequent date itself wasn't what she expected. For one, she couldn't remember his name. For the other, she couldn't remember what the heck he looked like. So as the car arrived carrying her new beau like the white charger of fairy tales, there was a certain sense of romantic mystery to the whole thing. It wasn't to last. Here's what happened in her own words (remember to add the lilting Birmingham tone):

"Well. This man got out. I thought it was his dad come to drop him off. But noooooo... And he was ginger! And grey! All at once! Oh Lee, it looked like he had a tabby cat on his head!"

The date didn't go well, and while he'd already planned their future together, she made him take her home after dinner. And avoided kissing him goodnight, and his hands and tongue in general.

Good girl. I taught her well.

So, last night, I gave her a quick call, and she was being remarkably sheepish. Well, for her.

Well, it turns out that she's got another boyfriend. Jubilate! And this one seems to have been going on for a few weeks too, the secretive little minx. I was hoping that he'd be a fireman. There's some good mileage in fireman jokes - sliding down poles, hoses, etc - and we'd all grown tired of the mechanic ones to the point where she was making them before me. And hearing about your mother's 'drip-tray' is not something I want to repeat.

Anyway. She told me about the new guy. I couldn't keep my hanging jaw off the bed: she's taken up with a 33-year-old, bleached haired, 6-foot-5 motorcycle rider. A gentleman two years younger than my own boyfriend.

Wow. She really is one leopardskin jumpsuit away from being a complete gay icon.

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