A Conversation with Mum about Lunch, Lying and Bad-arsing
Home office phone rings
Mum: Where are you?
Mum: I want to know.
Me: You rang the home office phone so where do you think I am?
Mum: Don’t be a smartarse.
Me: You know you never used to say bad words.
Mum: Yes, well, I’ve changed. I’m a bad-arse now.
Mum: Anyway, I want you to come and meet me and the (grand)kids.
Me: Um. When?
Me: Right now?
Mum: For lunch. Okay in ten minutes then at the village (which is about five mins away by car)
Me: You never did get this working from home thing did you?
Mum: What’s to get?
Me: I’m working.
Mum: Not at lunchtime.
Me: I’ve actually already eaten.
Mum: Why would you do that?
Me: It’s lunchtime.
Mum: Which is why I called. So you’ll come.
Me: Ah. I have work to do.
Mum: You need to be better organised.
Me: I was nicely organised.
Mum: You’re not.
Me: Because I’m reluctant to drop everything and skive off for lunch that I didn’t know was happening and I’ve already eaten.
Mum: Exactly. So meet as at Bowery Island.
Me: Wait, you said, the village.
Mum: Same difference.
Me: The village is five minutes away. Bowery Island is twenty minutes away in a whole other shopping centre that’s not my local one.
Mum: That’s why I got you to agree to the village, I knew you’d fuss if it was further away.
Me: No kidding. You lied.
Mum: No I didn’t
Me: Yes, you did.
Mum: Okay. Of course I did.
Me: Because you’re a bad-arse.
Mum: Laughing. Yes because of that and because you’re difficult.
Me: I’m difficult.
Mum: Look just do whatever work it is tonight.
Me: That would be fine if clients weren’t expecting it today.
Mum: See, bad planning.
Mum: Okay make it half an hour, we’ve already talked ten minutes, you could be here by now.
Me: I could be at the village.
Mum: Don’t go there – we’re not there.
Mum: You’re not coming are you?
Me: No, I’m not. I have things I have to do and I’ve—
Mum: Don’t give me excuses.
Me: Sigh. I’m going now. Bye, Mum.
Mum: All right. Stick in the mud. Bye.
She fumbles the hang up and just before I end the call I hear: Is it me? Maybe it’s me.
I think about saying something reassuring, then I hear: It’s bloody well not me, then she giggles. I’m bad-arse.