The Gig Economy Mum Style

Phone rings:

Mum:     I’ve got a job for you.

Me:        Oh yeah, what’s broken now?

Mum:     Not that.  This is a better job.

Me:        Hit me.

Mum:     Are you doing anything Friday?

Me:        That’s a trap question because if I say no, then you can pin me into whatever it is you want me to do.

Mum:     That’s right.  Are you?

Me:        Not telling.

Mum:     It’s Jan’s funeral on Friday.

Me:        Yes, that’s very sad.

Mum:     You should come.

Me:        Er, I um, no.  When I was twelve Jan cut my hair.  It’s years and years, since I saw her.

Mum:     That doesn’t matter.

Me:        It’s like you think you’re inviting me to a party.

Mum:     A dead people’s party.  They’ll be a morning tea.

Me:        Pass.

Mum:     That’s not the thing.

Me:        What’s the thing?

Mum:     I can get you a speaking gig.

Me:        Look at you all fancy using the word gig.  What kind of gig could you get me?

Mum:     Well you do gigs.

Me:        Very broadly speaking.

Mum:     That’s exactly what I’ve got for you—a speaking gig.

Me:        What? Really, where?

Mum:     At the funeral.

Me:        Hang on.  You want me to speak at the funeral of someone who cut my hair when I was twelve.

Mum:     You’d say nice things.

Me:        I hated that haircut.  I’m sure there are other far more qualified people.

Mum:     Your hair was too thick.  It needed to be thinned out. They asked me.

Me:        That’s more fitting.

Mum:     I don’t want to do it.  I want you to do it.

Me:        No.

Mum:     But you’ve done it before at funerals.

Me:        It’s not like it was my favourite thing to do.

Mum:     You have to suck it up.

Me:        I’m not speaking at Jan’s funeral.

Mum:     Yes, you’re doing it for me.

Me:        No, I’m not.

Mum:     She won’t know it’s you.

Me:        No kidding. That’s not the point.

Mum:     Don’t you want someone to speak at yours?

Me:        Not something I’ve put a lot of thought into.

Mum:     You should.

Me:        You are not guilting me into speaking at the funeral of someone who once used scissors on my hair.

Mum:     I’m trying to.

Me:        I know.

Mum:     You can be very disappointing.

Me:        When I’m not co-operating with you.

Mum:     Yes.  When I go to the trouble of getting you a gig.

Me:        Wait on, this is a hand me down gig that you don’t want.

Mum:     Beggars can’t be choosers.

Me:        We’re done here.

Mum:     I just hope when you die—

Me:        Someone I haven’t seen for a decade or more speaks at my funeral.

Mum:     At the rate you’re going no one will.

Me:        I’ll live with it.

Mum:     You won’t know about it, but other people will say she should’ve spoken at Jan’s funeral.

Me:        You are out of control.

Mum:     Don’t say I never think about getting you work.

Me:        Last time I checked eulogies didn’t pay rent money.

Mum:     You don’t know it could lead to something.

Me:        Like what, hire a eulogy?

Mum:     Eulogies are us.

Me:        My current gig is speechless.

Mum:     Have I got a gig for you.