apron strings & all such things

My mother is wonderful. She is a kind, considerate, beautiful, gentle, rational, intelligent, talented woman. She is strongly supportive and vehemently protective of her family and friends: in short, she is inspirational and I think she’s perfect.

That said, she does have a thing about rash language. I think she must be the only person I know who uses rhyming slang when railing against institutional stupidity*. Bearing in mind that she has been married to my father for many years and his language has a tendency toward the anglo-saxon when in the throes of a rant, her abstinence from full-throttle invective is puzzling. One might have thought that Stockholm Syndrome would have kicked in around the 3rd anniversary, but obviously not…

The point of all this? She would prefer that I not use rude words in these pages. She feels that Foxtrot Oscar (or perhaps Tango Whiskey Alpha Tango?) would be more appropriate.

So for you, Ma, I’ll try to avoid the risque language. 

Love you.

x

 

* Merchant Banker? Yes. Gareth Hunt? No. Never. Despite provocation. Obviously even her euphamisms have their limits.

& another thing…

I feel this deserves a mention, whilst we’re still on the topic of irritating: those Customer Service Representatives who insist on not only spelling everything out in the phonetic alphabet, but also on correcting my spluttering attempts despite the fact that a) they obviously know what I mean b) I’m not a WW2 fighter pilot and c) U for Utopia is a perfectly acceptable replacement for Umbrella.

*!”@*&! #2

I have discovered that my personal tipping point for loss-of-patience-in-the-face-of-repetitive-irritation is 2 years, 2 months and 1 day. (My brother says that his is 3 and a half minutes, but that’s 6ft of jujitsu expertise for you; “I’m a black belt in origami - fuck off foxtrot oscar or I’ll fold you” just isn’t the same.)

So. Things that drive me to rash and violent language part 2:

1. the man who passes the building at 8.06 who always makes the same ridiculous, pissy little face and says “running late, are we?” every day bar Sundays when he’s off conducting a black mass or something.
2. the delivery driver who always asks me what I’ve planned for the weekend when for the entire span of our acquaintence I’ve planned exactly nothing, because I have no time off. Ever. Yet he still asks me because he has the memory retention of a goldfish and invariably responds to whatever vowel sound I make with,”Oh, that’ll be nice.”
3. the bloke who gives a verbatim account of his doctor’s opinion of his various medical conditions including the address, ie. “So the doctor said, well, Mr Smith…”  Occasionally he is accompanied by his wife who repeats exactly what he’s just said but with a 2 second delay, canon-style, by his wife who repeats exactly what he’s just said but with a 2 second delay, canon-style…
4. the people who are incapable of distinguishing me (33) from Claire (23 and no longer working here) and Becs (21). It would be flattering if I didn’t know that us plebs simply don’t register in their sphere of self importance. Despite the fact that they pride themselves on being regulars, pat themselves on the back for supporting local and expect us to remember their drinks they still cannot discriminate between me and Tim.
5. people who loudly pass comment in languages other than English under the impression that they can’t be understood. Word to the wise? You can. And if you call me that again, bitch, I’ll put your teeth down your throat.