You'll be fine by lunchtime

This is a big one. If there was ever a Misssive that fitted right into the phrase “publish and be damned”, this is it.

For my Mum is gonna kill me for this one.

Before I start, make no mistake, this is not and has never been an anonymous blog. I am so un-anonymous that my actual mother reads this. How many of you can say that? Eh, you bunch o’chickens?

I’m bloggin’ on the EDGE!

Now my Mum has only ever taken issue with two things I’ve ever said on the Misssives:

1. I said to one of the US readers of the Misssives that she should look out for her, as my parents were holidaying in the US. I said that they would know her because she would be wearing beige knee length shorts with an elasticated waist. About three months later I get an email from my Mum and it simply says this,

“I do not just have beige knee length shorts. Mum”

This little transgression of the fifth commandment happened in the comments box. So think on, commenters. Mum's watching you too!

2. Last month’s assertion by myself that my folks wanted to call me Kenneth should I have been a boy, warranted an actual phone-call. According to the revisionist historical account by my mother, I would never have been a Kenneth, I would have been a Ewan. Hang on hang on, before you think I’m an out and out liar; she did say once that she liked Kenneth. I heard her. But, at last, during the ensuing conversation we get to the crux of the matter; it was Dad who stopped Mum from calling me Ken. And this is the man who called their cat Lech after the (then) incoming Polish President, Lech Walesa.

I have a question: what is the opposite of penis envy? Because I genuinely am suffering from it. I am so bloody happy to have been a girl. I have "vagina satisfaction"*. Man, I could have been called Trotsky or something!

OK, so we’ve established that my folks read this blog. But I am still going to tell you this story after which my Mum is going to probably jump in the car and come round to my house in response.

I’m not going to mess about, I’m going straight to the punch: My Mum sent me to school with a broken arm.

The story goes like this. We go ski-ing for the first time ever. Skis are hired and applied to legs. Parents tell Misssy to stay where she is until they can safely escort her to the nursery slopes. Misssy ignores them, probably having watched a James Bond film the Saturday night before, and whizzes off, thinking she’s going to effortlessly slalom between pines dodging machine gun fire. Misssy whizzes off ....straight into an icy ditch.

Throughout the day Misssy complains of a sore wrist and whines. Unfortunately Misssy has spent most of her childhood whining, and no-one notices any difference.

Once back home, Misssy whines her way to bed. And then in the morning Misssy wakes up and re-commences whining.

Mum trots out a line which I’m ashamed to say I now use to my own kids when I think they are trying to cadge a sicky;

“You’re fine, go to school. You’ll be fine by lunchtime”

Misssy wasn’t fine by lunchtime. She didn’t even get to lunchtime. She had PE first thing and whined to the PE teacher, when she tried to make her play netball. The teacher had a cursory look at the object of the whining, said the wrist looked a bit blue and asked Misssy to grasp her finger putting the one afternoon of First Aid training she had in college into action. Whining, Misssy failed to achieve the right intensity of grasp.

Wrist is declared broken by a professional.

Mum is called.

Mum comes into school.

Mum takes Misssy to doctor.

Doctor confirms fellow professional’s diagnosis.

X-rays are done.

Cast is applied.

Mum feels terrible the rest of her life.

Daughter blogs about event.

Mum disowns daughter.




*Take THAT Dr Freud!

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