A son speaks

Mummy has left in such a tiz woz. Honestly what is a chap to do under the circumstances? I pleaded with her, but when she gets the bit between her teeth there is no gainsaying the old girl.

Sorry if I am making her sound like a horse – I got that expression from father. She’s not a bit like a horse; she is still a damn fine looking woman – for her age - even though I say it myself as shouldn’t; me being her son and all that.

Well I know I’m not, strictly speaking, her son, but I have always called her mummy. You see I never knew my real mother. But I’m not looking for sympathy. Actually, I’m looking for the address of this hospital in which my dear father is presently incarcerated. I mean someone has got to take over the reins (Oops there I go again) of this dysfunctional family. But all families are dysfunctional – that is the very nature of families. Try reading David Cooper’s Death of the Family!

Anyway, I shouldn’t have to deal with all this trauma; I have enough problems of my own. I have always been a rather delicate, sensitive boy, with shoulders far too slender to carry such a burden. But someone has got to do it.

Luckily Carole is here at the house with me, and she stiffens my resolve when I need it. I don’t know what I would do without her. And yet we are so different: her from that sink council estate, used to living on income support and generally sponging from the state, while I – well, the product of a private school education and a good university; a man of letters, no less.

It was Carole who advised me on that tricky business with the police. Well, she has rubbed up against the boys in blue on more than one occasion. Her Garry is a thorough villain. I would not lower myself to have dealings with such a chap, and luckily I won’t have to because he is at present a guest of Her Majesty – and likely to be for some time.

Still, suffice to say, Inspector Wetherby saw fit not to proceed with any charges following the events of that awful night. When I remarked upon how lucky we had been, Carole just winked and said ‘He owes me one, sweetie’. I wish she wouldn’t call me sweetie.

I have to say – and I would not like this to get back – that I find Carole a bit coarse sometimes. I mean, her earthy language and bawdy humour can be quite fetching down the Jolly Pervert but when one has it twenty four hours a day – well it can begin to grate.

And her bedroom manner can sometimes be a little… well, boisterous.
I try not to think about the fact that she used to be father’s paramour. I mean it isn’t incest or anything – the fact that I have ‘followed where he has trod’ so to speak. It’s just that sometimes – and usually at a most unexpected moment – I sort of feel his presence. I have mentioned this to Carole but she just laughs and tells me not to be silly. ‘Don’t worry, Syd, no one comes before you - not even dear old dad!’ I know this is meant to be reassuring but it somehow makes me feel more uneasy.

Another thing mummy has left me to deal with is this thing about father giving Anastasia power of attorney. I can see me having to fly out there and have it out with her.

Anyway, must dash – Carole has promised to touch up my roots tonight. Grey hair at my age! It’s all the worry.