My Mum - The Visit!

My Mum – The Visit!

I thought I had covered most of the stories about my Mum and her eccentricities but I have thought of some more that were tucked away in the attic of my brain. However, I have just recently learned of one that somehow I had missed all together. Before relating this story however, I think I should remind the reader that, as children, the way we were dressed was a constant source of embarrassment as I was sent out into the world wearing knitted underwear in a startling variety of colours and a crocheted dress that was so heavy it was seemingly made from chain mail. Then there was the handmade coat complete with Florence Nightingale Bonnet which had straps that could serve to secure the load of an Eddie Stobbart lorry and shoes that I believe were laughingly called pumps! The fact that these so called ‘pumps’ had previously been worn by my brother might go some way to explaining why it was that I never made it into the Corps de Ballet!

So now you know how we were dressed but what of our dear Mum? Well, to us children, Mum’s dress sense might be a little too Vivienne Westwood or Zandra Rhodes for our taste as, like Elizabeth Hurley, safety pins seemed to feature quite large. Apart from that, however, the rest of Mum’s dress ensemble was also a matter of some concern if we were to accompany her in public as we could not always shrug off our embarrassment as we noticed the strange looks Mum was attracting.

We did our best to look nonchalant, not an easy thing to do given that Mum would suddenly dive up her skirt to re-knot her stockings which for some reason she preferred to do rather than wear garters or use the suspenders from her corset. My guess is she just liked living on the edge! Certainly we, her three children, felt that we were destined always to live on the edge as at any moment disaster might strike and Mum lose the fight to keep her stockings located where most other people keep theirs. The only question was would the cowardly knot, in my opinion, guilty of a dereliction of duty, come undone in a populated area? Or, would it be merciful and give up the ghost in a quiet locality?

Then, when my sister and I were both married a visit from Mum would need to be handled like a military operation as we usually tried to time it so that she arrived under cover of darkness in order that we could get her ushered inside before any of our neighbours should catch sight. The reason for this was that we never quite knew what outfit her jumble sale designer would see her decked out in.

There were many variations on a theme but these always seemed to include something sticking out of her back as if she had some kind of weapon secreted about her person. I was often tempted to tell my neighbours that she worked for M I 5 and that she was working under cover on a case and therefore had to be tooled up, so to speak. I could think of no other plausible explanation as even I didn’t know what caused this weapon-like bulge in her clothing. Come to think of it I missed an opportunity there as I could have implied that Mum’s attire was also due to her secret mission as she had to work incognito. No, on second thoughts, that would never have worked as incognito implies inconspicuous.

If Mum was staying with me when my daughters’ school put on an event then I always viewed this occurrence with some trepidation as I never knew what clothes she would bring with her and in any event her entire wardrobe did not run to anything remotely normal. I remember on one particular occasion when Mum was staying with me and we were going to attend the Harvest Supper at my daughter’s school. I asked Mum to dress up a bit and this she did with rather more enthusiasm than I thought was necessary.

I don’t think many Mums of seventy odd years can carry off dyed black hair with a false blonde plait! Then a rather grubby looking jumper, bought from her last visit to a Jumble Sale and therefore classed as new, was teamed with a skirt that made not the slightest attempt to fit her and all this rounded off nicely with white ankle socks and with her feet encased in open toed sandals that allowed plenty of room for her bunions. Needless to say I was fast going off the idea of a Harvest Supper as I felt my contribution would include a very large slice of humble pie!

Then there was the matter of her eating the refreshments laid on by the mothers and which she enjoyed but which I did not as it involved a great deal of noisy mastication on the part of my Mum and a great deal of embarrassment on my part as I tried to cover the noise and hoped no food got under the plate of her false teeth! It would come as no surprise to me if she whipped out the lower set to get rid of anything that might cause discomfort to her and double discomfort to me as I tried to introduce her to the benefits of a serviette.

Then on one occasion my worst nightmare was realised when at a school function Mum wanted to use the toilet. Well, the village school was one that still had its toilets located outside the main building and across the playground. As it was a junior school it had junior school size toilets but Mum did not have a junior school size bum so how she was going to manage was a serious cause for concern. Even worse, although I knew Mum needed a wee I also knew it would not be a junior school size wee! So, imagine my embarrassment when Mum went into the toilet as I had to stand guard outside and refuse entry to anyone until Mum had finished as the sound effects coming from the toilet meant that one could be forgiven for thinking a horse was relieving itself in there.

But once that ordeal was over all that was necessary for me, as she walked back across the playground to the main building, was to check that her skirt was not tucked into her bloomers. Yes, she was wearing what I call shoplifter’s bloomers with legs that reached to her knees and were elasticized. If you are still reading at this point then I cannot be held responsible for any psychological damage you may be caused by following this story as I have been mentally scarred by this experience so you, the reader, read on at your peril.

However, now we come to the most important bit. The reason for writing this particular piece and brought to my attention only just recently. Apparently my sister was expecting a visit from our Mum and although she was looking forward to seeing her she also felt some concern as, like when Mum visited me, my sister did not know what to expect in the way of how Mum would be dressed on arrival. My sister also thought it would help her to cope if she went to the doctor for some kind of tranquilliser to help her through the visit as she had three young children making demands as well as having to entertain her husband’s clients and his boss but the doctor was not at all sympathetic and said she was being unchristian. In my opinion, he was the one being unchristian as my sister would not have gone to him in the first place unless she felt pretty desperate and, as it turned out, with good reason.

So, not surprisingly, how Mum was dressed on her arrival was of some considerable importance to my sister. Fortunately, however, she need not have worried as when she caught sight of Mum on the coach she could see that Mum was wearing a long fur coat which meant she was well covered up. However as Mum moved down the coach, almost to the point where she would get off, the coat gaped open and my sister let out a piercing scream as she saw what it was that Mum was wearing. Then she started sobbing uncontrollably. Her concerned husband asked what ever was wrong and between sobs my sister spluttered “A mini skirt…it’s a mini skirt! Me Mum’s wearing a mini skirt!” My sister’s husband in an effort to comfort and console her said “No, no, you’re all right…You’re mistaken… you silly old Billy…it’s not a mini skirt she’s wearing it’s …HOTPANTS!!!

Fortunately, my sister survived Mum’s visit and it wasn’t too long before she was discharged from the clinic and was back on the Valium and the tick in her left eye has now almost gone. I too have weaned myself off the tranquillisers and looking back I can’t help wondering why we made such a fuss. On second thoughts…

The End