Mum’s Army

There are, it turns out, many roles that a son must fill in his life.

One of them is doing the complaining on behalf of his mother who doesn’t want to spend all day on hold to the council.

This is my life now. Or, as the Queen bug says in A Bug’s Life. This is my lot in life, it’s not a lot but it’s my life.

I received a call from my mum today – two actually, because she can’t condense all her shenanigans into just one – during which she complained about not being able to complain to the council because she thinks all the other operators were busy with people complaining.

So, instead, I have to do it.

The other call revolved around the fact that her tumble drier has died and, she was very quick to point out, it has definitely died and it’s not just her being stupid because – and I quote – she can tell the difference between wet washing and dry washing. One of the side-effects of my mum’s stroke is, it appears, sass.

So I also have to find out if the model of tumble drier she has found to replace her dead one suits all the requirements. Not that I know what size the space the old tumble drier occupies actually is and asking mum to measure anything – even before the stroke – was a challenge that resulted in your being in possession of a series of measurements, some of which were in inches and some of which were in centimetres. But you couldn’t always tell which were which.

But that’s a challenge for another day. For now mum is just going to have to dry things like people without tumble driers do. Slowly.

Meanwhile, I have to construct some sort of complaint to Calderdale Council about the fact that they have not collected her green garden waste bin for a month. There are several other bin owners on the street, but I have been elected as the spokesperson because there’s nothing my mum likes better than a good crusade against the tyranny of government. Probably. I don’t know.

It sounds like the sort of thing she’d enjoy. Especially these days when she can cause trouble at something as simple as the local Stroke support group, leading the heckles against a woman who was telling the group of the different stages of coping with a Stroke based on what someone else had written in a book, rather than any first-hand experience. I’m not sure she’ll ever be seen again. The woman doing the speaking, that is. Not my mum. My mum is a force to be reckoned with.

As long as you’re standing on her right-hand side so she can see you, and she doesn’t need to deal with you via the internet. Otherwise you just get me.

 

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