Sunday 26 February 2017

Jeepers peepers! The things she says behind my back. . .

LISTENERS, your long-suffering mother used to warn -- usually after you'd caught her complaining to somebody about your adolescent shenanigans -- never hear good of themselves.

Now 30 years on, you discover, it's even worse for text-peepers.

After exhibiting more than her usual insolence over the Weetabix, the Wolverine's phone is firmly removed from her clutching hands at 7.35am.

"Confiscated," you announce calmly but firmly.

Ignoring the squeals of outrage and the threats to phone Childline, you dump the battered pink gadget in your handbag and depart for work.

As you arrive at the office, you hardly notice the beep announcing the arrival of a text.

You hardly notice yourself taking the phone out of your handbag.

You hardly notice that you're checking the inbox, and really, you honestly don't intend to read the text.

In fact you barely register that you're even looking at the thing -- you're far too busy, obviously.

Suddenly, however, the words "Whaddya mean yer mother?" leap out.

You can't help yourself.

You call up the full text, which reads:

"Waddya mean yer mother? You've some cheek, dude!"

This message, clearly a reply to some comment by your daughter, has been sent by some pimply thug called Mikey P.

So the Wolverine has been dissing you to her friends, has she? Sniping about you behind your back? Sneering with her pals?

Ha!

Without a second thought you dive into her 'sent' box.

"Gawd u were startn to sound like my mother dere. All I have to say to her is good morning and im being cheeky. Jeez dude, you btr watch yerself. Yer startin 2 lose it, man, n' dat makes 2 of you."

You are hurt. Aghast. Bewildered.

Stunned by such a casual betrayal.

As if, you mutter furiously to yourself, the Wolverine would ever wish you a 'good morning'.

As if, frozen by shock in the event of such unexpected civility from your daughter, you'd have the presence of mind to even consider such a possibility!

You'd too busy wiping away a tsunami of grateful tears.

You'd be too busy falling to your knees and thanking God for sending back the daughter you thought you'd lost four years ago.

You'd be too busy rushing off to bake a cake -- well buy one anyway -- to celebrate the return of the sweet, affectionate darling who was your pride and joy.

Won't happen now.

And the thing is, you can't tell a soul about this.

You have to, as the Wolverine might put it, just suck it up.

Because otherwise, you'd, like, look like such a loser. Duh.

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