Sunday 21 January 2018

Demented Mum: Uh oh. It's written in the cards -- I'm doomed to another two years of this

The fortune-teller lays out the cards. "Do you have a daughter?" I do, you say.

"She's a bit of a handful, this one, isn't she?"

She is, you admit.

"Bright girl, but a bit all over the place. Restless, like."

She is that, you acknowledge.

"There's no real badness in her," the psychic intones, "but she'll keep you on your toes and there's a year or two in it yet."

You sigh.

"Would I be right in saying she'd always be a step or two ahead of you and the husband?"

You would, you admit.

"Is there a boyfriend? Nice lad, but you know what they're like at 16. All hormones."

You shift uneasily.

None that you're aware of, you tell the woman.

She gathers up the cards without looking at you, and reshuffles them. "Keep an eye out," she counsels.

That weekend one of your sons is playing a match. Amazingly, the Wolverine offers to come and cheer her little brother on. You are impressed.

Ten minutes into the first half, she has to go to the loo.

She is gone a very long time. When she finally returns, she is peeved.

"I've no more credit on my phone so I couldn't find my friends," she hisses at you.

You fail to melt with compassion.

Out on the pitch your son scores a point and your husband yells with glee.

"Gawd, dad, you're so embarrassing," the Wolverine mutters crossly.

She asks if she can send a text through your phone.

"Lorna and Jackie said they'd be here, but I can't find them anywhere. I thought I'd text them," she says, looking around.

"Why aren't you watching the match?" you ask exasperatedly, but hand her the phone.

Soon she has to go to the loo again.

She is absent right through the interval and the second half.

Somebody scores a goal. The local team is winning. Everybody cheers.

"What's she up to?" you mutter to yourself. You check the sent box.

According to the text she was arranging to meet someone by the clubhouse door. You casually wander up. Your daughter is standing by the wall with someone.

It's not Lorna or Jackie -- unless either of them has suddenly shaved their hair off, grown six inches and developed a worrisome acne problem.

The Wolverine sees you and hurries over.

"Time to go," you tell her calmly, "the match is over."

You watch her assess you from beneath her side fringe.

"I couldn't find Lorna or Jackie," she mentions.

"Obviously," you say coolly.

Like the fortune-teller said, you'll be keeping an eye.

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