Mischief, Annalisa? Pah! I have been chained to my desk (not in a good way) for what seems like an eternity, in between trips up to the Lake District and down to Brixton (from the sublime to the ridiculous - they play classical music in the tube station in an attempt to keep us docile; would surely work better to just hand out huge spliffs. Must have a word with Tony). Anyway. Sample conversation with my mother whilst up in the Lake District (time: 7.30 am, location, what she insists on calling 'Catherine's room', even though I have never lived in this house, they only moved there a year ago. Whatever): Knock knock. Door bursts open and mother enters, followed by the dog, both barking. 'Hello darling, are you asleep?' I have been awake since 6.30, feeling her excitement at having her first-born home for the weekend seeping through the walls. Also, she has had Radio 4 on top volume, listening to the shipping forecast. 'Would you like to come and help me give the pigaligs their breakfast?' 'What?' I feel as I do in the morning on the sofa in Exmouth Market when Filippo puts his face close to mine and murmurs 'Hello Pussy': a combination of the ridiculous and the slightly dangerous. 'The pigaligs. Amelia and Wilma.' 'I don't know what you're talking about.' At least in London I have the satisfaction of knowing the previous night was worth the morning pain. Here I just had a long night on Virgin trains eating stale sandwiches and listening to commuters shouting into their mobile phones. 'Yes you do. My new babies.' I give her a hard stare. She sniffs, tragically. 'They're all I have to love, now that you and your sister have left me.' I put on my clothes and follow her downstairs, out the front door and to the end of the garden (see attached photo for details). I know I've got short legs and occasionally snort when tickled, but honestly, a replacement? Anyway, can't wait to see you all on Thursday night. I will have had a date at lunchtime. Vinita, the writer who lives on the beach in Whitstable (in a house, I hope). Apparently I 'bring out something different' in her. Christ knows what. Hopefully not some kind of inner lesbian psychopath. She used to belong to The Orange People - followers of Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh. Then she was a family lawyer for 20 years. We're meeting on the South Bank. If my body is found sleeping with the fishes, it was her, ok? xxxx
Catherine, Thank you for the imagery In the photo there is a clear distinction between you and your pig replacement. No confusion there. (Might want to get mother's eyesight checked out) As far as the date with the Rajneeshi??!! ummm... I appreciate you wanting to expand your horizons but there was a massive cult of them in Oregon near where I grew up and they were frightening, proper cult,people. Be careful darling. If she starts to make a low level humming or chanting noise head for the door immediately.
Catherine,
There is a clear distinction between you and your new "sisters" in that you will never be crispy bacon. How can your mother think of comparing the two of you!? There will come that fateful day when she doesn't ask you to feed them breakfast but to HAVE them for breakfast.
Poor pigaligs!
Welcome to the cruel world.
No meat, no men.
You are wise indeed. And I love you for pointing out the disparities between me and my pigalig sisters... The world is indeed cruel. My mother swears that she will never eat her lovely specialist miniature pigs from New Zealand the pigs. I said 'right. like we were never going to eat my little runt pet pig with the broken leg and then you served him up for sunday lunch and didn't tell me until I'd eaten him.' She had the grace to look ashamed. Oh yes. On that was the day I became a vegetarian. Probably also the day I became a lesbian, although a baby one, as I was only 11, in protest at big bad men who kill pigs. No meat. No men. And Heidi, no humming/chanting. I shall meet her outside so I can make a quick getaway.... x
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