[m i a o w] the cat

M’s mother doesn’t ask me favours very often, so when she does, I feel I should say OK. Thus I am driving her an hour north to Bundaberg in an hours time. M is looking at me with big, shocked eyes – finding it impossible to envision how I could have offered to be confined in a tiny car with his mother for the best part of the day. Actually, I don’t think I’m going to mind too much. The only time I start having spasms is when she begins being old and imperious to salespeople in shops. Oh the shame. She is very fond of pointing at something and saying loudly;
“Look how much that is. I wouldn’t pay that. I could make that in five minutes. Disgusting. Disgusting.”
She is also not adverse to using the ‘old lady’ approach, which is when she becomes a bit more tottery than she actually is, and assumes a look that is both docile and harmless (as harmless as a large and angry pumpkin). And it gets results – she gets butchers to do special cuts of meat for her, delicatessen staff slice things up fresh instead of getting them pre-sliced out of the case and, for the most part, people let her push in front of them at the cash register, as I fade, appalled, into the background.

So here I go. I will drive the Humber to her place and then take her car (a small, crumple-zoned, air-bagged go-cart) and we will drive to Bundaberg so she can try to convince the shop (where she bought an $100 gift voucher for someone) that it didn’t work out, and that she would like it back in cash. I can’t wait.