Sri Lankan Mothers - Part Oh God Not Another One

Picture the situation.

Tonight (Tuesday) I'll be flying to Singapore for a week. I had a band practice last night (Monday) and I'm now at my desk. I'll be going straight from work here tonight to the airport then will fly out. Things have been pleasantly busy for me, well quite mentally busy to be honest.

And I'm currently living with my parents, who are in Colombo at the moment. So, for the sake of accuracy, I'm not currently living with them as they're not there, but I would be if they were there. It's their house. Confused? I'm trying to paint the background for you, but I won't be offended if, by now, you've buggered off somewhere else because RD has gone too far.

Sunday was a busy day. It involved packing and serious tidying. My parents are due back here while I'm away. No Sri Lankan son wants his parents to arrive in their house and find it in the mess that it was in. The kind of mess that Dinidu would leave.

I did well. I tidied, hoovered, polished and emptied the bins. I wiped surfaces and checked mail. I took the keys and started my Mum's car. I took the other keys and tried to start my Dad's car. Nothing happened. When I say nothing I mean just that clicking sound, the one that tells you the battery has less life in it than a glass of French mineral water.

Bollocks. I thought to myself, still without knowing for sure if a thought should be placed in speech marks or not. The car started perfectly last weekend when I took if for a spin and the battery had run down in a week. It was parked in their drive, meaning it was almost impossible for me to pull my car up to jump start it. But that would have been pointless anyway, the chances being that the battery would be flat again by the time they got back.

I decided to do the courageous thing, to take the bull by the horns and face up to my fears. Sometimes a chap has to be a chap, this was chap time, I was the chap for the job.

"Dear Mum and Dad" the note started.

Then, I had bloggers' block, though it was more "43 year old writing a note to his parents to leave on the dining table block."

I stared at it for a while. To a writer staring is the same as talking very loudly to a person who can't speak the language. You feel as though it should help, but it doesn't. So I'm told, but I'm neither a writer nor a foreigner. I had a vague outline for the note. It consisted of me telling them when I'd be back, that I'd done these good things and all was okay with the house and by the way Dad your car battery was flat, sorry about that.

Somehow, like a possessed chap, in the middle of my 43 year old writing a note to his parents to leave on the dining table block, I found myself on the phone dialling 0094112...... Though I hadn't dialled the dots, they're to represent numbers.

Before I knew it I was talking to my Dad. They had just got back in from Jazz Unlimited at the CR + FC and were about to go out for dinner. It was funny to think that only four weeks ago I was there with them. Not only was I in the midst of some kind of freak London cold wintry shower but I'd be in the heat and humidity of Singapore in a few days time too.

I told him about the car and was reminded that the effect of alcohol, music and Sri Lanka is a powerful one. He took it in his stride and casually remarked that he'd sort it out when they returned. This was good as I was slightly scared that he'd want me to jump through a lot of tiny hoops to try to sort it out before I left.

Then the phone was snatched away from him by my Mum, you know how it works. Everything I had just said to my Dad had to be repeated to her, partly because he can't really be trusted to relay the information accurately, mostly because, even if his relaying was as accurate as that of a Sri Lankan politician giving his defence in court against fraud charges, my Mum would still want to hear it from me.

We went through all the usual things. How are the girls? How is Musicbiz bro and Academic bro and the other granddaughter? I gave all the usual answers, that clever mix of detail and going through the motions.

Then she asked me exactly when I was going for Singapore, I told her. Then she asked me if I'd told the neighbours so they could have an eye on the place, I told her that I had. Then she asked me if I wanted them to pick me up from the airport on my return, I told her that I was fine as I was going to leave my car at the airport because I would go straight there from work tonight.

Even I was surprised at her next question, on reflection I reckon she might even have been surprised that it came out

"So will in be in for dinner on the Tuesday night?" She was referring to Tuesday next week, when I get back.

"Mum" I said, in that tone.

"I'm in London, you're in Colombo and I'm going to Singapore for a week. And you want to know if I'll be in for dinner Tuesday after next! I haven't got a clue yet."

She seemed a bit sheepish, as though she'd realised if was a bit over the top. And she has high standards in over the topness.

Her next question was about whether I was going to leave my flight details on the fridge for them, an ongoing source of conflict.

I said no. We moved on but she had that tone, the one that can intimidate from a distance of thousands of miles.

Only I wasn't intimidated, not one bit.

Laters all.

RD