have you been up to?’ she asks. ‘We haven’t seen you for weeks.’
‘I’ve been mad-busy at work,’ I tell her, slumping into the squashy chair in the bay window. ‘Ohmygod, what’s that?’
The question is rhetorical as it’s perfectly clear that they have a new television in their ten foot by twelve sitting room. It’s bigger than Screen One at our local multiplex.
‘Good, eh?’ grins Dad, glancing up from his remote control. ‘Absolutely state-of-the-art.’
‘So I see,’ I reply. ‘Isn’t it a bit big?’
‘It was a good buy,’ he insists – confirmation that it fell off the back of a lorry.
‘ How was it a good buy?’ frowns Mum. ‘It cost an arm and a leg.’
‘It should have been four times the price, Carolyn,’ he fires back.
Mum shakes her head. ‘Your father mustn’t have noticed that we’re permanently skint, Lucy – or he’d stop filling the house with more technology than the Starship Enterprise .’
My mum is the most sarcastic person I know. If there were qualifications in irony, she’d be an Emeritus Professor by now. This, however, is either lost on Dad or he chooses to ignore her.
Not that her comment isn’t justified. While most dads have hobbies such as golf, football or train-spotting, my dad’s only hobby is collecting. Collecting crap, to be precise. At least, that’s what Mum thinks of it. Dad considers his trinkets as ‘life-enhancing’. If true, then between the baromic weather forecaster, the roulette table, the elliptical cross-trainer and the octagonal party gazebo with pop-up sides, their lives must be so enhanced they’re having a permanently spiritual experience.
‘I can’t complain,’ continues Mum, polishing the coffee-table. ‘It’s not as if I don’t get my fair share. The weekends to Paris, flowers twice a week, Cristal champagne to wash my knickers with . . .’
Dad ignores her.
‘Living with your father is like having my own Milk Tray Man,’ she says. ‘Do you want a cuppa?’
Mum and I adjourn to the kitchen and she sets about busying herself again, and not just making tea. She sprays, wipes, polishes and buffs the surfaces of the kitchen with such a vast array of cleaning products I wonder if she’s being sponsored by Johnson & Johnson.
‘Are you working hard?’ she asks, pouring the kettle with one hand and polishing the hob with the other.
‘Of course,’ I tell her. ‘You know I love my job.’
‘Only you don’t want to take things for granted on a salary like yours. A young woman like you, earning what you earn . . . it was unheard of in my day.’
‘It sounds as if you’re talking about the nineteenth century, not the eighties. You’re only fifty-two.’
‘Fifty-one, actually,’ she grimaces. ‘I’m just saying, you’re lucky having a job like that. Not all of us get the opportunities you’ve had.’
I roll my eyes.
‘I mean it. There’s no company car and associated benefits when you’ve got a job scrubbing toilet seats.’
I frown, feeling guilty. ‘I know. But you could work somewhere better than that cleaning company – I’ve already told you.’
She stops and smiles. ‘It’ll be my Ph.D from Cambridge that makes you think that, will it?’
Mum adores Dave and me. She’d do anything for us, and our childhood memories are littered with examples of this – from my eighteenth-birthday present (a battered but lovely Mini she did extra shifts to pay for), to her trip with Dave to the Reading Festival (when he was twelve and desperate to see Nirvana). But does that mean we’re spared from her biting sarcasm? Not a chance.
‘Look,’ I continue, ‘you don’t necessarily need qualifications to—’
‘Or is it all those languages I’ve got?’ she interrupts. ‘Or my stint as head of the sixth-form debating society . . .’
‘Now you mention it, I don’t know anyone who can beat you in an argument,’ I jump in. ‘There are better jobs than the one you’ve got. Just because
‘I’ve been mad-busy at work,’ I tell her, slumping into the squashy chair in the bay window. ‘Ohmygod, what’s that?’
The question is rhetorical as it’s perfectly clear that they have a new television in their ten foot by twelve sitting room. It’s bigger than Screen One at our local multiplex.
‘Good, eh?’ grins Dad, glancing up from his remote control. ‘Absolutely state-of-the-art.’
‘So I see,’ I reply. ‘Isn’t it a bit big?’
‘It was a good buy,’ he insists – confirmation that it fell off the back of a lorry.
‘ How was it a good buy?’ frowns Mum. ‘It cost an arm and a leg.’
‘It should have been four times the price, Carolyn,’ he fires back.
Mum shakes her head. ‘Your father mustn’t have noticed that we’re permanently skint, Lucy – or he’d stop filling the house with more technology than the Starship Enterprise .’
My mum is the most sarcastic person I know. If there were qualifications in irony, she’d be an Emeritus Professor by now. This, however, is either lost on Dad or he chooses to ignore her.
Not that her comment isn’t justified. While most dads have hobbies such as golf, football or train-spotting, my dad’s only hobby is collecting. Collecting crap, to be precise. At least, that’s what Mum thinks of it. Dad considers his trinkets as ‘life-enhancing’. If true, then between the baromic weather forecaster, the roulette table, the elliptical cross-trainer and the octagonal party gazebo with pop-up sides, their lives must be so enhanced they’re having a permanently spiritual experience.
‘I can’t complain,’ continues Mum, polishing the coffee-table. ‘It’s not as if I don’t get my fair share. The weekends to Paris, flowers twice a week, Cristal champagne to wash my knickers with . . .’
Dad ignores her.
‘Living with your father is like having my own Milk Tray Man,’ she says. ‘Do you want a cuppa?’
Mum and I adjourn to the kitchen and she sets about busying herself again, and not just making tea. She sprays, wipes, polishes and buffs the surfaces of the kitchen with such a vast array of cleaning products I wonder if she’s being sponsored by Johnson & Johnson.
‘Are you working hard?’ she asks, pouring the kettle with one hand and polishing the hob with the other.
‘Of course,’ I tell her. ‘You know I love my job.’
‘Only you don’t want to take things for granted on a salary like yours. A young woman like you, earning what you earn . . . it was unheard of in my day.’
‘It sounds as if you’re talking about the nineteenth century, not the eighties. You’re only fifty-two.’
‘Fifty-one, actually,’ she grimaces. ‘I’m just saying, you’re lucky having a job like that. Not all of us get the opportunities you’ve had.’
I roll my eyes.
‘I mean it. There’s no company car and associated benefits when you’ve got a job scrubbing toilet seats.’
I frown, feeling guilty. ‘I know. But you could work somewhere better than that cleaning company – I’ve already told you.’
She stops and smiles. ‘It’ll be my Ph.D from Cambridge that makes you think that, will it?’
Mum adores Dave and me. She’d do anything for us, and our childhood memories are littered with examples of this – from my eighteenth-birthday present (a battered but lovely Mini she did extra shifts to pay for), to her trip with Dave to the Reading Festival (when he was twelve and desperate to see Nirvana). But does that mean we’re spared from her biting sarcasm? Not a chance.
‘Look,’ I continue, ‘you don’t necessarily need qualifications to—’
‘Or is it all those languages I’ve got?’ she interrupts. ‘Or my stint as head of the sixth-form debating society . . .’
‘Now you mention it, I don’t know anyone who can beat you in an argument,’ I jump in. ‘There are better jobs than the one you’ve got. Just because
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