The old dear smiles at me – although, with the amount of work she’s had done on her face over the years, it’s more like an attack grimace. You wouldn’t know whether she was going to lick your face or sink her veneers into your jugular.
“Come in!” she goes – opening the door wider. “I was about to phone you.”
I’m like, “Phone me?”
“Yes, to tell you not to go to any trouble for Mother’s Day this weekend.”
"I didn't even know it was Mother's Day this weekend."
"What I'm saying is don't go arranging another one of those surprise parties like you did last year. Even though it was wonderful to come home to find all my family and my dear, dear friends in the living room."
“That wasn’t a surprise porty – that was an intervention. To tell you to leave your face alone. You’ve spent half a million squids on plastic surgery and you look like Skeletor in drag.”
Her own tear ducts, by the way, were damaged in a botched operation to remove her crow's feet operation in 200
“Well, whatever the intention, it was a wonderful evening. But there’s to be no repeat this year. As it happens, I’m going away on Saturday.”
“Where are you going? And bear in mind I’m only pretending to care because, according to you, Mother’s Day is coming up.”
“I’ve found a doctor in Bucharest who’s going to do my tear duct transplant.”
Her own tear ducts, by the way, were damaged in a botched operation to remove her crow's feet operation in 2005. The result is that she can no longer produce, like, tears.
I’m there, “I don’t know why not being able to cry is even an issue for you. You don’t have normal human feelings anyway.”
“Be that as it may,” she goes, “I’m tired of having to constantly apply lube.”
“Okay, that’s a sentence no son should ever hear his mother say.”
"I have to use lube, Ross, or I'd go completely dry."
“Yeah, can you please stop saying lube?”
“Come down to the kitchen. I’m making one of my famous prosciutto and goat’s curd frittatas.”
My old dear’s prosciutto and goat’s curd frittatas have to be tasted to be believed. Incredible is the only word I could find to describe them.
“I’ll probably just have a forkful or two,” I go, following her down to the kitchen, “just so as not to hurt your feelings. Although I’ll probably be bent over the bowl all afternoon, throwing it up again.”
I horse into it and I can see from her face that she's delighted
I sit down at the island and she shovels some from the pan on to a plate for me. She’s like, “Is that enough?”
“A little bit more,” I go.
“That much?”
“Bit more.”
“That?”
“More . . . Okay, that’s plenty.”
“That’s all of it, Ross – the entire frittata.”
“Well, like I said, I’m making the effort for the week that’s in it – even if it means definitely spewing.”
I horse into it and I can see from her face that she’s delighted. Or threatening me. She shows me her teeth again and goes, “Mother’s Day always brings out the sentimentalist in you, doesn’t it, Ross?”
I’m there, “Jesus, I hope not. What does that word mean anyway?”
“I’m just saying that you and I have had our differences over the years – but you never, ever forget Mother’s Day.”
“I did forget. I told you.”
“You know what I found the other day? A card you made for me when you were, oh, you must have been five or six years old. Inside, you wrote, ‘Roses are red, Violets are blue, When I grow up, I want to marry you.’”
“What?”
“I wanted to send you to see a child psychiatrist but your father persuaded me that it was actually rather sweet.”
"Okay, I definitely am going to vom."
“I was going to show it to Honor.”
"Do not show it to Honor. I'm begging you. She'll put it up on the internet. Imagine the slaggings. Heaslip and one or two others."
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Ross. We’ve always had a bond, you and I, haven’t we?”
“Not really, no.”
“I’m saying we go through to motions of pretending we don’t get along. But at the end of the day, we’d do anything for each other.”
“That’s a stretch. That’s a definite. . . ”
I stop because I’ve suddenly picked up on the change in atmos in the kitchen. I’m there, “You want something.”
She goes, “Yes, I do. I want you to come to Bucharest with me on Saturday.”
She says it with a straight face. Let’s be honest, she says everything with a straight face – that’s why she pays these so-called doctors the big bucks.
I’m there, “Forget it. Ireland are playing Scotland. I can’t change my lucky match-day routine. Not with a Slam on the line.”
She goes, “Ross, the hospital said I shouldn’t travel home on my own. It’s a very serious operation and . . . ”
“What?”
“They’re saying there’s a chance I could go blind. I’m very, very frightened, Ross.”
She screws up her face – she looks like she’s trying to pass a gallstone through her urinary tract.
“Is that you trying to cry?” I go.
She’s like, “Yes, it is, darling. I’ll pop upstairs and get my lube.”
“Yeah, leave the lube where it is until I’m well clear of this house. Could you not ask the old man to go with you?”
“He’s away on business. Delma was supposed to come but she’s just discovered her passport has expired.”
“Well, like I said, I’m going to the Scotland match, so you’re going to need to find another sucker – Mother’s Day weekend or no Mother’s Day weekend.”
She picks up my clean plate and puts it on the draining board for Iryna the Cleaner to put it into the dishwasher later this morning.
“Yes,” she suddenly goes, “I can’t wait to show Honor that lovely card you made for me.”
I look at her and she looks at me. I know my old dear well enough to know when I’m being blackmailed.
I’m there, “You wouldn’t.”
She goes, “As it happens, Ross, I’m collecting her from school today. I’ll give it to her then.”
And I have no choice but to go, “Okay, I’ll come with you to whatever it’s called.”
