My mother’s always late. Two hours before the plane is due to take off, her thick friend, Rose, sits chain smoking with the car engine idling in the driveway while my stupid mother wrinkles her skin even more – if that’s anatomically possible - in the bath. This is, she says, to calm her nerves because I am already stressing her out. My bags are packed and I am trying without much success to find a place to dump her new travel outfit (I will die if any of my friends are at the airport and see my mother in pink velour track pants and matching top). She races in and demands I squeeze her volume of “1001 Ways to Meet an Italian Divorcee” into my suitcase. I rip open my case and point: “Are you serious?” There isn’t one square centimetre of room left in that case and I am not about to set a precedent by lugging her crap around before we have even left the country.
No comments:
Post a Comment