Mum had an AFD yesterday. For those who don’t know, that’s an Alcohol Free Day. Mum tries to have at least one a week, and sometimes she has more. Legend has it that she once had seven of them in a row. SEVEN! It happened long ago before I was born when she was in hospital having a huge stone removed from her kidney (goodness only knows how it got there – very careless of her if you ask me). Mum worries that she is drinking more units than ladies should drink each week. Mum says she stops counting after the first two of an evening. I don’t really know what a unit is. Perhaps it’s a bottle - if so, I reckon she drinks between four and six units a week. That doesn’t sound like too much to me. I don’t know what she’s worried about.
I don’t know why she has these AFDs, she always ends up really miserable and grumpy. She had three last week and she was bloody murder to live with. Uncle Hugh reverted to watching endless re-runs of Top Gear on that TV channel called Dave, and I pretended that I was asleep.
Mum also goes through stages where she does these exercise DVD’s and gets all red faced and sweaty and it makes me want to laugh because she’s not the most lissom of ladies. She’s not very good at synchronising her limbs either. Then she starts asking Uncle Hugh if her bum looks big. At these times she also starts eating stuff like apples, carrots and celery, and she shouts at Uncle Hugh if he buys nice food like cheese or chocolate. “If you buy that stuff you know I’ll eat it, Hugh Bastard!” What else can you do with cheese and chocolate? Stare at it? I don’t get it. I don’t get her sometimes.
Then she’ll stare in the mirror and analyse every single pore and she’ll say, as if she’s surprised, “I’ve got wrinkles,” and I’m thinking “Why on earth is she stating the obvious? I’ve got ears and a little tail but I don’t have to stare in a mirror for five minutes to reach that conclusion.” Then Uncle Hugh will ask her if she’s got PMS and whenever he asks that it ends nastily – very nastily! Then Uncle Hugh will go and buy her some flowers and when he gives them to her she'll say "Ok, so tell me what you're feeling guilty about?" Poor Uncle Hugh. He can't do anything right. Normally at that point he simply sighs in a resigned fashion and goes to play with his flying car, whilst I keep pretending that I'm asleep.
Are all mums the same? I ask because I only know the one. I don’t really know any others.
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