Mothering Sunday

I’m writing this as I take refuge from the fake tan shenanigans of Dancing On Ice. If I have to look at that child snatcher in disguise, Jason whatever his name is, one more time... I will officially gauge out my own eyes and throw them at him.

I’m not a fan as you can tell. Unfortunately my Mum is. And to make matters worse she’s making digs at me during the ad breaks, like, ‘That’s how I like your hair, why don’t you have your hair like him?’ And, ‘I hate those bloody boots of yours.’ Thanks for the style tips Mum. I’ll be sure to have my haircut like a thirteen year old trumpet player and purchase Clarks slip-ons as soon as I get back to London.

Mothers are funny creatures. If you’re like me, you’ll miss your Mum like mad when she’s not there, but as soon as you go home she’ll annoy you to the point of mercy killing. So far this weekend, we’ve had a debate on the merits of seatbelts (Mum refuses to wear one whilst in the back seat), argued over how many grapes I’ve eaten from the fruit bowl (hardly any!), and fallen out over the artistic licence of Gary Lucy wiggling his prop to Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick (I had to leave the room during that routine).

The point is I love my Mum (I bet you didn’t see that one coming). Despite how much I have to bite my tongue to prevent it striking down on her like a fiery cat o’ nine tails, she makes me laugh like nobody else. Not many Mums are good at doing impressions of bald eagles whilst running down a hill. Plus, no one makes roast potatoes quite like her.

Today was great because as I had the opportunity to visit my Nan who I haven’t seen in ages. Visiting her is very much like the opening scenes of Hobbiton in The Fellowship of the Ring. I tower over her like Gandalf does Bilbo and I’m forever bumping my head on her sloped kitchen ceiling.

My Nan is so precious and not just because she looks like the lead singer of Hot Chip albeit bigger glasses and silver hair. She is one of the sweetest people I know. She even managed to get me emotionally involved with the Catherine Cookson adaptation on TV that she's gripped to.

I always imagine her saying goodbye in her sweet little Nan voice, then letting rip like Catherine Tate as soon as the door closes behind us, ‘WHAAAAT A FUUUUCKIN’ LIBERTY!’

So here I am sat in fear in my old room, the muffled whoops from the studio audience of Dancing On Ice, sending shivers up my spine and I contemplate rejoining my Mum on the sofa. That Blur documentary is on later, hopefully Mum will have gone to bed and surrendered her monopoly on the Sky remote. Still can’t complain, she made a bloody good roast this evening. I wonder if there are any grapes left?