My Single friend by Jane Costello

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

            It never ceases to amaze me how little my mum and dad’s house has changed over the years. Mum might have replaced her nets with bamboo blinds from Ikea and the three-bar fire is now a ‘living flame’, but the house still boasts trinkets from the past that, to my bafflement, have never been thrown out. There’s the limited edition soap-on-a-rope in the shape of Kevin Keegan holding up the FA Cup (it’s never been used so the poodle perm is as lustrous as in 1974) and the ‘Green Lady’ picture bequeathed by Great-Auntie Lil – though that’s in the spare room now. There’s also an array of not-very-tasteful ornaments – wedding gifts largely – that Dad took to the Antiques Roadshow last year and discovered that, collectively, they were only slightly more valuable than a used teabag.

            ‘If it isn’t the family spin doctor,’ says Mum, as I enter the living room. I’ve popped over to say hello as it’s been longer than usual since I last saw my parents.

            As ever, Mum’s on her feet, dusting surfaces that are already so pristine an asthmatic could eat their dinner off them. ‘What 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.