Finding Hiccup - Modern!Au ✔️

two

A month earlier

It all begins with the Daily Mail. Quite a lot of things in our house begins with the Daily Mail.
Mum starts twitching in that way she does. We've had supper and cleared away and she's been reading the paper, sat at the dining table, with a glass of wine - 'Me time', she calls it - and she's paused at an article. I can see the headline over her shoulder:

THE EIGHT SIGNS THAT YOUR CHILD IS
ADDICTED TO COMPUTER GAMES.

'Oh my God,' I hear her murmur. 'Oh my God.' Her finger is moving down the list and she's breathing fast. As I squint over, I catch a sub heading:

7. Irritability and moodiness.

Ha. Ha ha.
That's my hollow laugh, in case you didn't get that.
I mean, seriously, moodiness? Like, James Dean was a moody teenager in Rebel Without a Cause (I have the poster - best film poster ever, best movie ever, best movie star ever - why, why, why did he have to die?). So James Dean must therefore have been addicted to video games? Oh, wait.
Exactly.
But there's no point saying any of this to my mum, because it's logical and mum doesn't believe in logic, she believes in horoscopes and green tea. Oh, and of course the Daily Mail.

THE EIGHT SIGNS MY MUM IS ADDICTED
TO THE DAILY MAIL:

1. She reads it everyday.
2. She believes everything it says.
3. If you try to take it out of her grasp, she pulls it back sharply and says 'Leave it!' like you're trying to kidnap her precious young
4. When it runs a scare story about Vitamin D she makes us all take our shirts off and 'sunbathe'. (Freeze-bathe more like.)
5. When it runs a scare story about melanoma she makes us all put on sunscreen.
6. When it runs a story about 'The face cream that really DOES work', she orders it that moment. Like, she gets out her iPad then and there.
7. If she can't get it on holiday, she gets major withdrawal symptoms. I mean, talk about irritability and moodiness.
8. She once tried to give it up for Lent. She lasted half a morning.

Anyway. There's nothing I can do about my mum's tragic dependency except hope that she doesn't do too much damage to her life. (She's already done major damage to our living room, after reading an 'Interiors' piece - 'Why not handprint all your furniture?')
So then Heather ambles downstairs, pass the dining table towards the kitchen, wearing her black 𝗜 𝗠𝗢𝗗, 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗘 𝗜 𝗔𝗠 T-shirt, her earphones in and her phone in her hand. Mum lowers the Daily Mail and stares at her as though the scales have fallen from her eyes.
(I've never understood that. Scales?
Anyway. Whatever.)
'Heather,' she says. 'How many hours have you played your computer games this week?'
'Define computer games,' Heather says, without looking up from her phone.
'What?' Mum looks at me uncertainly, and I shrug. 'You know. Computer games. How many hours? HEATHER!' she yells, as she makes no move to respond. 'How many hours? Take those things out of your ears!'
'What?' says Heather, taking her earphones out. She blinks at her as though she didn't hear the question. 'Is this important?'
'Yes this is important!' Mum spits. 'I want you to tell me how many hours you're spending per week playing computer games. Right now. Add it up.'
'I can't,' says Heather calmly.
'You can't? What do you mean, you can't?'
'I don't know what you're referring to,' says Heather, with elaborate patience. 'Do you mean literally computer games? Or do you mean all screen games, including Xbox and PlayStation? Do you include games on my phone? Define your terms.'

Heather is such a moron. Couldn't she see Mum was in one of her pre-rant build-ups?
'I mean anything that warps your mind!' says Mum, brandishing the Daily Mail. 'Do you realize the dangers of these games? Do you realize your brain isn't developing properly? Your BRAIN, Heather! Your most precious organ.'
Heather gives a dirty snigger, which I can't help giggling at. Heather is actually pretty funny.
'I'll ignore that,' says Mum stonily. 'It only goes to prove what I was saying.'
'No it doesn't,' says Heather, and opens the fridge. She takes out a carton of chocolate milk and drains it, straight from the carton, which is gross.
'Don't do that!' I say furiously.
'There's another carton. Relax.'
'I'm putting a limit on your playing, young woman.' Mum bats the Daily Mail for emphasis. 'I've just about had enough of this.'
Young woman. That means she's going to drag Dad into it. Any time she starts using young man or young woman, sure enough the next day there's some ghastly family meeting, where Dad tries to back up everything Mum says, even though he can't follow half of it.
Anyway, not my problem.