Diary of a Self Obsessed Mother

Day 1:Awaken to noise of neighbours testing out their new bedroom furniture, and had just decided to go around and see if they required an expert in the field of mattress bouncing to assist, when realised banging was on own front door. As children occupying themselves with teasing next door's German Shepherd with next doors cat, was up to me to traipse downstairs and advise to stalker that one does not enjoy being awakened at three in the afternoon on any day, especially a Monday, and could he please try admiring me from afar, when hear suspicious "harumphing" noises.

Open door to my puce-faced mother with rather permanent looking suitcase. She advises that I was to pick her up from the airport two hours ago, and as finding a limousine who would accept her David Jones store card was impossible, had to take a common taxi to my abode. Why she should think I would remember any such invitation extended to her is beyond me, until I recalled a strange phone conversation last week who I thought at the time was with my cosmetic surgeon discussing baggage, but may have been mother after all.....I must curb my appetite for Cosmopolitans till after 11.00am. Explain that whilst she may think I have a fanciful life, my 6253 Facebook friends expect me to change my profile picture every hour and she knows how I hate to let anybody down.

Day 2:
Now what? Awaken to sound of clunking dishes and upon entering kitchen find mother wrestling with some stainless steel contraption that was previously used as storage for all of my stalkers kind gifts of home made idols in replica of self. When asked why I dont know how to make a proper cup of coffee advise mother that is what children and microwaves are for.

Luncheon at local ladies club did not go according to plan when all the girls were enraptured with mothers' tales of me as a child getting my first cold sore from one of the boys at the kissing booth I had permanently erected in front of our three bedroom fibro home in the outer suburbs. Crimson with humiliation I stamp home and call locksmith to come poste haste and change locks before mother remembers the way back. Locksmith suitably paid and impressed with said mattress bouncing skills, mother emerges through unlocked laundry door where I impress upon her the importance of keeping my friends under the illusion that we come from a four level brick home in the leafy upper class suburbs. Scolding over, I fling myself on the couch with my copy of Wuthering Heights where I can at least identify with Cathy if not my mother.

Day 3:
As bustle mother out of house at 6.00am with her kaftan blinding my sight, am hit on head by flying tin can. Realise that aforementioned idols were crushed beer cans tossed over from motorcycle gang club house across the street. Humph! In indignation stroll purposefully across to give them a piece of my mind.

Day: 4
Hmmmmmm, awaken to strong smell of stale beer and itching inky sore on backside. Seems have been tattooed with the words "Mutty's Bitch" and am possibly now wed to a large bearded man with a penchant for leather and large engines between his legs. Oh well, at least will never have a problem with locks again.

Yours in a sulk,
FiFi
xoxox