i have somehow offended my ginger beer and now it is trying to escape through my eyes
It rained today! Real water, and everything! I wept with joy!
Well. Almost. What happened was, I was at Sainsburys Homebase with my mother, who claimed that she needed me to go so that I could help her carry home some new human-devouring plants she thought might brighten up the living room a bit. To be honest, though, I have a strong suspicion that she was acting on my father's orders in a last-ditch attempt to turn me into the sort of person who gets excited by pneumatic drills. Or, if you like, a last-ditch attempt to turn me into my father.
I don't remember Freud mentioning anything about desiring your daughter to covet your power tools. BUT HE SHOULD HAVE DONE. And if he had, it probably would have been called the Electrica Complex.1
Anyway, we were in Homebase, and the Weather Wizard pressed some buttons and suddenly it was raining and we were trapped in the plant bit of the store and -- why there aren't many horror movies with this plot, I will never know -- and then I started sneezing chronically and my mother neglected me to lavish attention on some leafery, lest it felt unloved. Never have I been more aware of my own mortality! Or of my own conspicuous lack of buds!
ME: I have pneumonia! I shall clearly die!
MUM: Either that, or you're afflicted by the Family Curse. You should be glad! Some families have webbed feet!
ME: Yes. Family curse. Which some people call hayfever.
MUM: (snorts) Peasants.
ME: And yet you are forcing me, your cursed daughter, to stand in a building constructed entirely of plants! I would phone Childline if I didn't think they might be offended by my exploding parts! (sneezes)
MUM: Yes, yes, I'm a terrible mother, now would you sniff this large plant for me, dear? What do you think? Is the odour pleasing?
ME: On my grave, it will say, Katy Humber. Died On This Fine Day With A Small Herbacious Perrenial Up Her Nose. You don't hear that very often, do you? Tony Blair probably hushes up all the tragic deaths by Excessive Foliage, doesn't he, the git.
MUM: Well, look on the bright side! This way, your father and I won't need to tend to your grave! It will already be blooming beautifully on its own! At least we'll save on train fares this way!
ME: (sniffs) Everyone's going to think I'm a pansy2 now, aren't they?
1. I am quite terribly fantastic and hilariously punny! Really! I am!
2. Okay, yes, there is a tiny, tiny chance that I need to stop playing on words. BUT THAT'S NO REASON TO MAKE PUN OF ME.
(Groan.)
Well. Almost. What happened was, I was at Sainsburys Homebase with my mother, who claimed that she needed me to go so that I could help her carry home some new human-devouring plants she thought might brighten up the living room a bit. To be honest, though, I have a strong suspicion that she was acting on my father's orders in a last-ditch attempt to turn me into the sort of person who gets excited by pneumatic drills. Or, if you like, a last-ditch attempt to turn me into my father.
I don't remember Freud mentioning anything about desiring your daughter to covet your power tools. BUT HE SHOULD HAVE DONE. And if he had, it probably would have been called the Electrica Complex.1
Anyway, we were in Homebase, and the Weather Wizard pressed some buttons and suddenly it was raining and we were trapped in the plant bit of the store and -- why there aren't many horror movies with this plot, I will never know -- and then I started sneezing chronically and my mother neglected me to lavish attention on some leafery, lest it felt unloved. Never have I been more aware of my own mortality! Or of my own conspicuous lack of buds!
ME: I have pneumonia! I shall clearly die!
MUM: Either that, or you're afflicted by the Family Curse. You should be glad! Some families have webbed feet!
ME: Yes. Family curse. Which some people call hayfever.
MUM: (snorts) Peasants.
ME: And yet you are forcing me, your cursed daughter, to stand in a building constructed entirely of plants! I would phone Childline if I didn't think they might be offended by my exploding parts! (sneezes)
MUM: Yes, yes, I'm a terrible mother, now would you sniff this large plant for me, dear? What do you think? Is the odour pleasing?
ME: On my grave, it will say, Katy Humber. Died On This Fine Day With A Small Herbacious Perrenial Up Her Nose. You don't hear that very often, do you? Tony Blair probably hushes up all the tragic deaths by Excessive Foliage, doesn't he, the git.
MUM: Well, look on the bright side! This way, your father and I won't need to tend to your grave! It will already be blooming beautifully on its own! At least we'll save on train fares this way!
ME: (sniffs) Everyone's going to think I'm a pansy2 now, aren't they?
1. I am quite terribly fantastic and hilariously punny! Really! I am!
2. Okay, yes, there is a tiny, tiny chance that I need to stop playing on words. BUT THAT'S NO REASON TO MAKE PUN OF ME.
(Groan.)