Are you going to eat that?


My mum was once preparing for the arrival of some friends. They were joining us for dinner, and she had opted to make these meatball things. They had to grill you see, so when she pulled them out from under the grill, I guess she must have forgotten that the tray would be hot. She dropped the meatballs. Every last one of them. Some rolled, some bounced, others just plopped. But she dropped them.

Looked at them.

Picked them up and served them.


When asked what was for dinner, my mum had several answers:

1. Shit with sugar on.

2. Shit on a stick.

3. Beans on toast.

And if you were silly enough to ask how long dinner would be, she’d reply every fucking time with “Six inches, it’s a sausage”.


My mum developed a trick. She’d wake up during the night to wee, and then sneak back into the bedroom. She’d stand at the end of her bed, make sure Dad was asleep, then belly flop onto the bed and promptly start snoring. Dad would be jolted awake, swearing, wondering what the fuck had just happened. This was funny… until she gave herself a hernia that required surgical intervention.

Then it was hilarious.


Mum had asked me to help her carry in some groceries one night. I followed her out to the car, and she turned to me and said, “I hope you don’t find this offensive, but – “

She then dropped the biggest fart I have ever heard.


Mum liked listening to the radio loudly when she was driving. I like to think it helped fill her with a false sense of confidence in her singing voice. However, she also liked to crank it up as loud as it would go just as she turned off the car. When Dad got in the car, he’d get BLASTED. It never seemed to get old.


Mum didn’t really get old, though.

Today – the 15th of September – is her birthday.

Happy birthday, Mum.



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