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This is a question Mums

Mrs Liveinabin tells us: My mum told me to eat my vegetables, or I wouldn't get any pudding. I'm 32 and told her I could do what I like. I ate my vegetables. Tell us about mums.

(, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 13:21)
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My Mum's madder than your Mum....
My Mother had, alas, a mother of her own. One who had no truck with any of this new fangled science learning malarky and instructed her children and grandchildren very firmly in what was, and was not proper truth.

Delights such as:-
"drinking Coffee when you were pregnant, that's what's made your boy a redhead. I told you..."
"So long as you can see a green light it's safe to cross, any green light will do, you don't have to wait for the closest one"
"I won't be havin' with that electric in my house. What if it all leaks out in the night ?"
"There's no such thing as an accident, everything happens with a purpose"

and the one that affected our lives most of all..

"A mother always knows when her children are hurt. She just knows..."

So, with that in mind, wind your memories back to the mid 70's.
The young Duke is just starting his career in the cut and thrust business of climbing trees, running around like a nutter and hiding in bushes from whoever was playing "the baddies" that day.
The inevitable occurs, a trip, a fall, a tumble, and a knee full of grit, dirt and gravel.
But the young Duke is British, he keeps a stiff upper lip and limps home leaking gently. There to wash his sore knee under the garden tap with a view to carefully getting the grit out.

Enter Mother, five foot six of narrow eyed, dyed blonde, barely repressed furious anger* uttering screams of "What on earth posessed you to so something so STUPID! What kind of idiot are you!!!" and I'm left feeling, well, pretty shit to be honest, apparently falling over and hurting myself means I'm an idiot.
She storms off, and returns bearing a potato peeler. With which she proceeds to dig the gravel out of my flesh with no regard to my screams of agony and every evidence of satisfaction at a job being done properly.
By now I'm howling and crying like a frenchman and mother is looking at me with an expression of shock and disgust.
"What the bloody hell are you crying for ?" she asks, genuinely puzzled.
"It hurts!", I reply, genuinely in blood soaked agony.
"No it doesn't", she says dismissivly. "If it hurt, I'd know. Stop being such a baby." whereupon she continues to dig chunks out of my knee with a serene smile on her lightly blood spattered face...

*And that was on a good day, on a bad day she barely reached five foot and was incandescent with rage.
(, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 13:26, 1 reply)
...that does sound a bit mental, alright.
(, Thu 11 Feb 2010, 14:17, closed)

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