When I was a kid there was something about my mother that
used to irritate me immensely: the pointless response. I would say something like
‘I’m glad auntie Joyce came today,’ and she would reply ‘Are you?’
I would have accepted:
‘Oh.’
‘Why?’
‘So am I.’
‘Are you really, Jeffrey? That’s nice.’
...etc, etc. But ‘Are you?’ I used to remonstrate with her: ‘I
just told you I am. Why are you questioning what I said?’ I know now that it
was just one of those conventional devices we use in the process of
communication, but I was terribly rational as a kid and it got on my nerves. It
was one of many things that had me craving independence from the age of about
twelve onwards.
So here I am, long since independent and now wishing for a pair
of gentle, caring, ladies hands to massage liniment into these stiff and painful
trapezius muscles. And is there a pair to be found?
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