We are family, I got all my aggro with me

The bank holiday weekend has passed and the parental visit is over. For another year. At least. Next time, may stick them on the train to France and dare them to get home. When I saw them approach my flat, as I scurried around with a hoover, throwing a copy of Boyz magazine into any drawer I could find, I could hear the Omen music in my head. When that film came out, she checked my head to see if it had 666 etched on it. Now it’s just 999, a desperate cry help but from me.

We had dinner at my brother’s flat up the road in Hendon on Friday where nothing much happened other than that she did not like the tomato soup he prepared, she spent most of the main course on the phone to 93 year-old Uncle Geoffrey in Blackpool, who had had a fall and spent most of the night in his hallway before the inappropriately-named home help arrived. As a result, her main course of chicken went cold and she does not like parsnips so she dumped them on my plate whilst my brother was in the kitchen. My dad said nothing and ate.

After dinner, we were filled in on all the events in Manchester with a posse of people in my parents’ lives, the only one I can recall was my dad and his friend Louis’ desperate trip to the loo in Southport where they entered a house filled with very friendly women. There was not much noise, no sky sports and little sex. It was a convent and just like home, apparently.

Saturday, my brother needed a rest. My mother’s negativity had worn him down so he stayed in to watch the football whilst I took them on the bus to the Strand from Golders Green. “What do I do with the tickets?” was one of the more advanced questions posed before my heavy Dad nearly toppled onto my mother as the bus pulled out. I sat at the back. After a baguette experience in Baguette Du Monde opposite the Savoy Theatre (we were to see Fiddler on the Roof there) my Dad decided he wanted to go to the toilet. He used his little walker amazingly to wheel himself into London’s most prestigious hotel after which we headed in to see an amazing Fiddler on the Roof. They laughed here.

Avoiding west London because of the Notting Hill carnival, the following day began with a trek to Greenwich on the boat from Embankment. My brother was grumpy before we even left. Apparently my dad had been up three times in the night to go to the loo, which he could not find. In a smallish apartment. We boarded, sat them at the front, sat us at the back, got off to take the lift up Hungerford Bridge, walked across the bridge to find that the lift down was not working that day. More than 40 steps awaited and 20,000 people were ascending. I refused to panic and alerted him to stay on the right, and directed them to the left. We made it. We then disected a further 100,000 people queuing for London’s most visited hotspot – the London Eye. Before we could take the boat from there, my Dad needed the toilet again so we made the 230pm boat with 2 minutes to spare. Craving independence, my Dad wanted to sit on the top deck of the boat in the sun, which he did, bounding up the stairs and listening to the guide whilst my mother ate a peach and looked at the overpriced riverside apartments. My stubborn brother had uttered 5 words since we left. At Greenwich, we descended and made our way through more crowds to the market. On one particular pedestrian crossing, we were half way across when the lights changed. One van driver yelled at my mother for walking slowly to which she replied “Can’t you see he’s disabled?” to the van driver. There is nothing wrong with her mouth. He rather logically said he could see that but did not know why she was walking slowly. She told him to piss off. He called her a slag. My brother told him to f off. My dad laughed. I stood there in useless disbelief. In spite of my list of reasons why people do not get involved any more in London situations, she threatened to deck him if he got out and started. She is 58 and five foot two. He was 6 foot 3 at least. Then again, she is from Liverpool. Too close to call. We left Greenwich intact, had a schwarma take away at mine and then my brother took them away. I called him in the morning to see if there were still three people in his house. There were. We parted. They had a great time. We had a great time. That wasn’t it, though. Well, maybe a bit.

Still, you are born into a family for a reason and when I have worked it out, I will let you know.

He ain’t heavy, it’s my brother’s telly

After buying a 28 inch TV and DVD player for him and his flatmates from a shop in Manchester, my 27 year-old brother asked me for help to lift it out of the car and into the house when we got home. However, he did so in such a patronising, shouting, arrogant, stubborn, rude way like I was a five year-old on a bike. I therefore refused. He tried alone and dropped it. Scratches down the side and damaged. He stormed into the house claiming I owed him £80, it was my fault for not helping. I assured him that the TV would have made a safe journey into the living room had he apologised for talking to me like a toddler.

The next couple of days were hell. I gave him a hug (he just stood there with his arms at his side) and I told him we have to draw a line under this before it turns into the Middle East. He ate when we didn’t, we went out when he stayed home, he went out when we stayed home and he drove home on Xmas Day morning, claiming my mum always takes my side, that he feels unwelcome, so we drove to family in Stockport in very high spirits, armed with cheap £1 Xmas crackers with no bang.

There, I was under strict instruction not to talk to relatives we see once in a blue moon on any issues including politics, religion, sexuality, family issues or my “personal” life. So I just bunkered down, ate some turkey, drank wine and prayed for sunset. I am not saying my family are basically simple but Scrabble saw words like “of” “it” “and” and a four letter mega-word “food”. By the time we reached the triple word boxes, it was indeed sunset and time to get the hell out of there and go home to watch sitcom repeats on an undamaged television.

Home is where the … hassle is

After six hours on Megabus, with no leg room, air conditioning and a toilet that I presume, given the odour, was not working, I pulled into an attitude-packed Manchester at the 11th hour.

A bowl of chicken soup later, I was in bed and waking up to the Jewish New Year. My brother and mother had gone to synagogue to bitch about how religious the rabbi was for a traditional congregation and to chat with people in the lobby. I went for a walk with my father, whose conversation skills have deteriorated to 3 words an hour, and those three are not audible. The afternoon was a rollercoaster of emotion as my mother asked us why we were so distant from her? So we told her EVERYTHING about her negativity, depression, attitude. She cried. Mark and I made a pact in front of her that we would not call or visit until they had done one new thing each week. Snakes on a Plane is the first planned activity. If orders are followed until May, they get a weekend in Paris. We will have to go to on account of their stupidity and ability to say “Prolly Vous Francais”, which my mother thinks gives her “conversational French”. Mark’s emotions went up and down as Bury twice surrendered a lead against 10-man Barnet and mine went up and down in the evening, following many a gin and tonic chez 25-year school friend Simon and Lindsay. Sunday pitched me with my cousin Lynda, who has just defeated breast cancer, briefly with her parents – the one and only Uncle Alan (my dad’s older brother) and his wife, the toothless, forever-complaining-about-her-bad-back Shirley, who likes to compete on the “keeping in touch with family” stakes. Even though no one keeps in touch with her. How are you Aunty Shirl told me she had a very bad cold, a streaming cold, one of the worst she had ever had.

As evening approached, my grumpy brother Mark drove home at 110 mph, flying down the motorway, only moving from the outside lane for a speeding ambulance, in a successful bid to get his friend on the last evening train from Coventry to Reading. When we pulled into the station in the Midlands, the G Force stopped and his friend flew at the train doors with 12 seconds to spare. When I got home, I mistakenly became glued to Texas Chainsaw Massacre and old leather head, whose penchant for hooks and saws left me unable to sleep and dreaming of National Express. Mission over. Three months till the next.

You don’t call, you don’t care

Guilty of not calling more my dear sweet 56 year-old old-fashioned, Scouse Jewish mother more than once a week for a “reasonable length of time”, she called me this morning at work to tell me how wonderful the Gruckmans’ barmitzvah was.

Scarcely knowing the Gruckmans, since I roared out of home in my beige Fiesta, called Harry, 13 years ago, my 31 year-old ears paid homage to my mother’s incredulous ability to serve up a dish of information (she thinks I will find interesting) with a nice dollup of extra fat guilt on top. You have to hear it rather than read it but the jist goes along these lines.

Me: Hello mum. Sorry. I was not ignoring you. I was working out my new phone.

Mum: Yes, the barmitzvah was fabulous. (In a tone, which says, thanks for not asking)

Me: Huh? Whose? (Genuinely forgetting what she is talking about but sensing her disappointment)

Mum: Well, yes. The food was wonderful, your dad had the salmon, and was sat down most of the evening but had a good time, Daniel asked me to dance twice, I thought Paula had asked him to ask me but he just came up on his own. He is such a lovely boy. Cousin Paula said if her kids turn out half as good as you and Mark, she would be lucky. Yeah, well. We danced the Amarillo and the speeches were terrific. Kerry from down the road was there, you remember, she was the teacher at KD, who has not worked since a heavy blackboard fell on her, she has a stick now and lives next door to the Salkies in Prestwich. Phil and Adele Tray were there, Lisa’s just had a little boy, her third, but you are not interested in that. It was such a nice occasion, I rang them Monday to tell them how wonderful it was, the band was marvellous, they gave out sunglasses to the kids and umbrellas for It’s Raining Men.

Me: Wow. Umbrellas. (I honestly cannot recall the previous 1,000 words, so it’s my only chance to show I have been listening)

Mum: Have you spoken to your brother?

Me: Yes, I am seeing him Saturday. I have to go now, am at work, but will chat later. I have my Xmas party tomorrow so will catch you over the weekend

Mum: Well enjoy it and just be careful. I have sent you your Orange bill and bank statements in the post. You should have them by Friday. Let me know if you don’t

Me: OK (Fearful of the consequences for the Post Office and wondering how careful I need to be when sitting and eating at a table)

Bye Mother.

Full House.. Empty Pocket

In honour of both Father’s day and my parents’ sticking at “it” for 36 years, or as my mother calls it “two life sentences”, my brother and I decided that we could all manage an evening’s entertainment.

A big lover of fairground bingo, we wandered into the Mecca bingo hall in Bolton. With bingo being a great leveller, we were all excited and hopeful that the stars may shine in the Saunders household that night.

The only thing ultimately twinkling was my eyes to see if they could still see as Mark and I had to play twice as many games, those of my Dad, who could not keep up with the bingo caller. My brother and I were stamping and dabbing and blotting out numbers so fast, we could have got a job in the Post Office.

When she was not expressing her disbelief at the £19 entrance fee, the £1 charge for pens, the cigarette smoke, my mum had a great time and my dad did what he does best…. sit there. The General Manager told them off for asking too many questions, scolded me and my bro for tearing my Dad’s game into two manageable parts (“we can’t pay out if you rip the books!!!”) and then uttered his shock that we were able to cope with 12 games every 3 seconds. Call me Lewis Hamilton now. My parents left with no cash prizes but they were elated. As for me, my pupils were dilated. They had seen so many coloured balls, symbols and numbers, they could crack the bloody Da Vinci Code.

I woke up this morning with solutions to algebra problems I was set 20 years ago. I think the movies were invented for families like us.

And that is where we will stick.