On Dying Mothers

At the end of this month, it will be four years since my mother died. Five days ago the mother of my dad died. She was almost 92 (at this point, most of my Nottingham family add the words "bless her") and as far as I can see was as bad tempered and disfunctional as any normal mother. Her relationship with my father, as far as he was concerned, was complicated. A number of times he insisted that he hated her. Talk to her, and he was her shiny boy who could do no wrong. He could no more find the words to tell her the wrongs she had done to him than I can to him.

And so it goes round, and I have found another circle. I listen to my father talk about the death of his mother and for some incomprehensible reason it seems inappropriate and distasteful. I cannot listen to someone so close to me discuss the loss of a mother so dispassionately. Even his lack of hate, guilt, remorse seems wrong.

In the days that follow, my resolution made two or three New Year's Eves ago deepens: I choose to live an honest life. I make varius sub-resolutions, some of which I follow, some of which are disastrous, some of which would be made a whole lot easier if I had been one of the people who had won $1.8 million in last night's Tatts. Its hard to have principles when you live on the poverty line.