Saturday, 13 March 2010

Mother phoned this afternoon. Or maybe before lunch; I can't be sure.

I forgot it was that time of the week. She was concerned about the new lodger. Which is to say, she was concerned about me, and my personal safety, and most of all my wordly possessions, for whom I have an even greater duty of care in her eyes - because like babies and pets and the elderly, they cannot look after themselves.

‘Is it that you need money? You know you only have to tell your father...

Lawyers don’t take lodgers, Joseph.’

‘Is that the law?’ I said.

She didn’t dignify that with answer. I like that about her. ‘Is he clean?’ she said instead. ‘Like that Dmitri?’

Yes mother, she is clean. I frisked her thoroughly... then gave her a quick spray of DDT for the lice, shoved her through the shower, issued her new clothes...

‘Perfectly clean, yeah. That’s no problem,’ I said.

All my adult life, I have been waiting for some kind of indefinite third person personal pronoun to be introduced to the English language, for use in conversations with my mother. 'They' just doesn't cut it, you see - too shifty and impersonal. Even she would notice. ‘It’ is for pets and androids only. ‘She’ might just end the universe, were I to employ it. All of my adult life, I have been waiting for my mother to imagine the possible existence of women. I fear the idea of a female lodger would turn her mind inside out. Even an extra-terrestrial would be safer, in her eyes. A male extra-terrestrial, obviously.

Consequently, I find I avoid personal pronouns altogether. I don't consider this to be lying - I have explained to her on more than one occasion that men never lie. Not even white lies... We change the subject; or we allow misunderstandings to continue, whilst not confirming them either; or we make a joke of the thing; or we brazenly admit the truth with such a nod and a wink that no-one can be sure whether we’re just being sarcastic; or we simply don't reply. So, the good news is we don’t lie. The bad news is that instead, we’re that much more subtle than womankind will ever know. I wish I could believe that mum has worked men out, considering we are the only gender she officially recognises - but I'm not optimistic.

‘Is he respectable? Is he working?’

‘Working, yeah. Um. A market...in...’ Wentworth Street, this would be. She has a stall there.

‘Oh, marketing,’ mum says. ‘OK.’

‘Marketing. Is a proper job, yes. Very respectable.’