Tag: son

Boxing Clever

Last week, I received a surprise phone call from my doctor.
“Mr Ormsby?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, good… so you’re not dead then. It’s Dr Shapiro here. We need to make you an appointment.”
“Club fees due?”
“Not ’til October.”
“Daughter getting married?”
“Chance would be a fine thing.”
“Class action going ahead?”
“It worked on rats, didn’t it?”
“Okay, you got me,” I conceded defeat.
“I need to buy a roof box for the Porsche,” Dr Shapiro announced. “Mother was due to take the train back to Cornwall on Sunday but they’re going out on strike, so we’ll need to go in the car now.”
“Will she fit in a roof box?”
“Well, herein lies the problem: it’s quite a long journey and I’m worried if Mother starts fidgeting with her artificial leg she may scratch the interior.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“The cup holders are African Rosewood.”
“Drill her a few air holes to cover yourself legally.”
“When can you come in then?”
“First, can you tell me why it’s impossible to make an appointment with you any other time?” I was slightly annoyed.
“Mrs Hashimoto owes money to the Coffee Fund; now she’s too scared to answer the phone.”
“I get the whole ‘honour’ thing but isn’t she being a bit over-dramatic?”
“She owes it £6000.”
“Since when?”
“Since a Diversity consultant recommended outsourcing it to the Yakuza.”
“What if something happens to her?”
“Then I’m really going to miss Teriyaki Tuesdays. Can you come in tomorrow at four?”
The next afternoon I found myself seated on what looked like a giant roll of toilet paper which ran the length of an examination table.
“I feel like a garden gnome.”
“That explains the pot belly.”
“I do not have a pot belly.”
“Lay off the beer,” Dr Shapiro admonished while peering into my right ear. “Did you know that earwax is genetic? Depending upon your parents, you’ll have either wet earwax or dry earwax.”
“Did they teach you that in medical school?”
“No, it was on TikTok. My son showed me.”
“If I’ve put on weight then blame Covid. We were cooped up for months.”
“Exactly which outdoor activities did lockdown prevent you from doing?”
“I walk a lot.”
“It’s not exercise if tortoises can do it. What else?”
“I garden quite a bit.”
“So does Mrs Hashimoto and she’s a hundred and something,” Dr Shapiro moved on to my lymph nodes. “Any other physical pursuits?”
“How about going shopping?”
“Not if it’s online.”
He had me.
“Does this look like a wart to you?” he held up his index finger.
“Shouldn’t you know that?”
“It looks like one,” Dr Shapiro frowned. “I need you to lie down. The last thing you want is a colony of these setting up camp on your todger.”
“You touched me down there knowing you had a wart on your finger?” I was half-way off the table.
“I wasn’t sure before. Hold on, let me get some rubbing alcohol but I do need to warn you: this is gonna sting.”
“I’ll pay you whatever you want NOT to do that,” I wanted to deal.
“I’ll let Mother know we’re good to go then,” he reached for his phone. “Now, will that be cash or card?”







Maximum Overload

Stay-at-home moms and working mothers equally stressed out at home ...

My mother was a medical professional who worked long hours. When she came home in the evenings her day didn’t end there because she would then make supper, help us with our homework, do laundry, iron, wait up for my father to return home from work, etc. It wasn’t until I was older that I realised just how tired and rushed she must have felt every time she walked through our front door.

One evening in particular when my twin brother and I were still quite young, my mother put us to bed and then changed out of her hospital whites into a pair of navy blue slacks and an old, floppy blouse. She next washed her hair and wrapped it in a towel before heading back downstairs to see to our older siblings and a waiting pile of dirty dishes. Paul and I, however, had no plans to go to sleep as we whooped and hollered while swinging from our bunk beds like a pair of baby chimps. My mother, up to her elbows in suds, issued a few verbal warnings from the kitchen but we took no notice.

This proved a fatal error on our part.

Tired, hungry and now angry, Mum had had enough. Storming upstairs she banged open the door to our bedroom and let us have it with both barrels, issuing threat after threat until the blood drained from our faces. Convinced the message had finally gotten through, she turned to leave and as she did she overheard a small voice tentatively ask, “Who was that?”

Carmen Miranda and Her Incredible Tropical Hats | Ellie & Co

Unaware our mother had transformed herself from Florence Nightingale to Carmen Miranda since putting us to bed, my brother and I thought a mad woman had broken into our home and killed everyone before coming upstairs to wrap up any loose ends. Now realising the situation, Mum wasn’t struggling to contain her anger but her laughter. After a couple of deep breaths to stop the giggles she re-entered our bedroom, flicked on the light and removed the towel to reveal her true identity.

I still smile every time I picture her sitting on the bottom bunk, unravelling the sequence of events to two traumatised toddlers.

And I have to admire her for that.

Because I would have kept walking, then explained over breakfast that the mad intruder actually lived in our cellar and only came upstairs when wakened…