After months (or is it years?) of full on seven days a week work, I have had a few days off. If you can call taking a daughter to university with all the packing, rows, unpacking and expense as being off.
After a four hour drive, having arrived in the university town, the first thing I had to do was spend three hours in ‘the Asada’ (that’s what they call it up there)
It almost killed me as duvets and pillows, marmite, ketchup and A4 writing pads competed for space in the trolley. Killed me because I couldn’t see over the top and pushed the trolley straight into an open freezer door. Open because someone was removing Aunt Bessie’s and didn’t take too well to being knee capped in reverse.
The in store Policeman eyed me up. Not in a good way.
Of course, every other mother on the planet looks after their offspring better than I do.... Apparently.
My three hour stint in ‘the Asda’ was accompanied by an irritating, perpetual noise in my ear manufactured by the vocal chords of my complaining, too cool for school daughter. She was slightly unhappy that every new item she was taking to uni, from pyjamas to peanut butter carried ’the Asda’ label.
Her best friend’s mother has been buying her daughters things for university each and every week throughout the summer and putting them on the spare room bed, one at a time. This is how perfect mothers behave. They do it for two reasons. The first is to throw into relief how truly neglectful, bad working mothers like me are and the second is totally self indulgent. A weekly ritual established in order to keep reminding them how vital they are. I bet they do it at Christmas too. Buy the presents one at a time and lay them out on the immaculate spare room bed with a tick list on the kitchen notice board, as they count down the weeks.
How good must that feel? To be that organised and perfect? To have the time to even consider doing that, never mind actually doing it.
Oh God, how I hate perfect mothers.
Daughter’s best friend shows her appreciation by entering spare room once a week to ooh and ahh over each purchase her perfect mother acquired from John Lewis. Obviously creating a warm self satisfied glow somewhere in the pit of a maternal gut, which encouraged the perfect mother to go out and purchase softer, brand new, squishy towels, fairy lights and brand new bed linen.
‘The Asda’ was right out of towels. It seems that other bad mothers like me had bought them all.
Having unpacked and deposited someone, who is after all, a perfect daughter, I drove the four hours home.
Putting my key in the door and stepping into the hallway, my eyes alighted upon the Beds Times and Citizen http://edition.pagesuite-professional.co.uk/Launch.aspx?PBID=5e282046-f9ed-4368-9df8-78956bc97001&refresh=
And here was me thinking I was about to have some peace and quiet.