Last night I stepped onto the Piccadilly Line train and saw that some nice traveller had purchased a bag or box of chicken wings, eaten them in transit, and kindly left a pile of greasy bones on the floor in the corner of the carriage. Charming. The diversity of London is the source of its magic and I am prepared to take the rough with the smooth – but this was pretty rough.
Today I am very excited about Nick Clegg. To counter that excitement, I am very nervous about Turkey and Iraq. On both counts, I’ll just have to wait and see.
I’m sure all individuals have wondered how it is possible that, given all their many differences, they are related to their parents. Despite fairly conclusive photographic evidence to the contrary, I myself wonder about my origins. My father doubted the facts of our relationship only last weekend, when I clarified that my lack of interest in the rugby World Cup final was not due to a specific problem with rugby but merely a mild disdain for all sporting events that presumably arises from the fact that I am not remotely competitive, finding losing deeply unfun and winning awkward and embarrassing. ‘How can you say such a thing?!’ he admonished with disbelief. ‘Life is about winning! You’ve got to kill to live! Living is killing!’ The irony of this oxymoron was lost on him. Oxymorons – they’re like buses. You don’t get one for ages and then two come along at once…
At the other end of the spectrum, one only need glance at our kitchen to question how my mother and I are connected. Where my CDs are alphabetised and sectioned with purpose-bought dividers, our kitchen is arranged in an hilarious chaos. We have two fridges – one large and one small, the latter inherited with the house. The small fridge, you might think, would perhaps be a good drinks fridge or similar themed area. But no. In the small fridge we have: lunch items such as cottage cheese and olives; lunch meats e.g. chorizo; current milk; orange juice with bits; eggs; lemons (but no other fruit); salad vegetables and catfood. In the large fridge, we have: other dairy such as yoghurt and cream; jams and condiments; smooth orange juice and other juices; spare milk; wine; sun-dried tomatoes; coffee; vegetables that aren’t salad vegetables eg. carrots; apples (but no other fruit) and meat that is not lunch meat e.g. chicken breasts. In my mother’s defence, she has stuck fairly rigidly to this crazy system since the two fridge dilemma arose and now the three of us can navigate between the areas with relative ease.
Wouldn’t it be great if you could pick which bits of your parents you inherited? I’d have my mum’s figure and hair circa 1967, my dad’s vocabulary and mental arithmetic skills, his dexterity and DIY talents, my mum’s c’est la vie attitude, her accepting nature which takes people as they are and my dad’s asbestos hands. In return, I’d gladly relinquish the rickety knees, varicose vein potential and the snoring. And I’d like to keep my own teeth.
While my mother and her sister grow more scarily alike with each passing decade, I don't look like any particular relative. In fact I have only once seen photographic evidence of a resemblance between my mother and me: her in Trafalgar Square circa 1970, being menaged by pigeons, me in 2002 in Los Angeles, being bitten by a rainbow lorikeet. We're both turning our heads to the side and making an "ow I don't really like this" face. I'd hate to be a clone of my mother, but I have always been madly jealous of her perfect, flawless skin. Maybe it'll skip a generation or two.
ReplyDelete