SUSAN CALMAN
They have the same laugh, enjoy a good TV mystery and love feeding their guests... our columnist realises that she’s turning into her mother
Our columnist is turning into her mum – and she likes it!
Igave myself a real fright the other day. I yawned, very loudly, as is my way, and immediately swore with surprise. It wasn’t the volume that gave me a scare; rather, it was the sound itself. I recognised it, you see, but initially couldn’t quite place it. After several hours of pondering the question ‘Who has a yawn like this?’, I realised. My expression of sleepiness was an exact, and I mean an exact, carbon copy of the noise that my mum makes when she yawns. She has a very particular cadence in such circumstances – in fact, from that simple auditory exclamation, I could identify her in a crowd of thousands.
Of course, in many ways, this turn of events wasn’t such a surprise. I’ve heard many times that one day I’ll turn into my mother and, to be fair, I had noticed a few subtle signs before. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that becoming her is inevitable. But I’m jumping ahead. Let me tell you what my mum is like and then you can understand the changes that have occurred. My maternal metamorphosis, if you will.
Physically, we are similar. I am a tiny person, but my mum is even shorter. She stands at about 4ft 7in and is a force of nature. Kind and caring but, as a former primary school teacher, she has a tone of voice that could cut diamonds. That was the first thing I realised I’d inherited. Walking along the pavement outside Euston station, a grown man almost ran me over as he had decided to travel to his destination, with some speed, on a scooter. Without a second thought, I pulled my cardigan tighter, turned to him and said in a firm and loud voice: ‘This is a pavement, young man!’ He immediately stopped and apologised. It was then I realised the superpower I had inherited. The ability to make men say sorry with just a word and a glare.
And it’s not just our personalities that are the same. The way we live life now mirrors each other. Dinner no later than 6pm. A lovely middle-of-the-road crime drama on the TV (preferably an Agatha Christie) and the heating turned up to the max. And it’s from her that I get my particular brand of hospitality. If you turn up for dinner at hers, you’ll be offered a slice of cake to keep you going (even if you’re eating 10 minutes later), and I do the same. I love you, so I feed you. Snacks are the lifeblood of the house and no one will ever leave with an empty stomach.
We also have a shared obsession with toilets (the availability and cleanliness of them) that rules our lives. She would often say, ‘Always go to the toilet when you see a toilet because you never know when you’ll see another one.’ I spend a great deal of time going to the loo, but on the plus side, I’ll never get caught short. Whenever I go on a day trip, I’ll phone her up and share info on what happened and, without fail, one of the criteria for whether the outing was successful is the standard of the facilities. I’m pretty sure we could fill in an Excel spreadsheet rating all washrooms available in Marks & Spencer stores across the land.
The only real thing that we differ on is her habit of keeping things. When my parents moved to a new house recently, I was unpacking the kitchen boxes and found about 50 glass ramekins. When asked why she had so many, she said, ‘Well, you never know when you might need them.’ I do. If you’re having a ramekin party, that’s when. And we’re never having one of those.
When I was a teenager, I would have balked at turning into such a copy of my mother. Now? I simply know how lucky I am to be like her. We yawn in the same way, laugh in the same way and enjoy a fully stocked snack cupboard. I smile whenever I hear someone say, ‘You know you’ll turn into your mother, don’t you?’ There are far worse people I could be like, but absolutely no one better.
We have the ability to make men say sorry with just a word and a glare