5 hours ago
8
What my mum taught me best is her expression: “Let’s play it by ear.” That might sound like an excuse for disorganisation and procrastination, but what she’s really saying at the end of every phone call is: “Life happens, plans change, and we’re always here for you – whatever time you decide to roll up.”
That’s her to a T – putting everyone else first. Even now, at 50, if I go out for a drink or to a gig with my brother and crash at my parents’ place, Mum will still stay up to be sure I’ve made it home safe.
My mum can yak for England. Hours on the phone – usually to her friend Glenda, sorting out the all-important pub arrangements – and then at the pub itself, to Glenda and anyone else within earshot, about goodness knows what, considering they’ve just spoken 30 minutes earlier. I don’t know how my dad copes. Like me, he’s happier in his inner musings, more likely to communicate via a thumbs-up emoji.
The first thing I’ll say to Mum when she calls (or, far less likely, when I finally bother to ring her) is: “Has the milk arrived?” which might not sound very play-it-by-ear. But you have to get the small things in place, to allow room for manoeuvre with the bigger things. This dairy query dates back to my first office job, when I was still living at home. Mum phoned during a meeting – back in the pre-mobile era when colleagues could answer your desk phone by pressing the star button on theirs. The message somehow escalated as it was passed along: “Rich’s mum has phoned” to “Rich’s mum has phoned – it sounds important” to “Please can Rich urgently phone his mum – sounds like a matter of life or death!” It turned out that Unigate had missed a delivery; she was just letting me know.
By the end of most calls, I’ll no doubt have failed to commit to any plans whatsoever, but that’s OK, because we’ll be “playing it all by ear”. Do I take advantage of her “let’s see how we go” mindset? Not deliberately. But plans do change. Work crops up at the last minute. Trains get cancelled, and – oops – maybe I shouldn’t have stayed for that final pint, so I’ll just travel tomorrow.
The important part is that I do, always, eventually, make it home to the parental nest – and I’m always made to feel entirely welcomed back. The day after my university graduation, I’d played it by ear to such an extent that I was famously woken up by the train manager after the train had been put away in the shed for the night. And on the Christmas Eve just gone, I played it by ear by casually rocking up unannounced about 5pm – which still left plenty of time to raid the fridge and head to the local for some Christmas bevvies (Glenda present, wouldn’t be Christmas without her).
If I could be even half as patient as my mum is with me, I’d be 10 times the better person. Love you, Mum. Has the milk arrived? And Glenda’s already asking: what time are we all going to the pub?
