People in Glass Houses

It was The Pensioner’s 76th birthday this week, so the spouse and I are taking her on the annual Birthday Blowout. These are legendary because, unlike me, she’s a total extrovert. She doesn’t go out and about that much these days, so once she does,  no taxi driver, waitress, or complete stranger on the train is safe from her pent-up conversational charms. Resistance is futile in the face of one of mama’s stories, but fortunately in Glasgow most people are quite happy to join in with her madness anyway.

I had to phone her last night to tell her about the arrangements. Phones are giving me gyp at the moment cos I can’t hear through the aid in my phone ear, so I’m having to adopt the practice of grinding the handset into my non-phone ear which is painful and leaves an unflattering imprint on the side of one’s face. I decided it would be wise to give mama my mobile number in case of a repeat of two birthdays ago, where she vanished en route to Glasgow Central and we thought something awful had happened.

So back to last night’s phone conversation and the exchange of mobile nos.

“Okay, ma, it’s 0700, ‘oh seven hundred…'”

“right, four seven hundred”

“No, oh, not four… zero…”

“right, oh four zero”

Was it the pensioner brain, or the pensioner ears, I couldn’t tell. We were in Fawlty Towers territory now. The phone was hurting my ear. I eventually got the whole number out and asked her to repeat it back to me.

“…….four seven six…”

“no, mum, it’s five seven  six”

“That’s what I just said. You must be going deaf right enough.”


2 Responses to “People in Glass Houses”

  1. 1 kentigern January 21, 2010 at 6:34 pm

    Stop yer whingin’ lass it’s no even Burns nicht yet.

    Cava booked for yer nosh, nae garden peas mind oan ra frequently encountered fried potatooooooooos.

    Loads ah luv tae yeas aw,frae big bruv.

    • 2 moiradancer January 22, 2010 at 4:35 pm

      Cava was great bruv, but the waitress came out and announced, whilst looking at me, that it had come from ‘your eldest and favourite son’. She never let on whether she thought Mum was my daughter or not…

Leave a Reply to moiradancer Cancel reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.


Blog Stats

  • 184,518 hits

%d bloggers like this: