FTSE for you. FTSE for me.

We’ve established that my mother doesn’t like traveling. She doesn’t even like it when other people travel. This is particularly true when her children take to the skies.

It seems that the best way to deal with her stress is to organize every little thing for the person who is going away. In reality this means everyone else in the family gets corralled into organizing things, including the holidaymaker themselves. This could lead you to ask why she doesn’t just leave everything to them in the first place… If you are going to be reading this blog you’ll have to learn to stop asking questions. It’s something I haven’t done since the age of 10.

You wouldn’t either after frequent conversations like this one…

Mum: Your brother is going to Japan in two days and I don’t have any money for him! Do I just walk into a money shop and say “I’d like to purchase the Footsie”?

Me: I think you’ll find the FTSE is an index of the top 100 companies listed on the London Stock Exchange. I doubt you could afford to buy all of it. Try asking for yen.

Mum: Oh. Ok. Got it. Yens. Are you sure that’s what it’s called? Anyway, where should I get them from? What was the place you went to get to money changed when you were away?

Me: Umm… Maybank.

Mum: Yes. I’ll go there. They were friendly weren’t they?

Me: Well.. yes, they were… but they are only in Malaysia mum. May – bank.

I would love to say mum then flew to Malaysia where she launched a hostile takeover and walked away owning the FTSE. But that would be a lie.

What I will say is that my brother managed to get his own ‘yens’ and had a wonderful time away from mum.

Birthday wishes

I just got off the phone with mum...

Mum: What do you want for your birthday?
Me: Oh, nothing actually. I'm trying not to make a big fuss this year.
Mum: Why? How old are you?
Me: 27
Mum: Oh. I understand. You're worried that you're nearly 30 and haven't done anything with your life. It's nothing to be ashamed of. There are lots of people like you.
Me: Um...

Paging all mothers

My mother isn't good in airports. All the stress, drama and excitement of being in the right place at the right time tends to get her on edge. It's understandable really.

Even arriving back home is an event, with mum usually screaming something along the lines of "That's not your bag!!" as I go to pick my own backpack off the luggage carousel.

Things get a million times worse when she hears her name being paged...

To be fair, it wasn't her fault. Dad was patiently waiting for the coffee he had ordered 15 minutes ago. He wasn't going to the plane without it. Suddenly a stern voice could be heard throughout the airport, calling out mum and dad's names and not so subtly suggesting that they make their way to the gate. Now.

Mum was off! Leaving dad behind she grabbed her wheely bag and darted off to the gate. Holding on to her pink hessian hat for dear life, she ran as fast as her legs could carry her, nearly knocking many a tourist to the ground. Fortunately for mum she made it to the gate in time. Unfortunately, it was the wrong gate.

A bit more stress, a lot of swearing and a quick ride in the airport golfbuggy later, mum was in the right place and on the plane. The cabin crew had her seated and were getting ready for take-off when they saw a familiar looking woman running up the aisle.

"Hold the doors! I've left my hat in the airport"

Meet Mr Wolf

This is a blog about my mother. Mum has always told me that one day I'll grow up to write an award winning play. Thanks to modern technology I can write a mediocre blog instead. But before you turn away, this isn't some sort of Hallmark tribute.

Let's start with my earliest memory of mum. Most childhood memories involve teddy bears and cuddles.

Mine involves a wolf.

One night while I was sitting around playing with my Lego and feeling smug that I had once again evaded the terror of the nightly bath, mum suddenly burst into the room. "Quickly! There is a wolf outside!" she screamed in a state of wild panic. Naturally I followed suit.

The two of us ran around the house screaming and shouting. I was certain I'd be gobbled up - mum's cries of "He'll gobble you all up" were only adding to the drama. Thankfully mum had an idea. "Run into the bath! The wolf won't find you in there!". It was brilliant. Why would a wolf want to go near the bathtub? Baths were terrible and a wolf certainly had better things to do with his time.*

These wolf attacks happened on an almost nightly basis. If the wolves weren't on the prowl it would be foxes or occasionally wild geese. It wasn't until I was much older that I realised none of these creatures had any place in the suburban street where we lived.

Still, to this day I can't wash myself without first checking outside for rogue animals.

* Pun intended.