‘I’d love to get a campervan …’ I dream, watching one as it passes the bus we are on.
Miss Manners pipes up ‘You have to hire one first. To see if you like it.’
‘Oh, we nearly got one a couple of months ago …’ I interrupt.
‘There’s no point in spending money on something you don’t like.’ She kindly fucking points out to me.
‘…but, we couldn’t afford it, without dobbing in our 4 x 4…’ I trail off and give up, and stare out of the window, biting my tongue so it bleeds, I tell you, bleeds!
She continues to entertain the rest of our seven strong group of women, all heading for a pleasant lunch in the country, with her infinite bloody wisdom.
Later, that same hour … !
‘Ooh, look at that lovely chair in that shop!’ I point at a delicious chair that, actually, would not fit into my (shitty small) compact and bijou house and I am told,
‘It’s rude to point!’
‘Fuck the fuck off!’ is the retort I wish to give to the keeper of my life and manners, it appears. In sisterhood, you understand.
However, I politely point (see it’s a habit!) out that I am an adult and am allowed to point at whatever and whomever I so wish. Thank you. And, she sulks!
I like good manners. I am often tempted to highlight other people’s, shall we say, misdemeanours and aberrations, but I would never be soooo rude as to do it!
You ask my (grown-up) children. I have learned that advice given is only valuable if asked for and, as kids rarely ask for advice; I have very quickly indeed learned Not To Give Any. Which has an upside in that, when stuff goes wrong for them, as it occasionally does, it's not my fault and nothing to do with me, hurrah! Sadly though, I don’t get the pleasure of saying ‘I told you so!’
Not that I ever would (gawd, I sound horrible, but I’m not, honest. Just, well, honest) we just get the bill, usually.
More usually, though, they surprise us and do, well, rather well, don’t they?