My son, Hamlet, is becoming so paranoid. I swear, I make the slightest assertion about anything and the boy thinks I’m trying to control him. It’s all escalated since I commenced a long-term stay at his house right after I told him I was moving back to England, and it’s fair to consider that there might be a period of adjustment needed. I did sort of spring it on him, I suppose.
Still, I’ve sprung plenty of things on him before – the gift of life, anyone? – and he’s never gotten all funny about it like he is now. I’ve been trying to do nice things for him, like keep that lovely car of his away from the beach. Doesn’t he know what all that sand and sun can do to a leather interior?
I even went to the trouble of tracking down the best European car mechanic in the area, which Hamlet evidently hadn’t been bothered to do himself, but he was having none of it. He said he thought I was deliberately interfering with his daily beach sojourn, all because I myself dislike the beach.
Well, that may be all too true, but why should I disapprove of his liking for it? If my only son wants to waste his life engaging in such an inane pastime as going to run around on a pile of sand and swim in shark-infested waters like a lunatic, who am I to stand in the way? I mean, I certainly don’t feel it’s what he should be doing with his life, and I’d much prefer he used that snazzy little car to do other things. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to spend all day trying to book a car service near Seaford in order to keep him away from his beloved beach.
Plenty of mothers would do that, mind you, and I wouldn’t blame them one bit. But me? I’d never stoop to that level, or try to bribe my son with the promise of an all-expenses-paid air con regas. It’s simply not my style. I’m just here to offer a bit of motherly direction and support.