People don't realise how expensive dishcloths are, you know.

Another week, another nail biting wait to see whether I'll actually bother to post anything on here. It's ok, you can admit it, you live for this shit right? Right? Yeah, whatever, I know the truth.

I've given a lot of thought to what to write on her this week. Given that last weeks post was along the lines of 'I don't make stuff up, it really was that bad' I felt that this week I should tell a particularly bad tale. So if you don't mind, and I'm sure that you don't, I shall skip forward about a  year in the ongoing story of my life, to tell you of one of my Mothers finer moments as a parent. Not going to give you the full story though; just a prologue, if you will. Think of this as a trailer for a movie you can't watch for a year.


One of my tasks as a youth was to do the washing up after a meal. Originally, my sister and I were put on a 'taking turns' system but incessant arguing over whose turn it was and whether it was fair that 'there wasn't much when you did it but this time there's loads and wah wah wah' led to me, in a fit of 'I can't be doing with this bullshit' declaring that I would just do it all. Because frankly, who can be bothered? And to be honest, the washing up takes less time than the argument anyway.

So, yes, washing up. One fine morning I was preparing myself for my escape, upon the chiming of the ninth hour; the weekend rule of not leaving the house before 9am was extended to every day during school holidays; when a shout erupted from the kitchen. A shout that boded in the realms of the not well. Very much so, in fact.

"PAUL!, Where is the dishcloth?"

Now, I'll grant you, as shouts go, that sounds pretty nonthreatening. You had to have been there. And to have knowledge of where this could so easily lead. My Mother, when she couldn't find something she was looking for, could put the shits up, well, a clever metaphor is unnecessary here. She'd scare anybody.

"Dunno Mam, probably on the side of the sink" I replied, as casually as I could. I was a nervous wreck, knowing full well what kind of an eruption was brewing. A desperate race had started, between my mother's temper, and the clock striking 9. Could I mollify her long enough to get out unscathed?

"I've fucking looked there, I'm not fucking stupid, where the fuck is it?"

No, then. The excessive  use of the 'f' word so early in the conversation meant that we were on an accelerated schedule. I was pretty much resigned to my fate at this point. You have to try though, don't you?

"Maybe I left it on the countertop by mistake?" It's worth a shot.

And then she's there. Barreling down on me like an articulated lorry that's had it's brake lines cut by a scared kid trying to kill his abusive parent. Or something.

"You'd better fucking tell me where it fucking is, now! I fucking need it!" Snarled into my face from inches.

I should probably tell you, because even back then my first thought was always the sarky one, that my initial instinct was to ask why she needed it, cos I didn't think she knew how to use one. I didn't say that though. Instead, I came out with...

"I don't know, maybe someone moved it."

Which I thought was a pretty reasonable response. Yes? You'd think.

"Why the fuck would anybody move it? You're the only one who ever uses it, so you should know where it fucking is."

There was a pretty massive flaw in her logic there, given the conversation we were having. I could see it, can you? Course you can.

"Why can't you look after stuff? You think I'm made of fucking money!" A dishcloth, people. A dishcloth.

The ranting went on for a few more minutes, during which I stayed silent, so as not to provoke her any further, since my every utterance was apparently wrong. This of course led to her shoving me to the ground and shouting a load of abuse about me ignoring her. Ah well. Then...

"Get out of my fucking house and don't come back. I'm sick of the fucking sight of you. Go on!"

I picked myself up, dusted myself off and was about to had out the door with my bike, when she stopped me and ripped the bike form my hands, causing me to unbalance again and land on my arse. Which is where I was when she threw my bike down on top of me. This, as you might suspect, hurt not a little bit.

It seems that, as evidenced by the dishcloth debacle, I was incapable of looking after things and therefore I was not to be permitted the use of my bike. Makes sense.

"Now fucking pick yourself up and get out. Go on, and don't fucking bother coming back you little bastard. I've had enough."

So I went. Now, the whole 'get out and don't come back' routine was a popular one for my Mother and I knew full well that all I had to do was stay out of her way for the day and she'd be fine come teatime. But I wasn't in the mood for that this time. I decided to take her at her word. I walked out the door and into the sunset. Er, sunrise? More blazing sunshine, really. Whatever, you know what I mean. I left, and I wouldn't be back for nearly a month.

So there you have it folks. I left home for a month because my Mother beat me up with a  bicycle over the loss of a dishcloth. You'll have to wait and see what happened during that month though, and what led to my eventual return home.  Just thought I'd whet your appetite. Ta ta for now, y'all.