A while ago my son and I were doing our usual Sunday night family ritual – MTV (satellite), snuggled up together on the sofa in our pyjamas. Rihanna was on with a song that my son particularly liked. She was gyrating about in a gormless fashion half naked, which is rather tragic, especially when you’ve watched MTV as many times as I have. It was then that it happened. In an involuntary action the words flew out of my mouth. ‘Gawd!’ I shouted at the set. ‘Look at the state of her!’
My eldest son shot me a look of mingled horror and disgust, which said, ‘What the hell do you know?’ I realized he doesn’t comprehend that I’m not just this woman who serves up spaghetti. Listen darling, I felt like saying, I was once a fully paid-up rock chick (well, I had a pair of knee-high, skin-tight, leather boots) and whatever I say about music I say in a totally knowing, postmodern way. I’ve had my fair share of backstage passes and I know one end of a tour bus from the other. Okay? But there was utterly no point. I knew and understood the look he was giving me. It was the same look I’d given to my parents umpteen years ago when my mother made inane comments about Top of the Pops (on Morrissey: ‘What on earth is that in his back pocket? A bunch of flowers? What are they for?’ On Boy George: ‘Why is he wearing eye-liner?’ On virtually anybody: ‘Is that a boy or a girl?’).
Yes, in one horrifying millisecond, in some kind of acid flashback, I was reliving endless years in another living room, in London, in front of the box with my mum and dad. All that was missing was the shag-pile carpet and velour sofa. But this time I was the ‘square’, and the inevitable had happened. I had turned into my mother. To be honest, this morphing process had been under way for a while before my MTV gaffe. Perhaps the first time I became aware of it was at an antiques market stall in London when, without thinking, I used an expression my father may have used: ‘How much if I give you cash?’ It chilled me to the marrow but he was thrilled that after 20 years I’d managed to see the world his way. Or maybe it was when it was pointed out to me that, just like my mother, I can’t put on my lipstick without pouting.
What has speeded up this feeling is having children of my own. Not a day passes when I don’t recycle a bizarre set of expressions that have been passed down to me, like family heirlooms. ‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that!’ I catch myself saying with my mother’s voice echoing down the years. ‘You’ll catch your death of cold!’ and even, ‘They’ll be tears before bedtime’. Prize for the most ineffectual must go to, ‘And I’m not going to tell you again!’ which I shout at all three boys all the time. And then I tell them again. Why do I do that? Because my parents did, of course, and those phrases have been hardwired into my system. I just can’t help myself. I can vividly picture my mother, overrun by ‘miss wild child’ (me) dramatically flopping against a wall, raising her eyes to heaven and muttering, ‘God give me strength!’ It is an expression I now overuse to the degree that my eldest has shortened it to ‘GGMS’ and I once caught my then youngest (he was about 5) muttering it under his breath when he was mimicking me in a pair of clippy-cloppy high heels he’d put on…
Personally, I never mind sounding like my mother, but what I really hate is when I catch sight of myself in a shop window and realise I look exactly the same as her. That really gives me the creeps: my mother is a typical Mediterranean ‘mama’; and I’m always decked head to toe in minimalistic black! I am convinced, too, that I have even started developing the same body as her. (Scary that I see my mother every time I step in the bath). I’m sure the reason I have never been comfortable wearing make-up is that it is something my mother (a Yardley’s talc kind of woman) just doesn’t do. It’s interesting, isn’t it? We are more than happy to inherit certain traits from our parents (long legs, an ability to shoot pheasants from a mile) but cringe at others (in my case, a lifelong fear of the Clinique counter).
My other half laments that, even if our dinner parties’ finish at 5am, he has to do all the washing up – down to the last spoon – before he goes to bed. He might listen to the iPod at full volume while he’s doing it, but he clears up because it was drummed into him by his father that it was immoral to go to bed and leave a dirty kitchen. Now he can’t find it in himself to go against the grain, not that I’m complaining. I blame the arrogance of youth. At 20 you never imagine you could possibly get a wrinkle/enjoy Julio Eglesias albums/care about getting red-wine stains on the rug. Like developing varicose veins or wearing big knickers, it’s simply never going to happen to you. And then it does.
One seminal evening for me was attending a Tupperware party. Yes, I know. It was the first and last, but we drank chilled Chablis (the hostess was English), the woman sitting next to me was carrying a real Prada bag and someone else inquired, ever so politely, if the snappy little sandwich box could fit a bagel, but it was still a Tupperware party. What the hell was I doing at a Tupperware party? My mother once threw one – primarily, I suspect, to show off her new teak cocktail cabinet in the shape of a boomerang, which was the last word in chic in our mock-Tudor suburban cul-de-sac. I can’t remember her actually buying any Tupperware, though. Unlike me, who (the shame of it) snapped up about forty quid’s worth. I remember musing to myself that night that I’d never imagined doing the same things as my mother, much less actually enjoying them (in a funny sort of way). Scary.
Of course, it is biology lesson number one that, however much we try to press the reject button, we will all grow up to resemble our parents. (As Oscar Wilde famously put it, ‘All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That’s his.’) Many people I know put an enormous amount of effort into not turning out the same way, whether it’s a decision not to be a doormat, an alcoholic, or to let their children eat Farley’s Rusks. But is it any surprise that some little quirks still sneak their way through? (Like the way I make Greek macaroni cheese by laying the macaroni side by side so it looks neat when it’s served.) Or is it just that family phrases and habits are so horribly powerful because they were drummed into us in childhood?
In my case, turning into my parents isn’t all bad. In fact, it’s not that I really mind it happening; it’s just that I never thought it would. My mother, now living in the countryside, would probably be tickled to hear me parroting her phrases and delighted that, like her, I can’t even put the bins out without my heels on. I’m quite proud of the fact that she did all her housework herself although she worked a 12 hour day, that she actually loved cooking and worked up until the last minute of her pregnancy so she wouldn’t let her boss down at a fashion show.
I suppose if I’m going to have to end up like someone (when I’m 60), then being like mum is not so bad. And looking back on it all, she was probably being ironic during Top of the Pops. Just like me. Well, sometimes…
My eldest son shot me a look of mingled horror and disgust, which said, ‘What the hell do you know?’ I realized he doesn’t comprehend that I’m not just this woman who serves up spaghetti. Listen darling, I felt like saying, I was once a fully paid-up rock chick (well, I had a pair of knee-high, skin-tight, leather boots) and whatever I say about music I say in a totally knowing, postmodern way. I’ve had my fair share of backstage passes and I know one end of a tour bus from the other. Okay? But there was utterly no point. I knew and understood the look he was giving me. It was the same look I’d given to my parents umpteen years ago when my mother made inane comments about Top of the Pops (on Morrissey: ‘What on earth is that in his back pocket? A bunch of flowers? What are they for?’ On Boy George: ‘Why is he wearing eye-liner?’ On virtually anybody: ‘Is that a boy or a girl?’).
Yes, in one horrifying millisecond, in some kind of acid flashback, I was reliving endless years in another living room, in London, in front of the box with my mum and dad. All that was missing was the shag-pile carpet and velour sofa. But this time I was the ‘square’, and the inevitable had happened. I had turned into my mother. To be honest, this morphing process had been under way for a while before my MTV gaffe. Perhaps the first time I became aware of it was at an antiques market stall in London when, without thinking, I used an expression my father may have used: ‘How much if I give you cash?’ It chilled me to the marrow but he was thrilled that after 20 years I’d managed to see the world his way. Or maybe it was when it was pointed out to me that, just like my mother, I can’t put on my lipstick without pouting.
What has speeded up this feeling is having children of my own. Not a day passes when I don’t recycle a bizarre set of expressions that have been passed down to me, like family heirlooms. ‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that!’ I catch myself saying with my mother’s voice echoing down the years. ‘You’ll catch your death of cold!’ and even, ‘They’ll be tears before bedtime’. Prize for the most ineffectual must go to, ‘And I’m not going to tell you again!’ which I shout at all three boys all the time. And then I tell them again. Why do I do that? Because my parents did, of course, and those phrases have been hardwired into my system. I just can’t help myself. I can vividly picture my mother, overrun by ‘miss wild child’ (me) dramatically flopping against a wall, raising her eyes to heaven and muttering, ‘God give me strength!’ It is an expression I now overuse to the degree that my eldest has shortened it to ‘GGMS’ and I once caught my then youngest (he was about 5) muttering it under his breath when he was mimicking me in a pair of clippy-cloppy high heels he’d put on…
Personally, I never mind sounding like my mother, but what I really hate is when I catch sight of myself in a shop window and realise I look exactly the same as her. That really gives me the creeps: my mother is a typical Mediterranean ‘mama’; and I’m always decked head to toe in minimalistic black! I am convinced, too, that I have even started developing the same body as her. (Scary that I see my mother every time I step in the bath). I’m sure the reason I have never been comfortable wearing make-up is that it is something my mother (a Yardley’s talc kind of woman) just doesn’t do. It’s interesting, isn’t it? We are more than happy to inherit certain traits from our parents (long legs, an ability to shoot pheasants from a mile) but cringe at others (in my case, a lifelong fear of the Clinique counter).
My other half laments that, even if our dinner parties’ finish at 5am, he has to do all the washing up – down to the last spoon – before he goes to bed. He might listen to the iPod at full volume while he’s doing it, but he clears up because it was drummed into him by his father that it was immoral to go to bed and leave a dirty kitchen. Now he can’t find it in himself to go against the grain, not that I’m complaining. I blame the arrogance of youth. At 20 you never imagine you could possibly get a wrinkle/enjoy Julio Eglesias albums/care about getting red-wine stains on the rug. Like developing varicose veins or wearing big knickers, it’s simply never going to happen to you. And then it does.
One seminal evening for me was attending a Tupperware party. Yes, I know. It was the first and last, but we drank chilled Chablis (the hostess was English), the woman sitting next to me was carrying a real Prada bag and someone else inquired, ever so politely, if the snappy little sandwich box could fit a bagel, but it was still a Tupperware party. What the hell was I doing at a Tupperware party? My mother once threw one – primarily, I suspect, to show off her new teak cocktail cabinet in the shape of a boomerang, which was the last word in chic in our mock-Tudor suburban cul-de-sac. I can’t remember her actually buying any Tupperware, though. Unlike me, who (the shame of it) snapped up about forty quid’s worth. I remember musing to myself that night that I’d never imagined doing the same things as my mother, much less actually enjoying them (in a funny sort of way). Scary.
Of course, it is biology lesson number one that, however much we try to press the reject button, we will all grow up to resemble our parents. (As Oscar Wilde famously put it, ‘All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That’s his.’) Many people I know put an enormous amount of effort into not turning out the same way, whether it’s a decision not to be a doormat, an alcoholic, or to let their children eat Farley’s Rusks. But is it any surprise that some little quirks still sneak their way through? (Like the way I make Greek macaroni cheese by laying the macaroni side by side so it looks neat when it’s served.) Or is it just that family phrases and habits are so horribly powerful because they were drummed into us in childhood?
In my case, turning into my parents isn’t all bad. In fact, it’s not that I really mind it happening; it’s just that I never thought it would. My mother, now living in the countryside, would probably be tickled to hear me parroting her phrases and delighted that, like her, I can’t even put the bins out without my heels on. I’m quite proud of the fact that she did all her housework herself although she worked a 12 hour day, that she actually loved cooking and worked up until the last minute of her pregnancy so she wouldn’t let her boss down at a fashion show.
I suppose if I’m going to have to end up like someone (when I’m 60), then being like mum is not so bad. And looking back on it all, she was probably being ironic during Top of the Pops. Just like me. Well, sometimes…
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