A mother's intuition

 

One wonders if Princess Margaret ever found herself in similar circumstances to mine?

Ahhh, mothers. When we are young, and foolish, we convince ourselves that we possess all of the world's wisdom, and that hoodwinking one's parents is as simple a task as sneezing. However, this is emphatically not the case, particularly not in the case of one's mother, who has all-powerful intuition, seemingly to the point of  omnipotence as she knows your every thought, move and wish. She knows exactly who took the last Jaffa Cake from the biscuit tin; she knows that you did not bother to turn up for school this morning; and, make no mistake, she certainly knows that the edges of your bedsheets which you tuck under the mattress did not acquire their stiff, crusty state due to your sinuses producing excess mucus during "a heavy cold".

No, she knows this stuff because she carried you for nine months, put baby powder on your winkle, and has watched you develop every single mannerism you affect. In short, she knows you inside out. To illustrate this, I shall relate an attempt of mine to deceive my mother in order to assuage my own embarrassment, at an age where I should certainly have known better, which was comprehensively usurped.

One dark, dank Saturday afternoon, I travelled back to my birthplace in order to take in a game of association football between The Everton Football Club Company Limited and The Tottenham Hotspur Football Club, me supporting the former and a dear friend of mine supporting the latter. After having deposited a small overnight bag at my parent's house, where I would be laying my weary head some time later, I met my friend for a few pre-game palliatives, in order to calm the nerves before the fixture. We continued to imbibe our medicine during the game, a drab affair which, as I recall, resulted in a 0-0 stalemate.

In order to cast the grim spectacle we had witnessed to the scrapbook of less than golden memories, we repaired into the centre of "town" and applied yet more medication, as prescribed by Dr. Arthur Guinness of Dublin, at an established known colloquially as "The Big House". At around 10pm, my companion was stricken by a sudden attack of not being able to feel his legs anymore, and decided that (discretion being the best part of valour) he should embark upon his epic voyage back to the Wirral. I, on the other hand, still had a little time to kill, and put away two more pints of Guinness before the start of my odyssey to my parent's house, feeling ever so slightly the worse for wear.

Things went smoothly at first. However, not long after I alighted from the train, the station being a walk of around a mile from my eventual destination, I suddenly discerned the symptoms of insistent peristalsis. I shook my head, reminded myself that I could seek the sanctuary of a familiar water closet just ten short minutes later.

Five short minutes later, I was in agony, in much the same manner as I imagine a woman to be in the throes of imminent childbirth. I had to "go", there and then, otherwise I should completely besmirch my denims, for which I had brought no replacements. Circumstances, however, mitigated against this, given that I was on a wide, very-well lit suburban street, with large, occupied residences on either side. There was, seemingly, no cover to be had. So I did not really seek any; I just lowered my trousers, squatted onto my haunches, and pushed out copious amounts of a  pungent, impacted, clay-like substance onto the pavement.

Now, I am sure that I am not alone in this; but whenever in the act of defecation, I also urinate as a reflex action. I imagine that is familiar to you all. This occasion was no different; indeed, given my liquid intake over the course of the past ten or eleven hours, there was something of a deluge. Into my trousers, into my underwear, and all over my socks. My only saving grace in all of this was that, miraculously, I was completely alone on this well-lit, wide suburban street. There was nary a soul about to witness my misfortune and concomitant embarrassment. So, having jettisoned my payload, I casually hitched up my breeches and sauntered home, feeling the effects of desquamation around the upper thighs due to the excess water content of the trousers.

When I got back to my parent's house, they were (thankfully) well and truly in the land of Nod. With sheer jungle cunning, and drawing on my years of self-sufficiency in matters of domesticity, I took off my trousers, briefs and socks, popped them into the washing machine, dispensed the appropriate measures of detergent and fabric conditioner, selected the quick wash programme, set the machine in motion, and toddled off to bed, feeling smug at my having got away with another fine mess.

The next morning dawned bright and sunny, yet breezy; perfect drying weather, if you will. I arose at around 10am, feeling the effects of self-imposed "flu-like" symptoms. My mother,  having awoken some considerable time before me, had discovered the contents of the washing machine, and took it upon herself to peg out the items to dry.

"I've put them out for yer", she said, in a slightly haughty manner I thought. I instantly knew that a degree of uncomfortable questioning was to follow.

"Why did yer put them in the wash last night?"

Obviously, to have admitted to the actual circumstances behind my impromptu laundering would have been terribly embarrassing for me, and would almost certainly have brought opprobrium and reproach upon me (not to mention being telegraphed to my siblings in very short order for their delectation and amusement). So, with what I considered to be impeccable criminal inspriation, I related the tale of how, just before I left the public house to return to my parents, I had contrived to spill a full pint on Guinness onto my lap, and had had to pop the trousers (and everything else) into the wash for the next day.

"Oh, right..." A pregnant pause... "So how did yer manage to get dog shit all up the back of yer boots?"

And thus, the lie was punctured. I never did admit the truth, but frankly there is no need to so do. She knows.

Have others had bullshit deflated by their dear mothers in a similar fashion?