My mum left me a voicemail last night that sent waves of panic through me. She chatted a bit about her day and how my poorly nephew is feeling (better now, phew), and then casually threw in a ‘I think you might have made a spelling mistake on your blog, maybe not, it might just be me but I think you meant to write twit instead of . . .’
I slumped back onto the sofa and breathed a sigh of relief. And when I spoke to her this morning I explained that she can’t leave me casual messages about spelling mistakes. I am obsessive to the point of boring about correct spelling. Sometimes at work they would tease me when I pinged over important emails to be double checked before sending them. Before even opening the email, my friend would shout ‘Typo!’ knowing I’d immediately go pale and start hyperventilating at my desk.
But my mother’s response to this was to ever so gently tell me off about my use of the word ‘tit’ in a blog post. I was amused at still being told off by my mother at the age of 28 (slash 32); I guess you’re never too old for a stern talking to from dearest Mama. ‘It’s a horrible word and expression you’ve used’ she pointed out. ‘Ah yes mother’ I replied, ‘but there are many, many worse words I could have written . . .’
The fact is, my mum hates swearing, always has done. The worst thing I’ve ever heard her utter is ‘damn’ in all the 28 (slash 32) years I’ve known her. She used to work for a gourmet catering company and in the kitchen they would mind their language when she was there, because she just isn’t one of those people you can comfortably swear around. She is the loveliest, sweetest lady I know, so gentle and calm, and throwing a ‘Bloody hell’ or an ‘Oh crap’ or – heavens forbid – the F word into conversation with her just isn’t an option. There’d be nothing softly spoken about the telling off I’d then receive, that’s for sure.
So this blog will be, to the best of my ability, swearing free unless of course it’s necessary. I’m not going to censor what I write, but I am going to be mindful that my mum is reading, and I’d never do anything to upset her. I’m no longer a bratty teenage horror, after all.