Things are a little different around here since I left home good and proper in late ’97.
My Mother is a less highly strung about cleanliness for one. Don’t get me wrong, you can still confidently conduct open-heart surgery in the bathroom - a more sterile environment you’d be hard pressed to find, even at one of those hushed up laboratories they fill with extraterrestrials and have decontamination chambers incase the alien DNA leaks out and makes us all mutate and have telepathic abilities, which, if you think about it, would be kind of cool – but even by her own standards she’s mellowed.
It probably helps that I’m tidy now. Research has found that teenagers find it very difficult to execute lists, so when Ma used to ask me to put the washing out and take up my dirty glasses after I’d finished my homework, there’s good scientific reasoning to why all the information got muddled in my head and I ended up watching TV instead. These days I like surfaces. I don’t like things on things. Blame years of living like a student and then years of living like a student when I was too old and in debt to actually still be a student, but I actually enjoy
So there’s my theory. We’ve both mellowed. Like fine wine.
This is only one
theory of course.
There are others.
Like sometime in late Autumn 2001, without me noticing, I quietly turned into my Mother.