Small World

Small World My new trolls? Mother and Father

Just when I thought online dating was safe, they hacked my account jem clarke

Jem Clarke is in his very, very early fifties, is five foot zero inches tall and has never left the family home in Cleethorpes, which he still shares with his parents…

Since we got a TV for the kitchen, Mother has found more programmes to hate.

She currently hates the BBC News Channel’s Travel Show: ‘Look at her grinning ear to ear, going to abseil down something in Marrakesh on my coin. At least Judith Chalmers had the decency to dress for the beach, rather than for a quick dash to the corner shop.’

‘Mind you,’ warned Father, ‘she did do those adverts.’

‘Oh, hark at Solomon over there,’ said Mother. ‘An opinion every month. In a minute, he’ll be telling you all about how much he misses Jill Dando’s effortless presenting style. He calls me a middle-brow snob. I call him a celebrity obsessive.’

‘Strong,’ Father said.

‘When we were in Blackpool and bumped into Anita Harris in a hotel lobby, that poor woman could not get away from him. All she wanted was a complimentary arrival drink. All she got was a man with Van Morrison eyebrows giving her a complimentary lecture on the new motorway and its connectivity problems with the A roads.’

‘She asked!’ said Father.

‘She just asked, “How was your journey?” That was all! I asked Rita Coulson yesterday how her leg was – she didn’t start getting out X-rays and telling me the history of bloody anaesthesia, in the middle aisle of Sainsbury’s, did she!’

Trying to peace-keep, I said, ‘How is Rita’s leg?’

‘Ooh, now we’ve got Dr Kildare chipping in,’ said Mother, confiscating the comic I was reading for no reason. ‘They should ban Google for unsafe minds like yours. You know his search history reads like a medical dictionary?’

‘What the hell do you know about my search history?’ I said.

‘The Government sent me a leaflet all about it,’ she explained, handing me one on ‘The internet and your child: what you should check’.

‘But I’m 52!’ I said.

‘Not according to your profile on Match.com … or eharmony,’ Father said.

I squealed, ‘What the hell – you’ve both been nosing around in my cyber affairs? How long has this been going on?’

‘Look, it’s for your own good,’ said Mother, placing my comic back in my hands as a peace offering. ‘Susan Hart’s son got radicalised online. Now they take money out of his account every month and encourage him to go to shadowy meetings about turning society back to medieval times.’

‘Mum, he joined the Campaign for Real Ale!’

‘All I know is, within a month, Susan had to beg him at Hull Ferry Terminal not to leave the country for additional training,’ said Mother, taking a Kleenex out of her sleeve and dabbing an invisible tear from her cheek.

‘He was going to Oktoberfest in Bruges!’ I yelled.

Mother nudged Father. ‘Do you see how easily and casually he uses these terms? Ok-tob-urr-fest … Bruges. Keep an eye on this one.’

‘You’ll have difficulty – I’m changing all my passwords forthwith,’ I said. I turned on my heel and marched resolutely out of the kitchen. This was my ‘line in the sand’ moment, when I’d finally asserted myself and become a real adult, despite my reduced circumstances and height.

‘Jem! You’ve dropped your Green Arrow comic,’ yelled Father as I reached the stairs.

In order not to lose any intensity, I pushed the kitchen door half-open and crept back into the room on all fours, reaching the comic, seemingly unseen. But then Mother’s slippered foot suddenly appeared on top of the comic. I reluctantly looked up.

She fake-smiled back at me, crowing, ‘Don’t change the password to Superman452, will you.’

She had known my previous 451 passwords and deduced my new one. I was reminded of what a friend had once observed: ‘Your dynamic with your mother isn’t mother and son. It’s Holmes and Moriarty.’

As I uncreased Green Arrow’s face, I made a mental note to check online whether Newmarket Holidays do coach trips to the Reichenbach Falls.