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Well-Meaning But Flawed

On occasion well-meaning notions can lead to the very opposite consequence as the well-meaner*** intended. For example, this morning my mum thoughtfully announced that on spring’s dawning she proposed contacting a gardener to undertake chez Strachan’s 2020 horticultural maintenance.

*** – I’m unsure if the word(s) well-meaner exists. If it doesn’t, though, I can’t help but feeling that it should.

Mater’s planned strategy a considerate stance in the wake of my cardiac issues last January. An incident manifesting a reluctance at exposing me to the physical assertions afforded by gardening. A chivalrous gesture by Mrs S senior, however it made me ponder why she seemed less reticent to protect me from the task last year, which was only a matter of months after my heart attack.

Despite being highly appreciative of this thoughtfulness, I was moved to inform mater that yours truly wanted to do her garden. Arguing, as long as the task was undertaken sensibly, it would be better for my overall cardiac condition if I continued maintaining the flora and fauna of her abode.

Delivered partly mischievously, along with a degree of basis in fact, I advised my considerate mother (Maggie) that physical work wasn’t detrimental to overall well-being. Going on to point out, if she really wished to reduce the risk of my suffering further heart issues, implementing a ‘duty of care’ strategy reducing his mental strain would be beneficial.

This advocacy highlighting my cardio vascular system, and angst levels, would benefit significantly if I wasn’t regularly subject to a daily raft of verbal enquiries she either already knew the answer to, or had asked at least a dozen times in the past week. This trait, although harmless, frequently driving me to distraction.

The above behaviour just one of Maggie’s habitual traits I’ve had difficulty adjusting to since last July’s departure of my marital domain to take up residence in Mrs S senior’s home.

Mum’s other peccadilloes including the noises she makes while eating, which bears aural similarities to two rutting stags. Not to mention her habit of arising from her armchair, walking to the dining room doorway only to turn back and sit down again without actually undertaking anything……. Admittedly, the latter habit is utterly harmless, nevertheless on my fraught days the frequency of this pointless act drives me absolutely insane.

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To clarify, yours truly pays for my keep undertaking many roles for Maggie; these include chef, chauffeur, her gardener (well for the time being anyway!), odd-job/DIY man, technical support and facilitation of home administration tasks.

Despite this I feel deeply ungrateful at penning prose relating to mater’s minor behavioural infractions. After all at this juncture in my existence she’s putting a roof over my head, not to mention undertaking maintenance of my laundry.

Without her I’d have to rely on the pity and charity of others for the provision of a home. A life event that’d necessitate me becoming house trained, possibly dining on a diet of Pedigree Chum and being wormed every three months.

Deep down, although on occasion it feels like I’ve jumped out of the proverbial frying pan into the fire when departing my marital home, I’m truly grateful to have this warm, loving and caring environment in which to exist. It’s certainly a darn sight less toxic than my previous residence in East Leeds!

Now, in the position of not having the guts to inform her about the noise she makes while eating, I wonder if mum’ll take the hint about her cacophonous chomping if I wear my headphones at mealtime?!

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