Summer Turkeys

Today is a lovely warm summers day so I decide, unwisely, to take mother out to the park for an ice cream. When I arrive at the house, she in sombre mood at the news Nigel Farage is stepping down. Apparently he was our saviour in our darkest hour, and she holds him up there with Maggie.

I squeeze her shoes over her tangled purple feet and fold her into the Micra. The seatbelt holds her upright enough but also prevents her breathing properly, however, it doesn’t prevent her talking. By now I have managed to tune out her incessant instructions and directions to a park I have frequented since I was a toddler.

We get to the park and I manage to prop her up on a wooden bench while I get her a choc-ice, which I duly unwrap for her and watch as she manoeuvres it around her teeth with bits of chocolate falling into her lap.

I notice an elderly man a few feet in front of us, stripped to his shorts and having a nap in the warm sun, unfortunately, due to the warmth, his left testicle has decided to fall out of his short leg, and is resting peacefully on the inside of his thigh. I am now praying that mother doesn’t see it, but  God isn’t listening. Choc-ice demolished, we start the slow walk back to the car, as we pass the sleeping man, with incredible accuracy, mother flicks out her walking stick and deftly taps the testicle, which rapidly shoots back up his short leg like a see frightened urchin!. I ask her what she thinks she is up to, and she says it’s for the best, as it would have soon been burnt to a crisp and resemble an unpeeled lychee. “I used to tap your fathers regularly”


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