97. 16.04.2012 Tales from the Jetty. Part 3. Here Comes the mum

97. 16.04.2012 Tales from the Jetty. Part 3.  Here Comes the mum

So, after getting overwrought at the anti-climax of watching a man repeatedly casting  off  followed by a tantrum, a tanned bottom, an orange lolly cast a sunder in the sand and my bottom lip resting on my middle-aged paunch,  I sat on the bench watching the jetty.

It’s true to say that mother’s are getting younger and we  can all think of a local  council estate where you could quite easily imagine seeing a banner strung between two lampposts with the message “happy 35^th birthday Nanna”.  It would,  however, be wrong of me to  suggest that all people on council estates produce like rabbits as often and as young as possible. Some do. Most don’t.

Families, or so they tell us, are breaking down and the family units that were normal when I was young are an exception today.  The Pope (God bless the old fart) believes homosexuality is to blame, as do the God Squads of every other   backward thinking religion (which is basically all of them with the possible exception of The Quakers). Posh people think it’s due to poor diet and additives in turkey twizzlers and pot noodles whereas  people who  never   watch ITV claim it’s all Jeremy Kyle’s fault for glamourising lowlife, promiscuousness  and stupidity.  

I’d seen the girl in the picture skipping up and down the jetty and thought that she was just that, A girl. But then I realised that she was the mother of the two lads at the end of the pier and was dashing back and forth with jumpers and food.  I felt old.

Not that I’m suggesting that the girl on the jetty falls into this  category either. She might live on a council estate, she might have the full Sky package, but there again she might not. Not that that should be a bad thing.  There was love and affection, one of the boys ran to meet her and there was cuddling and laughing as she pulled the fleece over his head. And it was lovely to sit and watch. Dad fishing, the boys enjoying the experience and mum sitting in a foldaway chair making sure there was food and warmth.

Not quite sure what I want to say other than it was another moment of reflection when I faced up to the fact  of it not being  a question of mothers or soldiers or policemen or doctors and all the rest of them getting younger,  but me getting older.

Right, I’m off now to comfort eat. Turkey twizzlers rested on my paunch  in front of something on Sky with my big warm slipper for both feet. Perhaps with a bottle of Tizer.