A ringing phone wakes me up and the sight of a call from mum brings me more joy than usual. This is not to say that I don't enjoy talking to the woman, but I figure rebellious youths (/disorganised idiots) such as myself will always associate calls from a parent with being in some kind of trouble. Indeed just as a parent will most likely associate a call from a child on holiday with an imminent dent to their bank account.
She'd missed one such call the day before, but she knew the deal. All parents know the deal; no child has ever called from holiday just to tell them that they are battered in Pacha in Ibiza and that they wish they were there. No, they call because they've fucked it.
I answered the phone and entered the usual half-baked formalities I am accustomed to with such parent-directed pleas for help, "Hey, how are you? I'm good, yeh, you're good? cool, cool, nice weekend? yeh, me too, cool, so yeh, listen um.... I need money, help and love..." I wince as the what we both know to be inevitable request comes out, "but mainly money" I stress.
I told her that my bike had been stolen in MELT! festival and I told her that this would make it difficult for me to complete my cycling tour of Europe. Though I'm sure the latter part she could've probably worked out herself. I told her that it was my birthday coming up soon. I asked her if I could buy myself a new bike for my present.
The blabbering continued, before she interrupted and calmed me with just a few words as she's always had a knack for. She told me getting a bike sounded like a good idea and would make a good birthday present. I told her I loved her, hung up, gathered my mountain of possessions (which somehow failed to include a pair of shoes), my 40 euros, and left the Hostel feeling incredibly excited and happy by the prospect of a new bike. It was on. Thanks Mum.
She'd missed one such call the day before, but she knew the deal. All parents know the deal; no child has ever called from holiday just to tell them that they are battered in Pacha in Ibiza and that they wish they were there. No, they call because they've fucked it.
I answered the phone and entered the usual half-baked formalities I am accustomed to with such parent-directed pleas for help, "Hey, how are you? I'm good, yeh, you're good? cool, cool, nice weekend? yeh, me too, cool, so yeh, listen um.... I need money, help and love..." I wince as the what we both know to be inevitable request comes out, "but mainly money" I stress.
I told her that my bike had been stolen in MELT! festival and I told her that this would make it difficult for me to complete my cycling tour of Europe. Though I'm sure the latter part she could've probably worked out herself. I told her that it was my birthday coming up soon. I asked her if I could buy myself a new bike for my present.
The blabbering continued, before she interrupted and calmed me with just a few words as she's always had a knack for. She told me getting a bike sounded like a good idea and would make a good birthday present. I told her I loved her, hung up, gathered my mountain of possessions (which somehow failed to include a pair of shoes), my 40 euros, and left the Hostel feeling incredibly excited and happy by the prospect of a new bike. It was on. Thanks Mum.
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