A recent conversation I had went like this:
"Can we play another game?"
"What? Apart from hating Woody?"
"Yes, Mum. Apart from hating me."
Headgames. Correctly termed "transactional analysis" and described by Eric Berne in the Fifties. You would think they were passe - I would certainly like to think that they were - but they are a source of constant struggle for me. It seems no-one thought to tell my mother that they are out of vogue.
Her favourite game at the moment (readers with a delicate disposition should look away now) is to time her morning shit to coincide with my daily shower. Every day for the last three weeks as I have soaped up she has emptied her bowels noisily next to me. Out of consideration for our geriatric water system she also declines to flush, since it would be mean to dowse me with cold water.
The first time this happened I laughed and made some joke. This was a huge mistake, as she now seems to think it is funny, and I actually believe she's now doing it for a laugh each morning. I know she goes back to bed once she's done it. This is just about normal in my household, and we seem to follow a routine of antagonism followed by sarcasm, followed by my mother doing whatever the hell she likes anyway. Hence the conversation I posted above.
I would dearly love to change the record. But how?
Apparently I need to find the antithesis of the game - my mother's kryptonite - and to use it to spoil her fun. Now I understand why my father reads Machiavelli. You need to be a master tactician to survive in my house. Call me boring but I don't want to launch a military campaign from my bedroom each morning. 8am is far too uncivilised a time for strategic thinking. I want to ease into the day. Where's my mug of tea and slice of toast left lovingly by my door? I certainly don't deserve to be greeted by a stinking heap of poo.
So what on earth to do? Hmmmm.... maybe I could lock the bathroom door (we never lock doors in my house). That might work for now, but is that just declaring war?
