Dysfunctional

I was chugging up the hill out of Kendal last night when I picked up a frozen-looking thin lady who was flagging for a taxi.

I recognised her as the cleaner from one of the guest houses near us, and stopped.

She turned out to be quite cheerful, once she had warmed up enough to talk. After that she chattered non-stop all of the way back.

She told me that she had missed the last train and had been obliged to take the short cut by climbing over the fence at the back of the station. This had been an uncomfortable activity because she had two broken ribs.

I expressed sympathy, and she nodded sagely.

She explained that it had been her son wot had broke them, because he had been cross to come home and find her going wiv someone.

I was rather surprised about this, and wondered if I had misunderstood, because it is not the sort of response I would expect from my own children, no matter how reprehensible my behaviour.

I asked for confirmation, and she threw her hands in the air. He was always doing things like that, she explained, because of his Issues. Why, just the other week she got really cross wiv him, because she had gone into his room to find a large puddle of water on the floor, only to discover a stab puncture in the radiator. This was especially tiresome, she explained, because although he had mentioned that his girlfriend had gone for him wiv a knife, he had neglected to mention that she had missed and stabbed a hole in the radiator.

They had had no heating all over Christmas, and, she added, with grim satisfaction, the dog had died, and it had been his fault. They had had to get the vet to the dog, and it had been a nundred quid, which, she observed, was a lot for a dead dog.

I agreed that it was, and for want of anything else sensible to say, gently asked if she had been upset about the dog.

She explained that she had not, but that her daughter had been. She had took it bad, she said, because of not being there and not being able to say goodbye, because, see, she was wiv her foster care home in Barrow. The fing was, she explained, is that her daughter had knew that her dad would be upset about it, an wanted to go and tell him, like, but she couldn’t. This was because he was in prison and there was a court order saying that the daughter could not have any contact wiv him, even if she wanted to.

She invited me to agree that this was not fair, although I did not feel quite able to express an opinion under the circumstances.

The fing was, she said ruefully, she did not think there was much point in telling him in any case, because he probably wasn’t going to be out for ages anyway. He’d bin in that riot, see, about not smoking in prison, and so he was going to get done for it and probably get anovver ten years on top of wot he had already got. They do you over for rioting, see.

I said that I supposed they did.

She hadn’t even known about it, see, she explained, because of him not being able to write, like. She had found out when her probation officer come round to tell her.

I did not charge her for the taxi ride. Some people have got quite enough to worry about without having to pay for taxis on top of everything else. I went home and told Mark, who said that perhaps I was more middle class than I had imagined.

I am counting my blessings tonight.

Have a picture of some family dysfunction.