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Patience, Simon
My mother loved a proverb. I hated them.
Her use of them always smacked of the Victorian to me. Used as chastisement or warning, or an usually superfluous “I told you so”, the effect, through repetition, was to make me resistant to these often trite, righteous mottos. I suspect she had been on the receiving end of them herself at some point, possibly from her own mother’s tongue. They certainly felt like a sanctimonious throwback to a more proscriptive age.
I never doubted my mother’s love for a second. She was a doting and supportive Welsh Mam. As an only child I was the focus of her life, (apart from my dad of course) and she took it upon herself to educate and guide me to the best of her abilities, which were quietly formidable.
She taught me to read, to tie my shoe laces, to wipe my bottom (not necessarily in that order). She cooked unquestioningly for me and washed and ironed my clothes with pride. She gave me standards, aspirations and ambition and strove to make me respectful and accepting of others. She also drove me potty with petty nagging that built a wall between us that her early death meant we never got a chance to demolish.
I only ever knew my mother as a housewife (although she also took care of my father’s business accounts), a role I think she was happy with, and despite her extended family and a wide circle of friends I…
