Letter From America: Mam, Let Me in!
"Picture the sad scene: a young man, somewhat the worse for wear, is standing outside the front door of his mother’s house at half past one in the morning, ringing the bell and knocking in a frantic effort to be admitted,'' writes Ronnie Bray, introducing a memorable tale.
Picture the sad scene: a young man, somewhat the worse for wear, is standing outside the front door of his mother’s house at half past one in the morning, ringing the bell and knocking in a frantic effort to be admitted. He had not been locked out before and couldn’t understand why his Mum had locked the door, gone to bed, and gone to sleep with him still abroad in the wee small hours of Sunday morning after his routine Saturday night out with the lads.
To say he was frantic is akin to saying that King Kong was a big monkey, for he was well under the weather and didn’t relish the prospect of spending the night sleeping on the front lawn in the chill of a spring night, where he was sure to be dew covered and half frozen before the sun came up and defrosted him. I can verify the facts in this case are as stated, because I knew this young man, and had been party to his changed circumstances of the previous week.
Although his mother was a sound sleeper, his incessant knocking and ringing eventually woke her up, but not before a good half dozen of her neighbours had also had their beauty sleep interrupted by what seemed to be an attack by a heavily armed force of Visigoths.
Wisely, mother choose not to go downstairs and confront whatever alien force was battering her door, so she opened her bedroom window and peered out. To say she was surprised to find her son on her doorstep is like saying Walt Disney was a bit of a sketcher, and she had good reason for her astonishment.
What do you, want? she asked, obviously upset at the interruption to her sleep.
I want to come in, Mam, said the reveller.
Why don’t you go home? his Dam countered.
I am home, he insisted.
No, you’re not! She retorted, losing her classical poise with some fury.
Eh? said the lad. I am! he insisted, as only a foolish drunk can.
No, you’re not! spat his now irate mother. You don’t live here!
What? Cried the fuddled one. I do live here.
No, you don’t, lad. You got married last week!
Slowly, the penny dropped and the grey matter struggled to remember where he and his bride of one week had set up home. Through a beery mist he saw, as it were in vision, the little one down and two up where he and his young spouse had made their home just seven days ago.
With little understanding of how his forgetfulness would affect his pretty bride, and even less understanding of how she would influence his life thereafter, he wended his weary way home, this time to his real home.
A sadder and a wiser man he rose the morrow morn, his wife eventually saw the funny side of the incident.
What his mother said to him the next time she saw him is unrepeatable, but her harangue was not lost on him. On future boys’ nights out, he kept a little card in his pocket that had a picture of his wife and his home address. Just in case!
Copyright © 2011 – Ronnie Bray
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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