urk

Today my Mum went to the British High Commission to try and find out more about whether or not I am eligible for the Right to Abode (because of difficulties with my visa), and had to endure a taxi driver who told her a scary and apparently true story about a man who submitted to a year-long highly paid medical test that would eventually kill him so that he could support his wife's extravagant materialistic spending, and then dropped poor Mum off at the American High Commission (my Mum probably just about died at the thought of being thought of as an American) and by the time she had walked to the British High Commission -she discovered that they do not take unscheduled enquiries!

Well.

So she came back home, and had to face a long and complicated process of tallying numbers and figures and accounts for her work. I get my math skills (or lack thereof) from my mother, and suffice to say the numbers were completely hostile to her and her to them, so much so that as I was reading 'Bleak House' at the dining room table, she suddenly stalked past me and said 'I need to strangle something - like the British High Comm!'

I followed her into her room where all she could say was 'It's such a poopy day.' And my Mum NEVER uses toilet humour so I knew she needed a hug, which I readily gave, even though I could no nearer solve her math problems than write my own visa.