Still Pretend Mothering

I have put one pretend son on the bus to catch his train for London, his real mother, and--ultimately--the seminary, but I still have another pretend son, so I am about to make pierogis.

Saturday's dinner made it quite clear which pretend son takes after which pretend parent because Pretend Papa and Seminarian Pretend Son talked of nothing but Anglo-Catholics and Anglo-Catholicism and Anglo-Catholic architects while Polish Pretend Son and I stared at them and willed them to talk about something else.

"Excuse me," I said at last. "This 'Mass' of which you speak. Ahem. Ahem."

"Oh, er, um, yes," said the shamefaced conversos duo at that side of the table while Polish Pretend Son snickered in a Cradle-Catholic way.

Then on Sunday, as I dragged B.A. from a party, B.A. was tremendously paternal, saying "Now you chaps needn't leave the party early on our behalf! You can return to the Historical House any time you like!" while I fussed and said "What rubbish! Never heard of such goings-on in my life." Complementarity in action, peeps.

Actually, it turns out that it was only about 11:30 PM, and not 12:30 AM because I forgot that all the clocks in that particular sitting-room are wrong, including the one on the chimney-piece, because I fell dead asleep after B.A.'s stirring rendition of "The Lost Chord." So perhaps I was too premature, and also a bit too tetchy---although that can be blamed on the Romanian śliwowica the Polish Pretend Son kept pouring in my glass.




B.A.'s imitation of Dame Clara is positively haunting.