Head in a Muddle

Dearest Mum arrived last night. 1 A.M., self was sleeping on the couch. She has a vague memory of seeing a skinny woman enter the apartment in skintight jeans (reminding her of Oprah-surrogate in “The Brunch”, who also has a penchant for skinny jeans, though self doubts very much that Dearest Mum’s are Dolce & Gabbana) and a pink top.

Then, morning. It’s a beautiful day! Apartment’s environs are rather busy and noisy, and the cafés apparently keep going until the wee hours. If self were 20 years younger and much richer, she would be down there, participating in the life of the street.

Self told Dearest Mum all about the dear boutique on Gordon Street, and the little coffee shop next door, and self agreed that after Dearest Mum returned from visiting Ying, self would take her there. But Dearest Mum has returned with brother and nephew (who has a humongous appetite: show him a piece of anything and he’ll gulp it down faster than you can say — than you can say, whatever. This morning, self examined the jar of Nutella that nephew has been feeding from, the last week. She still doesn’t have any idea what it tastes like. Should she give it a try? No thanks.)

Anyhoo, self now declares she has a headache, for she simply can’t bear the idea of her last hours in Tel Aviv being spent in the company of Dear Bro, and especially she doesn’t want to have her last meal at favorite coffee shop in the presence of Dear Bro, and just as we are all setting out together, self declares she feels “sick.” Suddenly, brother is extraordinarily solicitous, wondering if it was the bed in the apartment, perhaps she should try the bed in the other room (At Ruppin self slept on the sofa in the living room for 10 days straight, her clothes scattered on armchairs, and brother paid her no mind). Then he says, still in solicitous mode, “Does your stomach ache? Can we get you anything?”

And self just stops dead in her tracks and stares at him with vile loathing. She backtracks and starts walking back to the apartment and Dearest Mum tries to detain her with those strong fingers of hers that are honed from decades of piano-playing and her grip is really very hard but self shakes her off and just keeps going. The last thing self remembers seeing is Dear Mum’s face, boiling over with fury.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

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