I’m turning into my mother

Ever get them moments, when you catch yourself in the mirror and think ‘my lord, I’m turning into my mother’?

I’ve had about seven this week.

Maybe it’s a getting older thing, maybe it’s a genetic thing, either way it’s bloody scary.

Here’s my Mum. The delightful Sue Irwin. She’s a treat. A tyrant, lippy and for someone of a mere 5’3 she’s often quite frightening. Ask my dad. 6’3 and at times, honestly, scared shitless.

me and mum2

I caught myself this week doing the ironing. Now, for those of you that know me, you will know that I’ve lifted the iron all of twice since moving out of home. Once to test if it worked and once to iron a top that I subsequently ruined. But this week, out of nowhere I decided that I’d actually rather have crisp clothes. I also realised that ironing them kind of locks in the Comfort so they smell nicer for longer. I know, 26 years that took.

 In that iron wielding moment it dawned on me that I had been acting like my Mum all week.

Want to know what else I did? Came to the very harsh conclusion that I actually have a preferred brand of floor cleaner. How petrifying is that? I used to stop at favourite brand at crisps or vodka and now I’m there bigging up Flash like there’s no tomorrow.

Sorry, who am I?

Domestic wise, turning into my mother didn’t stop at floor cleaning and ironing. Oh hell no. I went all out and swept under the sofa. Yep I moved furniture to clean in a place that nobody else would ever see. Who else do you know does that? Oh yeah there is one person.


For years I’ve never understood why my Mum has always got up so early when actually she could easily lay in bed til 10am as she no longer has toddlers to worry about who might be up alone sticking their fingers in plugs.

That was until this week.

When I had one week off and decided that I needed to get every solitary bit of life admin done before I start my new job. So what have I been doing? Without even thinking about it?

Waking up at 8am. And getting up at 8.30am. Without needing to be at work. Sorry, what?

And’ why’ I hear you cry? So that I can get everything I need to do, done in the morning. Because like my Mum, I quite enjoy having the afternoon indoors. Probably to subconsciously rank my cleaning products or alphabetise my herb rack or some shit.

That isn’t even the scariest thing. You know what the most frightening thing I did this week was that hammered it home that I am turning into my dearest Susie Pants Irwin?

I wrote lists. No, not a list for the Metro to make you all laugh. A list for my shopping.

Know what was more frightening than not trusting myself to rely on my 26 year old memory?

I wrote it in the bloody order of the shops I would need to go in from my flat so, and I quote my mother now, ‘I didn’t have to go back on myself’.

Because real women do not waste time.

I am a freedom pass away from actually enjoying Countdown and remembering the birthday of every person I’ve ever met.

If someone finds my youth and a bottle of gin. can you send it my way?

I’m that girl at home at 9pm on a Tuesday, because I didn’t want to get drunk, because I have stuff to do tomorrow.


LL x


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