Impractical parenting

If you met me in the street, or the pub, you might be forgiven for assuming that I might not be in the running for Mother of the Year. Although my appearance is a little more conservative than in previous years (I sort of miss my dreadlocks, although I don't miss the constant aroma reminiscent of cider, wet dog and, strangely, the inside of wellingtons kept in the garage), I still sport a number of facial piercings and have some very big, very black tattoos (although not on my face, I hasten to add...). When out on my own, or with the Other Half or friends this merely means vague sneering or slight fear from passing middle-englanders. However, if in the company of Small Person this attitude can change slightly. When Madam was very tiny, and I had very pink hair and favoured rings rather than studs in my nose and lip, the kindness of strangers manifested itself in one of two ways. Either malevolent waves of how-dare-she-that-poor-child (accompanied no doubt by images of needle-littered squats and rummaging through dustbins for food), or abject pity. Both of which were equally infuriating. These days, it's more toned down, but nonetheless often apparent. Maybe it's as a reaction to this, and also perhaps due to the fact that despite their indifference, my parents wanted someone who could confidently hand round the olives at the sort of seventies houseparty that invariably ended in gin and recriminations, I'm actually a very Victorian parent. This evening, Small Person, the Other Half and I were tucking into roast chicken, and I found myself channelling Anne Widdecombe. Poor Small Person - there she was trying to eat enough to guarantee pudding, and all she could hear was me barking "elbows off the table!!", "sit up straight!!", "mouth closed please!!!". To be fair, the Other Half ate very nicely indeed and therefore was allowed his chocolate mousse, and was excused the washing up. Small Person, to her eternal credit, does very well indeed, which makes me wonder whether I'm doing more harm than good. The poor child - it must be like growing up in the Hitler Youth. Will she thank me for it in later life, or will she end upon an ITV2 documentary, chaining Rothmans, with her kids eating Super Noodles with their fingers in front of Trisha? Only time will tell - I expect she's already counting the days until her sixteenth birthday.

In other news, I met the Other Half's parents yesterday, and they were lovely. To their credit, they managed not to berate me for wrecking his marriage, and instead plied me with tea, biscuits and an update on everything their neighbours have been up to lately. And I was shown a picture of the Other Half in knee socks, which cheered me up no end.