Parental excitement never ceases to underwhelm me.
I'm currently soaking up the delights that that ever so pleasant of seaside resorts, Clacton On Sea, has to offer. Or, to be more specific, I'm soaking up the delights of my mothers cooking. They say a change is as good as a rest. My mother is a very traditionally English cook. Every meal is meat (or in my case vegetarian fake meat - because I'm every stereotype, it's all in me), potatoes and a veg, with gravy (in my case vegetarian gravy) poured over the top. Which is pretty much the only thing I never cook (oh, who am I kidding, any meal that takes longer than the 12 minutes pasta takes to cook is too much effort for me - so I certainly never roast potatoes).
My father's birthday is the cause of my leaving the cosy confines of the M25 and venturing to a seaside town where all there is to do is play with those sodding machines where you have to try and win a teddy bear with the claw thing. There's no point in me playing those. My double bed is already too full of teddies to fit anyone taller than my great height of 4'10" (and trying to find someone to share my bed who is shorter than me is no easy challenge), if I procure any more then I'll be sleeping with my feet in the bookcase. I enjoy a swim... there's no way I'm ever going to entertain the thought of a dip off Clacton's coastline, mainly because the sea is brown. I don't really fancy seeing if I can still do butterfly despite my extreme state of unfitness by trying to swim through a stranger's anal discharge, thank you very much.
It was during my father's birthday roast dinner that I piped up with "Oooo! I know what I was going to tell you..." in such a fashion as to indicate that I'd just remembered that there was some news I had to pass on. Mainly because I had forgotten that I should probably tell The Parents, if for no other reason than my Mother usually phones me on a Sunday afternoon, and I wouldn't want to send her into a panic when she tried to call me on a Sunday afternoon in the not too distant future, only for me to not answer.
"I got through to the semi-finals of So You Think You're Funny?!"
"Oh." Said mother. "Where'd you have to go for that?"
"Uhhh..." was probably the only way to spell the noise she made. It's a cross between "Oh" and a gulpy noise. It's usually reserved for catastrophes of the variety that I meet on a regular basis... like my bizarre junkie ants, or if I'm retelling the story of an encounter with a particularly dense occupational therapist. And is always accompanied by a roll of the eyes. One of my friends once remarked that he could almost hear down the telephone when I rolled my eyes at him - it must be genetic.
Because, of course, being judged to be among the top 56 comedians who've been performing for less than 12 months is really an annoyance (actually, it sounds kinda lame when you look at it like that. But, I did beat off 250 failed competition entrants to be in that top 56 - so, I'm not that terrible). I'm infuriated, clearly. The cheek of them, asking me to travel all that way. It's appalling, it shouldn't be allowed.
This was then followed by my father reeling off a list of inconveniences that the journey to Edinburgh, followed by the (slim) chance that I may get through to the final may bring me.
Perhaps it was retaliation for my choice of greetings card to commemorate my father being yet another year older. The card had an inference that he was somewhat apathetic; so maybe he was trying to get revenge by being too lazy to go "ooo, well done!"?
Or maybe I'm just too easily excited? I do have a propensity towards bouncing up and down with excitement at the sight of something shiny or brightly coloured. I think I may be part magpie. That would also go someway to explaing the lack of parental excitement if I wasn't really their's and was infact the illicit offspring of a shiny-things seeking bird.
I've found a cure for parental apathy though. Purple their bathroom.
This evening I borrowed my parents shower to dye my hair. It now looks like it could be from the set of Psycho (their shower that is, not my hair). That elicited a parental reaction, even if it wasn't one of excitement at my comic achievements, or excitement at my purple hair. In the world of Lisy Babe, more gulpy noises abound.