Sharing Your Thoughts

My mother has gotten to the stage in life where she freely shares her opinions about everything, with anybody close enough to hear whatever is on her mind. In the past she might have recognised a likeminded friend in a crowd before whispering a discreet observation, one which would have caused many people’s eyebrows to buckle upwards in surprise, if heard. Nowadays, however, she shares her every thought with everybody she meets, having with no consideration for the ears her words might fall into. Sailing under the flag of old age, you see, she feels she is immune from any form of censure and revels in the freedom it affords her. For instance, Billy, our newsagent, must regularly listen my mother’s views on his beard; not to mention her sage advice. ‘Lose it, otherwise, you’ll look like something out of the Taliban,’ She gives him the same advice whenever she steps into the shop to hunt down a mass card, or a scratch card, or maybe even a cigar, depending on her needs. ‘And what would your mother have to say on the subject?’ she asks.

She usually continues her criticism of beards, at this point, by drawing a comparison between his beard and that of a local priest who has only recently sprouted a, ‘dark, hedge-like monstrosity.’ ‘I told him it ruins his good looks.’ She explains to Billy, ‘And it’s not as though he is a weak-chinned wonder who has something shameful that needs hiding beneath a blanket of hair.’ This outpouring of beard aversion is especially interesting to me as in all the thirty years I cultivated one, she never once seemed to notice the thing. Only now, since its disappearance, has she become such an open critic of facial hair.

A few years ago, such talk was limited to the breakfast table, where I got to listen to her thoughts on modern fashion trends over brown bread and marmalade, but lately she is taking her opinions to the streets and freely airing them with anyone standing before her.

Where in the past, she has always been a political animal, she could be relied on to save her most savage comments for Trump, or Boris Johnson, Isis, or Putin, these days any conversational filters she may once have had have been cast aside, and her field of criticism has expanded greatly. However, I must say that she saves her best work for the medical profession. The young doctor who refused to give her antibiotics on demand, either has asbestos for ears, or his ears are as misshapen as a retired rugby international’s due to the over-heating caused by been talked about behind his back. Another doctor, who shouted across a crowded waiting room that, ‘I’m sorry to hear your bad news,’ comes in a close second on her doctors’ verbal hit-list, but as for the doctor who sent her to A&E, to, ‘Improve her ‘Quality of life…’ Or the one who denied her a wheelchair parking permit at 93 years old… In the past my mother would have been angry when faced with what she saw as unprofessionalism, but in her new, post-filter-world, she likes to share her thoughts on the subject with any medic unfortunate enough to be sitting in front of her for over thirty seconds.

While an all-out-war with the medical profession may be justified, my mother now seems intent to tell the truth at all times, on all subjects, when in the past she might have played dumb. For instance, at the recent viewing of a neighbour, my mother pushed her way through mourners to the grieving sons, ignored the coffin, and told the eldest son that she expected him to turn up for her wake, which can’t be far away now. As shock therapy goes, it worked a treat. The red-faced stammering, chief mourner could do nothing but watch, slack-jawed, as my mother dodged her way around the milling crowd and made a fast getaway.

At another viewing, my mother enjoyed a reunion with people we had not met in an age as we waited outside to pay our respects to a ninety-year-old teacher who worked with my father for years. When my mother eventually met Mary’s brother and sister, people she had never met before, she regaled them, as she stood beside the coffin, with stories of the deceased. The retired teacher had been a non-drinker all her life. As a drinker herself, this concept was foreign territory as far as my mother was concerned. However, with Mary’s corpse practically nudging her in the back, playing the role of silent witness, my mother entertained the family with a story which the deceased had chosen not to share with her family in the intervening 45 years. Presumably, she had her reasons. Soon however, her family discovered that Mary had once accompanied my mother to a pub quiz, helped her raise funds for a good cause, and promptly sat down at the piano to provide music for the singsong which followed. However, the singalong began after hours, which was illegal. My mother’s stamina gave out at about one in the morning, so she left Mary at the keys of the piano and headed home. This is why my mother did not have her name taken by a Garda who raided the pub minutes after she had left the premises. Mary was less fortunate; and her name went into his little black book. Mary’s brother, looking almost as old as his sister, became intrigued and began an interrogation of my mother beside the coffin, causing a traffic jam among the mourners in Ma’s wake. With no hard shoulder to step into, nobody was getting past the coffin until my mother told her story. It was a triumphant woman who stepped into the night a few minutes later saying, ‘Imagine, she never told them.’ She simply could not understand how Mary had never told the story against herself. It was a good one after all, and a good story should always be shared with those around you. As should any thought which enters your head, it seems. After a lifetime of being discreet, my mother appears to have concluded that sharing your thoughts is always better than being miserly with them. And, as she is always right, what harm can come of it? Thank God she doesn’t use social media to share her thoughts with the rest of the world.