Who is The Mad Paddy?
She is my mother. I have posted real conversations between Mother and I over the last few years on Facebook, they are amusing, occasionally frustrating (for me) and endearing. Friends often say that I should write a book or a one woman show telling these tales. I reckon a blog is a better option - Small Portions of Paddy.
Little gems from The Mad Paddy (or Biddy as my dad affectionately called her) is my way forward. There have been times when people have asked if I am making it up - when the source material is as good as this, I don't need to!
As an introduction here are some childhood memories:
Dad never panicked. EVER. The house could be burning down around him and he'd sit there, roll a cigarette and say, 'Biddy, put the kettle on and I'll sort it out in a minute.'
Mother always panics. ALWAYS. If there is nothing to panic about she will be stressed that some impending doom is heading our way. I never phone her before 8.30am or after 9pm as she will assume someone has died.
Sunday Lunch - standard
Mid 70's. Sitting at the table one Sunday lunch time, parents at either end with my two brothers and I spaced far enough not to be able to kick each other as a wind up. Mother would emerge from the kitchen, red faced, harassed and exhausted (she never liked cooking but those are other stories).
She would always tuck the tablecloth into the top of her skirt (classy I know).
Brother W was, as always, bolting his food like it was the last meal he'd ever eat.
He began to choke.
Mother panicked 'Sacred heart of Jesus he's going to die!', the shock of this exclamation made W breathe inwards (which is clearly not helpful when greedy child has a chunk of roast chicken lodged in its esophagus).
Mother stood up and rushed towards W with the table cloth still firmly tucked into her waistband. Tablecloth with plates of Sunday roast went flying.
Dad, not looking up, lifted his plate with his left hand, walloped W on the back with his right hand thus dislodging said chunk of chicken and said, 'Biddy, you might want to put some more spuds on.' Put his plate back down and carried on eating.
It was moments like this I decided which parent it would be best to take after and it wasn't the one who tucked the tablecloth into her skirt.
Medical Miracles
Dad was a lorry driver and worked away most of the week, most of the time.
I was about 12, hadn't felt well for a couple of days, terrible stomach ache. Stomach swelled up overnight, I was in agony. Mother decided I was constipated and made me sit on the WC most of the night forcing myself to 'unblock my bowel'.
It didn't work.
Next morning the GP was called out, this was an emergency, my appendix were about to burst, there was no time to call an ambulance as they wouldn't get from the hospital to our house and back in time (we lived in the arse end of nowhere in Lincolnshire).
Our neighbour George carried me into his Maxi and laid me gently on the back seat.
Mother slammed the car door on my head (in a panic of course) almost knocking me out. My lovely waist length hair was shut in the door and trailed all the way from Holbeach to the general in Lynn.
I got to the hospital in time but felt more pain from the bang on the head than the about to burst appendix.
Driving us Mad
Dad decided it would be a good idea to teach mother to drive.
Us kids didn't.
We went out one Sunday in the van, dad has just sprayed it black and was rather proud of his handy-work.
We got to the woods where he thought it might be safe for her to get behind the wheel.
She sat in the driver's seat, dad took her through the basics.
The brothers and I sat on the bench seat dad had put in for us, strangely silent and somewhat apprehensive.
She began to drive. It didn't go well, we began to scream ('she is going to kill us') as she drove towards some trees, 'Brake Biddy, brake' commanded dad. Biddy chose to accelerate.
Suffice to say, paintwork ruined, bumper bumped, tree trunk dented, kids traumatised, parents convinced that Biddy should never, ever, attempt to drive again.
However, this has never stopped her telling many a driver that 'a car is coming!' or stamping on the 'brake' when she is coming to a junction - as a passenger.
So, this has been your introduction to my adorable mother, The Mad Paddy. Why Paddy? Why Biddy? She is Irish, Biddy was dad's pet name for her, Mad Paddy is a name she and I came up with, she likes it and it suits her just fine. Although she is forever telling me not to put stories about her on eBay...
There will be more from me about The Mad Paddy from time to time, either our phone calls, her phone messages or 'live' conversations, I hope you enjoy.
