Samantha got married while she was barely out of school, and when she had a son at twenty-three, she didnt exactly channel the spirit of Mother Goose. Instead, she sent the baby off to live with his grandma in Liverpool, popping a few quid in the post occasionally, while she frolicked through a carefree existence with her husband. Two years later, fate decided to play a prank, and the boy landed back home but Samantha didnt seem to recognise her own offspring and kept her distance. To minimise interaction, she packed him off to nursery, and later to pre-school, where he quickly learned that children can be as delightful as a flock of seagulls at Blackpool he was teased relentlessly and, truth be told, struggled with his sums and spellings.
As for parenting, Samantha and her husband were more the absentee landlady type. When the school sent home a polite note inviting their involvement, Samanthas other half responded in a way that would have made even his rugby mates flinch. Eventually, the boy muddled through school and, upon graduation, Samantha declared him ready for the workforce and dispatched him to toil at a local biscuit factory. He did manage one happy feat there he met his future wife over a packet of custard creams. The young couple received their own flat from the factory management though calling it roomy would have been generous. Samanthas interest in her grandchildren, meanwhile, remained as scarce as sunshine in Manchester; shed send them a crisp banknote for birthdays if she remembered, but that was about it.
When Samantha reached retirement age, she decided her send-off should rival a royal garden party. She rang her son, requesting that the money shed sporadically dispatched be used to rustle up food and gifts for the grandkids. Sensing trouble, her son and his wife shipped the children off to stay with their other gran in the countryside, and set to work preparing for Samanthas bash. When she arrived, there were strained smiles all round, but the guests enjoyed themselves well into the night.
After the merriment, Samantha breezily announced shed be heading off early, insisting she didnt have the time to see her grandchildren, who were still away. As a parting gesture, she left just enough Victoria sponge for her son and daughter-in-law to split with a magnifying glass. Her son, feeling snubbed, wasnt exactly amused.
A week later, Samantha phoned up with more requests, clutching at sympathy regarding her upcoming hospital procedure. She asked her son to bring her a few things but was met with an icy response: he and his wife were headed for a much-deserved holiday in Cornwall something Samantha already knew. He suggested she ring her husband if she needed help.
At last, someone hinted to Samantha that the world doesnt actually revolve around her, and her son finally decided to put his own family first. Sometimes, irony is the bitter aftertaste of the Victoria sponge you barely got to taste.
