Bitter Beyond Belief

Fortifying myself with an unlit cigarette, I took a deep breath and called my mother.
I counted the rings, until- "Hello?"
"Hey Fiona," I said, "hows things?"
"Uh, who's this?"
"Imogen, who else would it be?"
"Imogen? Who?"
Scrabbling desperately for a lighter, I smiled and spoke back. "Yeah, I've missed you too Fi darling. How are you?"
"I'm sorry, but who are you?"
"Fuck off then. Is mum around?"
"My mother? Yes. Who's speaking, please?"

Bored, I took another drag from my cigarette and hung up.

I'm the black sheep of my family- mostly, I suspect, because I never made the slightest effort to hide what I was getting up to; not that there was any need, as they didn't find out til well after when I was well beyond caring.
Lose your virginity at 15? Check.
Start smoking at 17? Check.
Abuse drugs? Check.
Drink like a fish? Check.
Like sleeping with girlkind? Check.

It's hardly diffficult to work out, but my mother insists she wants grandchildren- and as I'm the oldest girl (but not the oldest of her children, note) she expects them to come from me.
I think not.

While I made no effort to hide what I was doing in my free time, my little sister, the charming Fiona, has deceit down to a fine art.
£20 goes missing from your purse? Check.
Lose a lipgloss? Check.
Can't find your new Versace handbag? Check.
Eventually find snazzy handbag with tears and ink stains? Check.

Admittedly I am the more wayward of my mothers collection of offspring, but also by far the most interesting.
Oxford reject? Check.
Been arrested for prostitution?* Check.
Speak French? Check.
Proud owner of a polka dot condom?** Check.

However, I thoroughly dislike being treated like a leper by my family.
Fiona's fourteen, and showing no signs of growing out of what my mother describes as "her homophobic phase." But when she has such good fucking company, why would she? And there's no hope for her- my mother's in her late forties, and she hasn't "outgrown" it- which hardly bodes well for her Other Daughter.

I just get so fucking bored of this; it's too much effort even to speak to my parents, and I don't want things to be like that. Not that I feel I need their approval, but it might be something it's nice to have- I'd quite like them to include me in the summary they exchange with distant friends about their respective children.
"Oh my eldest son is living in Japan with his wife, he's just got a new job, my other son's is in his final year at Cambridge and he's doing this and that, my daughters started her GCSEs this year and has just taken up modern dance classes and Theo's just turned eight and has a part in the school play."
Especially when I'm there when they do it.
"Oh you remember my daughter Fiona, right? She was only eleven when you saw her last, hasn't she grown!"

But things have reached the stage where I really do find it too much effort- my fortnightly phonecall has turned into a periodic email, which I may or may not get a reply to.
The other morning, I tried phoning again before my parents headed off to work.
"Daddy!" I said, "how's it going?"
"Imogen, look, I'll call you back during my lunch break ok? I have to grab breakfast before I head on out."
"No! Please don't put me off again, I got up early for this and I've had a grand total of two hours sleep because I wanted to talk to you. So hows things?"
He interrupted then, using his Dealing With the Stupid Voice. "Look Imogen, things are difficult right now, since Fiona told us about your, uh... unorthodox tendancies. So just leave it alone, ok and I'll call you later on."

Of course he fucking didn't.
But I didn't expect him to, which may or may not be worse than sitting round the flat all day waiting on the off chance your parents are going to call.


*I feel it necessary to assure you all that not only am I not a prostitute, but I've never been one. Mistakes all round!
**Incidentally, these are like gold dust, and theres no way in hell I'm using it- the imagery is slightly unfortunate.