My Mum’s Stolen Car

I couldn’t give a shit who you are to each other. I like lines like, “You had me at hello,” and, “Of course I love you, dummy,” but this is not a situation for any or all best lines you might come up with in life. Save them. If you’ve seen Titanic you’ll know dialogue’s wasted breath, sometimes. Convenient revelations like, “I loved you all along, Erin,” don’t stack up when you’ve spent seasons toying with ideas of not being, or being together.

“You’ve been sharpening nails on me like I’m a scratching post and I’m the idea of us and your nails are thrashing out if we’d be a perfect couple like your parents who hate each other and you. Your logic is screwed,” is what you should say. Instead you run down the street, get strangers to wind down windows so you proclaim what we knew you felt but struggled to care that you did.

Meanwhile, Catherine Tate’s in the office warming your seat, killing time until the next job hits, the one that finally breaks her in to the new life, and this stint is just a joyride, but don’t comment – you’re a part of your own catastrophe.


In the first few weeks we’re hands behind backs, using playground games to direct the other to where we want them. But kiss chase was corrupt in that Max could run faster than me and got me 5 days a week through primary school. So we pick subtler games like Guess Who? or that one where you tell someone when they’re getting hot (Clue: if you were hotter you’d be a cooker or a George Foreman grill).

Jack asks if I watch The Office and I ask what else he likes and tell him I gave up TV for Lent one year, except school gave us Sundays off, said we could do what we want, presumably because we’d be confessing that day anyway, so may as well take the opportunity to sin.

“I always gave up sweets,” Jack says. “I like challenges and I like punishment,” and I ask if he knows the Stations of the Cross and he says, “Break times for me were meditations on badly drawn pictures, on graphic stained-glass windows and wooden objects. That’s when I learnt you should never let yourself get too settled, or happy, because love’s a sliding abacus-scale and those that feel their pain deeply get rewarded later,” where I’ve always thought a man would save me, and I can’t blame Renée Zellweger for that.