Missing mother
Zenga Longmore
e beauty of this column this week is
Th
that it is not going to be another appraisal of the Eighties. Nowhere will you see a single mention of the rise of Democracy Mania and the fall of the Berlin. Wall. Not one word will be breathed about the decade of the Bimbo, the Yuppy, the Argy Basher or the Jeffery Archer. There will be no quotes from Australian directors about the Eighties being the 'Neighbours Years' and you have my solemn word, I will not include any 'Who Said What in the Eight- ies' quizzes. Nothing will be said of Thatch- erism or — well, I was going to say Bushism, but it doesn't sound quite right, does it? Reaganism has much more punch. Bushism sounds like a preten- tious gardener describing his herbaceous borders.
Truth be known, if I could think of anything at all sensible to say about the Eighties it would be crammed onto this page, but being the proud owner of a strong-minded, sleepless babe, I'm not up to worrying about decades and such, so I'll keep things on a light, cosy level.
Just before Christmas I broke my resolu- tion never to leave Omalara until she is 15. My noble mother baby-sat, and out into the night I skipped. I was going, of course, to see The Play. Seldom do theatre pieces get everything right. Usually the script, set, direction or one of the minor actors let the side down, but, from curtain up to curtain down, Jeffery Bernard is Unwell was spot on. Entrancing is the word. The only hiccup was the driver giving me odd looks on the way home when I burst out laughing remembering some oneliners.
When I arrived home, somewhere around half past one, there was Omalara, a Soggy mass of misery, wailing on my mother's knee. 'Has she been a good girl?' Quickly divining from my mother's accusa-, tory glare that she hadn't, I picked her up and poured my mother a stiff Horlicks. Omalara had apparently screamed solidly for six hours. Makes you wonder, doesn't it? All this talk of mother love, yet no one ever mentions the love babies feel for their mothers. What mother cries with impotent fury when leaving her young? Or, for that matter, what baby secretly yearns to leave its mum for a night on the tiles with the mates? A child's love for its mother is the strongest love of all, so may I suggest for the Nineties that lots of books and documentaries be made on the subject.
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