Mother's Money

The Trap of the Economic Lifeline

Mrs. Pardiggle and her Five Sons

I ran into some financial troubles recently when I discovered that a long-dormant and forgotten bank account of mine had long ago slid into the red. A graduate account which I had several years ago abandoned, withdrawing every last penny and burning my debit card, it had continued to be debited and had been pushed into a significant amount of debit by both a Spectator Magazine subscription and a membership fee to the Roger Scruton Legacy Foundation, both of which I had neglected to cancel.

God only knows where those issues of the Spectator have ended up. I can only hope that the magazine has continued to be delivered to that student flat at the University of Bedfordshire, delighting and informing the young minds which have occupied it in my absence, providing them with intellectual refuge, deterring them from the radicalisation of the Leftism of the Student Body.

At the events hosted by the RSLF, which I continued to attend since graduation, I assumed that that continued presence was permitted on the grounds that my contribution to small-c conservative thought in the preceding years had gained me something approaching a peerage, and would regularly rub shoulders with the likes of Daniel Hannan and David Starkey with a familiarity which - received coldly by the former and a little too warmly by the latter - may have, upon reflection, have fallen somewhere over the line of acceptability.

But one of the benefits of lower-middle-class existence is that no matter how far one falls, one can always count on the softening fireman’s blanket of Mother to cushion the impact. The total sum came to just under £3,700: a larger sum of money than I have honestly earned since graduation. Delaying a minor kitchen refurbishment, Mother reluctantly but dutifully marched down to the bank while I waited in the car, miraculously paying the debt and closing the account in a matter of minutes - something which, had the responsibility fallen to me, would have taken a number of years.

I may be resented for the facility with which I manoeuvred out of such a sticky patch, but my situation is not to be envied. This little lifeline of mine does not come without some severe consequences: While Mother is eager to insist that I needn’t pay her back I have what she calls “a proper job,” and that I oughtn’t to feel guilty for having required her assistance, the reader should not be deceived in thinking that I am a free man. I will be subjected to something which, between Mother and Son, effectively constitutes an indentured servitude. Irrespective of whether or not I pay my debt, I am to be dragged to whichever luncheon, christening, wedding and distant relative’s birthday party that Mother pleases. I am to make thrice weekly calls to her, twice weekly calls to grandmother, and will be expected to be the one who maintains a tenuous family relationship with Uncle, effectively a persona non grata in the eyes of the rest of the family. My future career choices will be determined by Mother’s whims, and should I even think of escaping the country again I will be subjected to such a torrent of guilt that I would rather spend the rest of my days in Slough.

How much easier the poor man has it. If he cannot pay, he must simply work. His liberty, as miserable a liberty as it may be, remains intact. He is not beholden to the thousand indignities of being a son of the lower-middle-class. O Fortuna: Velut luna,
statu variabilis!

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