I’ve started donning flowery knee-length dresses,
Reminiscent of Squires garden centres and Japanese cherry blossom,
And I realise I’m turning into my mum.
She likes floaty, bell-shaped gowns with kaleidoscopic floral patterns,
The likes of which can be found in Monsoon, Oasis or Next,
Where the flowers are on steroids.
Be it tops, shirts, hats or skirts,
Madge laps them up, arms clad with fabric tulips
And strawberry-coloured petals as she waits at the checkout.
Like mother like daughter, I’ve been sucked in to these flowers,
Like a bee to honey.
In a similar vein, I get excited when buying new sponges
Fancy crockery and rainbow-coloured place mats.
Cleaning day has turned from “I don’t want to do this” to “I fucking love mopping”
And that’s how I know I’m her Mini Me.
With a splash of Dettol on that magic wand, she’ll leave cookers glistening
And floors so clean you could eat your dinner off them.
Wafts of lavender emanating from bed-sheets
And bathtubs free of pubes.
I used to stomp my feet and abhor said tasks,
But now I relish in a tidy kitchen, sweet-smelling bathroom
And smudge-less mirror.
Give me a fresh sponge and my night will be made,
Let me mop ’til the water is muddy and I’ll be satisfied.
For years I mocked mum’s love of cleaning,
Snorted at her anal ways and willingness to iron socks and knickers
‘Til the cows came home.
I guess I’d best start flinging disparaging remarks at myself,
Because I am her. And there’s no one else I’d rather be like.