The man in overalls behind me speaks to me. We are standing in line at the petrol pump cash register. Whether I am the one from the pieces. I can’t deny that. He says he always reads them, at least regularly, and expresses his appreciation, but: “Sometimes I’m a bit weak.”
I look at him doubtfully and don’t really know how to respond. I never miss a compliment, but I find criticism even more difficult. My fear is that he will start a list of what is wrong with the writing grammatically, compositionally, thematically or stylistically.
“Those sons of yours,” he clarifies, “they are weak at times. Are spoiled far too much.”
“Oh yes,” I laugh with relief, “that’s my wife’s fault.”
Which is not really the case, although we sometimes view it differently. Then she tells me to make them a sandwich and I think they can do that themselves. “If they go to the pub, they don’t need any help.”
But I’m not consistent either. It varies every day, so to speak. We could be stricter, they are not babies, on the other hand: it won’t be long before they both fly away and we are left empty-handed. And it is not the case that we bring them into the world helpless, because we have pampered them too much.
This is also evident when I tell the youngest what an older man in line at the gas pump thinks of them.
,,Oh yeah? Who is that guy, where is his house? Let’s go there and show that man what a piece of junk he is.”
A joke, although I say just to be sure: “Just watch out.” He looked like a farmer to me.”