It’s not that I actively dislike my family; I just think they’re a bunch of dolts. Oh, three generations on and I’m not too happy with the results of the Smythe gene pool. My mother was a clever clogs, HER mother was a clever clogs, and they married to men who were at least trying to keep up with their genius. Now, I look at all the family gathered on my birthday, and I can only shake my head.
They didn’t even get the venue right. I made very pointed hints towards the Melbourne party venue I wanted for my 80th, but they seemed to think that booking out a McDoogle’s was what I would like. I suppose their little goblin children did enjoy the play area, while I was thankful to have them out of our hair just for a little while. Still, that meant that I had to spend time with the degenerate in-laws, who I wouldn’t exactly describe as ‘catches’. They’re tarnishing the Smythe family name with their inane career choices and decor disasters. Oh, I’ve been in their homes. How difficult is it to match the bathroom porcelain with the colour of the towels? Are the children keeping you so very busy that you have to resort to leaving the drapes as you found them when you moved in, all dreary and lifeless? I think perhaps even a cat might have been at them.
The Smythes used to be proud ice skaters. I was a teenager when I first went, uncoordinated but as graceful as a swan when I touched the ice. With my skates and sudden talent, I won medals and became something of a local celebrity. People even forgot about that little incident with the car crashing into to the Yarra, because the thought of graceful Harriet doing something so silly was unthinkable.
And now look at us. My offspring and their husbands and children can’t even find the right private function room in Melbourne to have my celebration. I hate fries and burgers, always have. Oh, how I long to take to the ice once more and leave these disappointments behind…