mrs gudhelberg knew her son was sneaky, sneaky enough to find his way into her house when she and her new husband went away. Mrs gudhelberg knew from the scent of body drenched duvet and the empty vacant stare of the wall cupboards. She knew but what could she do. Her sun burnt, blood pressure endangered new husband on the other hand thundered about the house cursing “that bloody boy” calling down demontopia.
The reverberations of his booming seemed to force her to counter; shrilling his successes and the attempts her third born had made, but even so they both knew, she was only putting on a show. A show that had ran too many empty house matinees.
Mrs Gudhelberg began brushing the floor, standing still and sweeping either side of her like she was paddling some giant canoe, she thought about how come after all these years he had got her still working for him, how did that happen if she didn’t want it to.
Mrs. Gudhelberg was rapidly realizing her boy was a sportsman. That the bloody boy , was in fact, an olympic standard surfer dude. he had always spent every free moment he had roller blading, skateboarding and riding the tubes of water thrown up by an energetic sea. Perhaps this couch surfing was an extension of all that floating on air business? Was he Mrs Gudhelberg wondered hopefully silently as she swept up his skin cells an expert in finding the right place to pick up a free ride, an internationally renown 'freegan', a super person able to guest list the galaxy never paying for anything, living off left overs and washing with soap stolen from public lavatories.Where other boys grown bored of being no fixed abode, he was happily engaged in house surfing as an art form.
She went into the loo for a bit of space from the snorting and general buffalo type sounds her husband was making in reaction to his recycled drinks cabinet.
The loo was festooned with magazines, which was good because it had none of the necessary paper, but Mrs. gudhelberg wasn’t ‘going’.
Oh, she pulled her underwear down as usual and sat on the fresh smelling but not entirely clean seat, but once she was there all she wanted to do was put her head in her hands and weep.
Women blame themselves. Men know it; it’s their main weapon in their ‘get-someone-else-to-look-after-you-game’. for sure mrs gudhelberg had been listening attentively at all the WI assertiveness classes. As she gazed down at the pictures of young men on wheels and boards moving through the universe with nothing but their own gravity defying behaviors to define them, she wondered what she was supposed to learn from this situation.
Mrs gudhelberg believed in spiritual lessons, that life was a series of tests and tasks on the road to inner peace. as she sat there nearly out of wit she asked herself what was it that her mucky scruffy lazy boy have to teach her?
she got up to jam a towel against the bottom of the door where her husband had lowered himself to mutter obscenities and more threats. she waddled over with her pants down because there was no point in pulling them up just to come back three feet to her starting place. but it was in that waddle that Mrs Gudhelberg got the answer she had been seeking.
she sat down again this time with a plan, she even ripped a few inspirational pics out of the mags. when she emerged two hours later her husband had gone to bed so she could go around the house collecting things unabated.
by dawn she had it down. She would light a beacon to call her son back to himself.
the skate park had nothing to recommend it to other users. it was mostly hard rim and long ramp. industrial wasteland the feature backdrop of choice offered a smattering of spray paintings but nothing banksy by any means.
mrs gudhelberg carried a large bucket on one tanned arm and held a pair of long gloves under the other, she probably looked like mrs mop she mused to herself as she put down her precious cargo and hands on fat hips marked out her area.
the main drag was an obvious location but also the chain link fencing was going to need doing.
mrs gudhelberg worked for two hours non stop.
it was not pleasant work but she had a clean bandana tied around her nose and mouth to prevent any inspiration.
it was not pleasant work, pasting all the detritus of her sons droppings onto the surfaces of his skate park with dog poo. it was not pleasant but it was worthy. she was striking a blow for all taken-for-granted wives and mothers of these young men.
as they plucked at the photo’s and used socks, pants, bits of smelly trainers that she had painstakingly cut up in the night into stickable squares. they would encounter the one thing that they had never had to deal with before.
Mrs Gudhelberg knew she was doing all of them dirty boys a favour, because once you knew how to handle your own shit, the world was your garden.