Post-Boxing Day Shopping

I stared into the changing-room mirror. I was not a little impressed by what I saw.
"Wow," I said admiringly. "This bra makes me look incredible."
"You mean to say," I replied, "that this bra gives a needed empasis to a certain area."
"I mean that indeed," I said.
"Then you should buy it, if it pleases you. Moreover, it has a thirty-percent discount. This is not something to be spurned."
"I am grateful for your approval, and am similarly pleased with the price. However, this concept of thrift you constantly thrust upon me is beginning to wear thin."
"Much like your old bra," I observed.
"Yes," I said. "Exactly. If it were not for your incessant reminders of things like "cost" and "need", I would have bought a new bra some months ago and would not have had to put up with the eternal grumbling of my mother regarding the dire state of my underwear."
"You would also, most likely, be broke and living under a bridge," I pointed out.
"Yes, but at least I would be well-dressed and living under a bridge."
"But your bed would still consist of a pile of rocks, and your pillow an old tire."
"This is beyond the point," I stated firmly. "The fact remains - were it not for you, I would today be dressed in a fashionable and exciting outfit - not the middle-aged remains of a skirt I bought four years ago. You turn every shopping expedition into a time of dread." I remembered with horror the events of two months ago. I'd been on the brink of buying a much-needed top and shorts, when I began to wonder if I thought the price was just a little too high and whether my moral duty could sustain buying expensive mass-produced merchandise to the detriment of the underpaid workers of China, which induced a panic session that only the combined efforts of the shop assistant, my prodical flatmate Natasha, the friendly fellow shopper in the neighbouring cubicle, and a frantic phonecall to my mother could overcome.
"I am sorry for having only your best interests at heart," I said coldly. "One hopes your bank balance, at least, truly appreciates my influence."
I ignored this statement. I changed back into my threadbare outfit and stormed out of the cubicle. I sped about the shop in a furious rage. I would be daring. I would rebel. I would buy a packet of cheap pre-packaged briefs (modesty forbids me to say "knickers") as well. I went to the counter and paid before I could change my mind.

..

During the walk home, as I sipped a mango frozen yoghurt I'd bought in further defiance, I pointed out to myself, "Have you ever noticed how grumpy I constantly get?"
"I have," I replied.
"And have you ever noticed how you always seem to be at the bottom of it?" I demanded.
"'Always' is an exaggeration," I said. "Not 'always'. Just 'often'."
"You're always nitpicking," I complained.
"But," I continued doggedly, "have you noticed how it's usually me who cheers you up again?"
I had to admit, grudgingly, that I had a point.
"There, you see!" I said encouragingly. "Now straighten your back! Smile! Stride forth with confidence and triumph, for you have new underwear! Admire the striking purple leaves on that tree over there! Sip that ill-considered beverage you bought with pleasure! Pull out your i-pod and listen to cheerful, summery music! There! Do you not feel much better?"
"I do indeed," I said, my mood already much improved.

...

When I got home, I showed my purchases off to my mother.
"That's lovely," she said approvingly of my bra. "How much did it cost?"
"Twenty-eight dollars. Thirty-percent discount," I said with pride.
"Oh, that's good going," she said. "It's always best to buy underwear when it's on special - it's so expensive - are you alright? - you appear to be choking - "
"Just - just a funny thought," I said, wheezing with laughter. "Something somebody said -"

Later on, of course, I had to explain myself to myself.
"What was so funny?" I asked.
"I just suddenly thought - if you ever got tired of dispensing common sense and helpful advice and decided to retire, that would be okay, because there's a replacement all ready and lined up," I chuckled.
"Who?" I asked.
"My mother," I replied.
"How do you know I'm not your mother?"
For one long, frightening instant I actually considered it.
"Ha ha," I said at last. "Don't be ridiculous."
"You said it yourself. I dispense common sense and helpful advice. How is this different from what your mother does?"
"I should have said, 'unwanted' advice."
"In fact," I said, warming to my argument, "you might actually refer to me as your portable mother. I'm there with you, wherever you go, always ready to leap in with some helpful suggestion..."
I stuck my fingers in my ears, screwed my eyes shut and began to rock backwards and forwards. "La la la la la," I hummed. If I kept doing this, the voice would go away. The nightmare would not become real. I would be prevented from becoming insane. All would be well.

I chuckled and decided to let my teasing be. After all, I couldn't hear myself any more.