Some Children Do 'Ave 'Em!

"You look so much younger than the policemen who used to arrest me."

As a very funny man from Bolton once said: "If it's not one thing it's your mother!" Never were truer words spoken.
The OTHER Mrs Pither has been on the phone to me today. She is also a "soon-to-be ex-Mrs Pither" but, unlike my spouse-for-not-much-longer, her loss of title will, sooner rather than later, be down to a ruling from the Grim Reaper and not the divorce courts.
The widowed Mrs P, although born and brought up near to Pither Towers, now lives in Devon - although her mind is these days somewhere on the Planet Thwarg in the Galaxy of You Can't Find a Nice Cup of Tea Anywhere.
Pensioner Mrs P has always had a habit of flying off the handle and ranting and raving at all about her - aren't genes funny things? - but today she broke her own British, Commonwealth and Empire record for losing it. She phoned to say that she was enraged at a police officer to whom she had turned for help and advice. My hackles rose instantly in sympathy and so I asked her to explain.
It turns out that a little, apparently stray, dog had parked itself on her doorstep this morning. Being almost as great an animal lover as her Number Two Son, she gathered it up and took it to a lady who lives nearby and who keeps little dogs of the same breed. Then, on her return to Pensioner Towers, she decided - Christ-a-fucking-live knows why!! - to report the finding of the dog to the Feds!
My hackles began to lie flat and beads of sweat broke out on my forehead as the following conversation unfolded:
Mother: "This policeman was incredibly rude to me when I phoned!
Pither: "Well, that's bang out of order. What did he say?"
Mother: "He just said I was wasting his time and that I should ring off."
Pither: "Right, that's it! Bloody coppers! You should report him. What was his name?"
Mother: "I don't know."
Pither: "Did you ask for his badge number?"
Mother: "No."
Pither: "Well, was he at your local police station or another one."
Mother: "I don't know."
Pither: "Ok, ok, ok ma, calm down. What number did you ring?"
Mother: "999."
Pither (somewhat alarmed): "You are bleedin' well jokin', tell me?"
Mother: "No, of course not. That's the number of the police, isn't it?"
Pither: "Has anyone been round to see you with a nice pair of inter-locking bracelets for you to wear?"
The ageing Mrs P then proceeded to rant at me, suspecting me of being in some sinister conspiracy with the police which led me to side with them and against her. I did try to point out the impropriety of dialling 999 to report that you have found a dog and how the number was usually reserved for reporting rape, murder and treason. She would not be pacified. The conversation then got worse:
Mother: "I was so livid I sat and stewed for a while but then I couldn't take it anymore."
Pither: "What did you do?"
Mother: "I phoned back to complain."
Pither: "Please, Holy Mary Mother of God and All the Saints preserve us, I just know I'm going to regret asking this but, what number did you dial this time?"
Mother: "999 again."
Pither: "Fuck......ing.......Hell!!!!"
Mother: "Don't you dare use language like that. I'll tan your bottom for you, young fella'me'lad!"
Pither: "Mother, I'm 46. Speaking of which, may I just offer you some advice gleaned from my experience?"
Mother: "As long as it's not what your brother advised. He said I was a loony!"
Pither: " Well, there is that, but just stay indoors for a few days, close the curtains and if anyone calls at your house, particularly anyone tall, wearing a pointy, blue hat, don't answer the door."
"We're coming in, grandma. Move away from the budgie! MOVE AWAY FROM THE BUDGIE!!!"

I suspect that the national press will seize on this incident and a campaign to Free The Exmouth One will soon be started. Oh dear!
I can hardly send my mother to Grantham, bearing in mind that I am still majorly indebted to her in the life stakes, so I shall send instead blokes who owe you £5 but don't remember borrowing the money (it's a long story).