Pet hates

We all have things that drive us mad, or make us furious, or send us into ranting mode, some unreasonable and petty, some just plain silly, but it’s a fact of life that what one person might find amusing or acceptable may well send another running for the hills to find their shotgun

Todays pet hate,  and one that has simmered for years, is when people put the word ‘adopted’  in front of the words son or daughter when describing  a family member who is not the birth child. In the  article I read this morning,  which happened to be an obituary, it referred to the deceased as having left behind three children and two adopted children. As someone who is indeed an adopted child I really struggle with this label. Why not just say son or daughter ? In my view it belittles the role we play in our families. Perhaps it’s just me, (and in no way means I am unhappy about being adopted, far from it,)  but in my opinion it depicts us not being quite the same as the others, not a real signed up member of the family.

I also hate the phrase  ‘adoptive’ parent, for the same reasons, in that I think  it implies someone who is not a fully fledged parent, though it is a term that sometimes I use to try and explain the myriad of complexities of my own family, which is indeed very complicated. M came home from primary school when she was about seven with a photocopied sheet of A4 paper on which was drawn a tree with a couple of blank  spaces stretching out from its branches. The kids had been told to go home and fill in their family tree, a task that should have been simple, but not in my case. In addition to my mum , dad and brother we had to cram in two birth parents, three half sisters, a half brother, a step brother and sister, a pair of step parents, plus half nephews, nieces, cousins, uncles and aunts. After several attempts we had to start a new piece of paper.

At the end of the day,  I am extremely lucky to have grown up with the family I grew up with, the family I met when I was a tiny baby. I am even more lucky to have, as an adult,  found both my birth parents,a joyful reunion in both cases,  and my life jigsaw is now complete. It is impossible to imagine what it must have been like in 1960 to have been given no choice but to give your baby up for adoption,  for no reason other than that you were unmarried,  which in those days being  was unacceptable. The tragedy of countless young women being forced to make such heartbreaking and life changing decisions ( with very little support or kindness) is hard to fathom now. Finding both of them is one of the best things I have ever done,  and I cannot put into words my huge gratitude, respect and love for them,  and for the painful and brave choice they made in order to give me the best chance in life.

And then we move on to another gripe which is the incorrect use of grammar. At which point I start pulling my hair out and turning into a teacher. Don’t even start me on this ridiculous fashion for putting apostrophes in totally the wrong places, it sends me into a rage, but everyone seems to think it’s perfectly normal.  And why on earth do all of my kids ( young adults) insist on saying ” I’m going shop/pub/wherever “. Do they not mean surely that they are going TO the shop/pub/wherever?  And all these abbreviations are mostly beyond me, and whenever I attempt to haul myself to keep up with the times and come up with one, it is usually met with howls of laughter ( LOL). 

Words that are mis spelt on purpose are also deeply annoying. The hair dresser down the Walworth road called Krazee Kuts should be ashamed of itself to be honest.One can only hope that their scissor skills are better than their spelling. Sometimes mis spelling is just very funny like the shop down the road that was called ‘Toms diary’ ( at least it didn’t have an apostrophe) or ‘Noodel city’ though sadly both have now been corrected. 

And then we move on to my all time number one pet hate. Balloon modelling. Words fail me when I try to think of one single redeeming feature of this most pesky, squeaky and irritating pastime. Because basically there isn’t one. Apologies to any of my nearest and dearest who are unbeknownst to me, undercover balloon modellers ( or sculptors as it is sometimes called in an attempt to give it ideas well above its station). 

In fact, forget the apologies, you need to seek help. Without delay.