Robbing The Eye Out Of My Head

"She'd rob the eye out of your head," said my mother.  Garretstown beach, July, 1975.
 
I used to write for the Douglas Post.  Every week my mother would let me know that she read my latest 'piece' and would have a comment: "That never happened to you!" and, "I remember that incident, it didn't happen like that!" and, "You called her Ellen but I know full well you mean Annette O'Connell."
 
When I still only worked part time, I called in every Wednesday to my parents and have my lunch with them.  This particular Wednesday, my parents had just come back from a fortnight in Lanzarote and mercifully, my mother had missed the previous two editions of the Post.
 
As my mother poured out some spuds onto my dad's plate, she said, "My friend, Shirley told me you wrote about me last week." 
I paused in my chewing and tried to remember last week.  "No, I didn't." 
But my mother was insistent, "Shirley said I was in it."
"No, you weren't"
"But Shirley said I was."
I looked at my mother and said very carefully, "Mum, I wrote it. If I say you're not in it, you're not in it."
My mother tossed her head and smiling to herself said, "I'll ask Shirley."
 
The following Wednesday.  "What Shirley meant was," said my mother, "it's the way you write: she can see my style in your writing."
I stopped peeling my spuds and looked at her.
"So," continued my mother triumphantly, "you get your writing talent from me."
I smiled.  "That reminds me," I said, "of the couple talking about their baby son.  The husband says, 'I think Johnny gets his brains from me.' The wife replies, 'Yes dear, I think you must be right: I still have mine.'"