Just how feral are you?

Seriously.

Are you feral or are you domesticated?

My Mum says I am feral.

Not sure how to take that. Should I be proud or ashamed? I fear I am rather pleased about it. Being domesticated seems so well middle class, middle aged and well middling. But perhaps that’s the child in me speaking not the grown up.

Being domesticated is being organised, sorted, in control, chic, elegant, sophisticated…

All things I am not. Perhaps my mother is right; I am feral.

Feral: wild.

Is there anything wrong in being wild?

Not if being wild is being free.

But free of thought when you are a parent is a different thing altogether.

It is just not compatible.

Maybe there is a reason why we say: Young free and single

For being a parent means in many respects you are not free, certainly not free of responsibility.

However, after eight years of being a parent, it is therefore rather worrying my mother still describes me as: ‘essentially feral’…

So what is it that makes her think I am still feral…

Errrmmm…

• Allowing the dogs in the bed?
• Leaving my clothes lying about?
• Only clearing up when guests come round?
• Tidying up by using the out of sight out of mind method i.e. putting everything hastily in drawers and cupboards and forgetting them?
• Being dusty round the edges?
• Failing to have cut flowers in my house?
• Sort of not being quite in control and flying by the seat of my pants….
• Not quite getting the all singing all dancing need to have everything  just so.

I can;t get the ‘just so’ bit; I never could. Everthing happens to me and I just wing it. I always have done in work, in love in life. People think because of my depression that I am a half empty kinda girl but actually I am a lucky sod. Things just turn out right and I have no idea how. Somewhere along the line things work out and usually for the better….eventually.

If I interefere things go wrong.

Maybe that’s why I am considered feral there seems to be no input from me in my life…it just happens!