I was home in Athlone last weekend. On Saturday morning, my brother, new born Jack and Jack’s Mum called out to the house. We sat around the kitchen, chatting over tea and biscuits. The conversation was plentiful. The atmosphere was relaxed.
“You’ll never guess what happened to me yesterday after work!” said Mum, holding back a laugh.
“What happened?” asked Bro, smiling.
“Last night, I left work around six o’clock. I left the building and walked towards my car. I stared at the back of the car; something was wrong. The registration plate was damaged. I got down behind the car and examined the number plate.”
“What happened to it?” I asked, naively thinking someone attempted stealing Mum’s registration plate.
“It had been pulled away from the car with force,” explained Mum. “I examined it closely and suddenly it dawned on me that this car registration was not mine. This car was three years older than mine. It wasn’t my car. I stood up and then noticed a woman sitting at the wheel of the car.”
We all laughed.
“I wonder what she thought you were doing inspecting her licence plate,” I said, giggling.
Laughter echoed throughout the kitchen. Mum was visibly embarrassed while recounting the tale.
“What did you do?” enquired Bro.
“Well, I went over to the driver’s side of the car. I tapped on the window. The woman lowered the window. I was very embarrassed. ‘Sorry,’ I said to the woman. ‘I have the exact same car in the same colour. I could have sworn this was my car’.”
The mental image of this scene was hilarious.
“What did the woman in the car say to you?” I said, choking back laughter.
“She was understanding,” recalled Mum. “She said, ‘oh don’t worry about it. I spent almost ten minutes trying to get into your car.”
This sent us over the edge.
God bless my mother.