When the Cops Come Knocking

I think a good thing about this blog is that hardly anyone reads it anymore. Yes, it’s a good thing because there are now fewer people who could potentially really despise me. I don’t know, maybe I judge myself too harshly.

Today, in fact, about 20 minutes ago, the police came to my house to answer an emergency call from my mother, who told them that her “children are fighting”. Actually, it sounded distinctly like “my children are farting” – no, her English isn’t very good, and yes, I’m pack full o f mean bones. I just got a lecture from 2 (possibly) O-level graduated police officers on the importance of family and listening to your mother, so you’ll excuse me if I have a bit of bitter elitist moment. Yes, they actually answer family dispute calls. I won’t bore you with the tedious details, as most people have had enough of my endless tales of my violent and dysfunctional family. I just don’t get along with my soon-to-be thirteen and wannabe cool gangster brother. He has no decent sense of politeness, my mother feels disgustingly compelled to interrupt and intervene every single fucking time... I won’t go on.

So back to the well-meaning officers, whose job is to pretend they understand but they really don’t. I had fun putting my brother in a worse light than he already is in (mostly to even the scales of scratches, hair-pulling and knife-wielding that he imposed on me). It’s great when you abuse your storeroom of vocabulary; really, it gets you out of tight holes, bad lights, and shoves your adversary into a deeper cave, especially when he has to struggle to express his anger and tries to defend himself by saying, “Oh, I didn’t kick her that hard”. Oh, please. I had to really control myself not to snort in satisfaction when the “good cop” police officer said seriously, “You cannot control yourself when you are angry, boy. She is your sister, after all.”

But then, I think my obnoxious streak crossed a little line, when I turned to my mother at one point and told her, “You know, your intervening makes it worse”. At this point, the “bad cop” police officer said, “She has a right to intervene. She is your mother”, to which I replied earnestly and quickly, “Yes, I know, she has every right, I’m not saying she doesn’t; it’s her choice, but what I’m saying is that it makes it worse. That’s a fact.”

Anyway, he recommended us to see counsellors. Not to echo the cliché here, but I don’t think it’ll help. I don’t have an anger problem; my brother doesn’t have an anger problem. We just need to get out of each others’ faces. That’s where the 9th September comes in.