(The following happened yesterday. One week after the first conversation with her; 1 DAY, read me, 1 DAY, no less, and definitely no more, after I gave her my actual manuscript to read over.)
Mum gets into my car.
“I told your Dad I’d go in with you.”
“Oh yeah.”
“I read the book.”
“You read it?”
“Yeah.”
“All of it?”
“Yeah.”
“The whole thing? The whole book?” I’m wondering if she means she read one chapter, simultaneously thinking if she did read the whole book, how in the hell did she get through 240 pages in one day?
“Yeah – I did it in two parts though. Half-way through I got up to make a tea, I was sitting in the chair, the sun was coming through the window…”
As if it’s the most natural and normal thing in the world.
My Mum freaking rocks.
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