Low Expectations by Elizabeth Aaron

to survive the weekend. ‘I won’t be well until I’ve had more sleep. I’m just at Beard— at Leo’s.’
    I pick at the formerly white, now yellowing and coffee-stained terrycloth fabric wrapped around me. I would be tempted to marry a man who replaced his towels occasionally, though I suppose it is a blessing that Beardy even has sheets. It’s shocking how many grown men think it’s acceptable not to own them. Regrettable one-night stands and the feel of a bare mattress against my skin are indelibly linked in my mind.
    â€˜Leo! Who is that? You didn’t tell me you have a new boyfriend!’ My mother manages to sound accusatory, worried and elated all at once. Shit. I had forgotten about my resolution not to tell her anything about my love life until an unavoidable occasion such as a wedding or childbirth. I always live to regret passing on any gossip to her, as she is both extremely judgemental and irritatingly accurate in her character assessments.
    â€˜Erm, well, it’s early days … I wouldn’t say that exactly.’
    â€˜Oh, darling. You haven’t slept with him, have you? Why buy a cow when you can get the milk for free? I kept your father waiting until our wedding night.’
    And the over-sharing guilt trips commence. I know far more about my parents’ former sex life than can possibly be healthy, especially coming from someone who believes that vibrators are a feminist myth propagated by ‘The Media’. In her mind, ‘The Media’ is run by gay men and radical feminazis. No amount of high street sex shops will ever be able to convince her otherwise.
    â€˜And why buy a pig for a sausage link? Mum, you sound Victorian, it’s like the women’s movement never happened. Only crazy ring-obsessed ladies who think they can use a man’s sexual frustration to blind him to their flawed personalities do that these days. And I’m only twenty-four, Christ.’
    â€˜What are you saying, you’re nearly twenty-seven!’
    â€˜Seriously? Mum, I’m twenty-four.’ You would think that your only child emerging from your genitals would constitute a memorable occasion, but apparently not. Lying about her own age has apparently scrambled mine.
    â€˜What? Oh. Well, it is your birthday come April. Twenty-five is nearly twenty-seven, which is nearly thirty. You really need to start thinking that your next boyfriend might be your husband and practise pretending to be wife material, you know. Where is this boy from? He doesn’t have a speech impediment like that last one does he?’
    â€˜He didn’t have a speech impediment. He was Northern.’
    â€˜Oh darling, it amounts to the same thing.’
    â€˜Did you call just to hassle me?’
    â€˜What does this Leo do then?’
    â€˜Uh … he’s a graphic designer. And a musician.’
    There is a pause. I hear a deep whistling sigh on the other end of the line. And then it comes, as I knew it would come:
    â€˜Darling, do try to meet a man who can afford you. I really don’t want to see you ending up divorced, or living on a council estate with some wastrel husband who’s lost his good looks to drugs. He is at least good looking isn’t he? Please don’t give me ugly grandchildren; I have enough crosses to bear as it is. You know, you give birth, children are so expensive and then they go off and waste all the money you’ve invested in them designing clothes and sleeping with swarms of unsuitable men who only want One Thing.’
    I wish. Going through swarms of unsuitable men is a long-cherished dream.
    â€˜Well, maybe you should have aborted me and invested your money in something with better returns. I’m your only child, not some vanity project gone carelessly awry,’ I say dryly. We’ve had this conversation many times before and it has long since failed to register emotionally. In our household, saying