Uncomfortable memory

Actually on rereading the last post I suddenly remembered something rather uncomfortable from my last few months in Cambridge, when my Mum was coming up pretty frequently to help me paint and to take away boxes full of books. One Sunday morning we went down to the car to find a condom on the windscreen. I flicked it off quickly with the corner of my coat but I was too late: my mother had already seen it, and to my discomfort she then actually made a comment about it. Being my mother, whose worst weapon is sympathy, this was entirely to the effect that she was moved by strong pity for the barren emotional life of those who conducted their amatory adventures in grubby carparks. I didn't have quite the courage to add that I was somewhat consoled to think that at least this regrettable liaison was not likely, from the evidence, to result in unwanted offspring or disease. But anyway, having weathered that storm I wonder whether perhaps between us we could even cope with sex-toys in the supermarket queue. It's amazing, being grown up.