Let’s do this together

It was the sweet smell that I noticed first, then I started coughing, and before I knew it, I was three years old again and We All Live In A Yellow Submarine was playing on the radio.

“Jesse – are you burning something in there?” I tentatively knocked on her bedroom door. She’s been in there since we got back from Devon.

The effort of enjoying herself on holiday clearly proved too much for the teenager, and she’s been in some sort of self-imposed sensory deprivation tank since then.

She opened the door a few inches, filled it with her face, which is mainly blue, frizzy fringe these days, and grunted, “Yes. What do you want?”

“What’s that smell?” I asked, pushing the door further ajar. “It reminds me of something. Are you burning joss sticks?” I asked, suddenly remembering. The curtains were still drawn, her guitar was on the bed, and there was an unmistakable smell of patchouli oil.

“Have you suddenly turned into an old hippy in the last few days?” I asked, immediately doing mum things like opening the window, picking up clothes from the floor and sniffing them.

But rather than take it badly, The Dark Lord looked very pleased with herself and showed me her collection of incense sticks.

“Look, I have patchouli, lavender, vanilla, and all sorts of fragrances,” she sniffed the boxes.

“Hmmm, they just all smell like a pile of stinky joss sticks to me,” I took one whiff and recoiled.

I asked quite seriously, “Have you had a sudden urge to play the sitar, wear tie-dye and make dream weavers from the feathers in your pillow?”

“Well funny you should say that, but I am doing some craft,” she pointed to the floor where there were scraps of paper, cardboard and – my eyes nearly stood out on stalks – a glue gun.

“Why is that on the carpet?” I started squawking, then coughing as the smoke from the joss stick was tickling my throat. She steered me to the door, saying, “Yes, Mother, yes…” and as I backed out, I bent and swept up a few empties on the way out.

“If you glue anything to the carpet, you will find out what I do to hippies,” I threatened in a very non-peaceful way.

“Peace and love, Mother,” she shut the door on me, and I waddled off huffing.

Email me at siobhan.mcnally@mirror.co.uk or write to Community Corner, PO Box 791, Winchester SO23 3RP.