In a recent survey, 100 people were asked to list the things that irritate them most, and the winner was… stupid bloody surveys that ask people to list things.
Have scientists, the government and women’s magazines got nothing better to do with their time than ask inane questions? Isn’t there an ozone layer that needs patching up? Don’t hospitals need some attention? Schools needing new books? Well, maybe, but first we’ll just run off a potentially world-changing questionnaire asking 3,000 people what biscuit they like to dunk in their tea.
Now, usually I avoid surveys as I would, say, the bubonic plague or boob tubes, but this week there was one poll that genuinely intrigued and excited me. No, it wasn’t the results of the survey that revealed that one in five blokes fake their orgasms (eh, I have questions) and that fifty-eight per cent of women do a Meg Ryan Special at the crucial moment.
Nor was I particularly interested in the result of another poll that concluded Britons spend an average of £169,000 during their lives on job costs like travel and lunches. Unless, of course, you’re an MP, in which case you claim double that back.
I was even less impressed with the research done by a team at the University of St Andrews that revealed that women are just as grateful for cheap trinkets as they are for expensive diamonds, just as long as the gift is given with thought and love. Fab. Now as long as the love of your life dons a lopsided grin and recites a poem, he can palm you off with a genuine tin-plated, diamante love-heart ring from the Everything-For-A-Pound shop.
The study that did tweak my radar, however, was the survey of 25,000 seven- to eleven-year-olds that found more than half reckoned their mums could do anything. Yes, us marvellous matriarchs beat off stiff competition in the superhero stakes from icons like Superman, Spiderman and whoever invented Play-Doh.
In second place came fathers, their popularity increased no doubt by the young boys who took part in the survey and were impressed by dad’s ability to multitask. My dearly beloved has an admirable ability to listen to me talking while simultaneously rolling his eyeballs to heaven.
And in third place came Harry Potter, that wee smug bloke who, unlike us mums, has to enlist the help of a wooden stick and a brainy (female) sidekick to conquer the impossible.
At two and three-quarters and four, my boys are below the age threshold for the survey, but I decided to boost my ever-flailing ego by checking that they concurred with the results.
‘Boys, do you think Mummy can do anything in the whole wide world?’ I asked with my sweetest, most grovelling grin. And, okay, I’ll admit that the two packets of chocolate buttons I was dangling from each hand might have swayed them just slightly.
Still, they looked at each other hesitantly, in the manner of crime suspects who feared they were being lured into a trap by a master interrogator. After checking the escape routes and realising they were cornered, they nodded tentatively.
I should have stopped there, but come on… I’m a mother who doesn’t get out much, I’m permanently knackered and dishevelled and I haven’t had a cigarette now for nearly three weeks – I’m a real-life desperate housewife who’ll clutch at any straw going for validation and appreciation.
‘So what special things can I do then?’ I cajoled, still piling on the saccharine with a fork-lift.
‘Give magic kisses,’ interjected Brad (almost three), referring to the cure for all ailments short of contagious diseases or anything relating to the bottom.
‘That’s right, sweetheart… and what else?’
‘You can sing when you’re upside down,’ Cal (four) exclaimed, his eyes never straying from the Buttons.
Yeah, Madonna eat your heart out. You might be bendy but I can belt out a catchy tune when I’m standing on my head. Although there is usually a bottle or two of full-strength Lambrusco involved in the preparation of that particular death-defying feat.
‘And you can make the bell ring when dinner’s ready.’
And that, I fear, is the reason us mums came out on top. Our tiny offspring still have the naiveté of youth and the unconditional love for their mothers that convinces them that the eardrum-shattering racket produced by the dangerous combination of a woman who can’t cook, a tray of chicken dinosaurs, an oven and a smoke alarm is a little piece of magic. Harry Potter, eat your heart out.