Of Crumpets, Cookies, and Outside Dogs

A meditation on small tyrants, and the politics of family succession.

Last week I mentioned I was at my mother's house. I went there to keep her company, though I was also giving my wife a break from Hattie.

My daughter has been experimenting with lighting fires lately. Perfectly normal, under the circumstances. She takes after me—or rather, my maternal grandfather. Both my daughters and I represent the Irish side of the family; we do a lot of singing, we make up stories and jokes. The rest of our relatives... aren't like us. Their dispositions are more English. So, more serious, and—historically speaking—more bossy. Also, if you look away for a moment, they will try to take away all your potatoes.

But Hattie and Boudica and me—well, we're spirited people. We're different, and we like our pranks and mischief. And I don't want to be too negative or anything, but maybe Hattie takes matters a bit too far, sometimes. I don't see any point in letting the narrative get bogged down in minor details, so all I'll say is that I decided that if Hattie was going to accidentally burn down a house, it would be better if that house was not my primary dwelling. So, we packed up our things and went to stay with my mother for a bit.

The key thing to understand about my mother is that she arranges her family relations—and her pets, now I think about it—into hierarchies of favor. For instance, she has one dog who is allowed to sleep on her bed, and another of precisely the same size and appearance who isn't. Years ago, she had a dog who was allowed inside the house, and a second dog who had to stay outside, etcetera and so forth.

In my mother's world, if I was a dog, I would sleep outside. But on the other hand, if I was a dog, I'd be outside anyway, exploring the neighborhood because that is fundamentally the person I am. And my mother does seem to respect this about me. I am the only one of her children who doesn't require her daily advice or counsel. My siblings call her every day. I, on the other hand, drifted around the world (literally, not figuratively) and lived in several countries, and sometimes—this is true—I forgot to call her for years at a time. Not for any reason other than I am an outside dog.

Hattie's an outside dog who would be allowed inside and, furthermore, would be treated to an endless supply of cupcakes. I therefore don't worry if Hattie accidentally burns down my mother's house to the ground because, as I mentioned earlier, my mother arranges her people into ranks of importance, and Hattie—well, Hattie will be forgiven everything. Whereas if I leave my shoes in the wrong place, I will hear about it for weeks.

In short, if Hattie commits any light arson, my mother won't make it my problem; at least not to the extent that she would stop baking me those cookies—you know, the ones I mentioned in my last newsletter.

Yes, yes, I know. Some might think this is all too cold and rational. Such people have never tasted a really good cookie, I suppose.

My point is simply that Hattie can do just about anything, and my mother won't mind because she now regards Hattie as her successor. By which I mean, she's the person in my mother's lineage with whom my mother most strongly identifies.

Hattie is defiant and feisty and takes no prisoners. Hattie strides about, a tiny little girl in pigtails, showing little respect for anyone but me. She's only grudgingly deferential to my mother, which I think the old lady subconsciously senses and approves. Hattie, who sings like an angel and swears (I assume, whenever I'm not around) like a sailor. Hattie, the diminutive nine-year-old with scratches on her knees. Hattie, who always seems to be giving the middle finger to the world. Hattie, a tiny little girl who asked me again, this very evening, why her father gets to be in charge of the house, and not her.

When my mother dies, my younger sister will probably take on the mantle of the family's Wise Old Bird. But meanwhile, the baton is being passed quietly from my mother to my nine-year-old daughter. I know this, because she has started teaching Hattie how to bake cookies.

And I'm vexed because, not only is Hattie lording her sacred cookie knowledge over me like my mother, but because in consequence of those damn cookies, I'm going to have to treat Hattie very nicely for the rest of my days.

You know, I didn't even intend to write any of this. I wanted to talk about something else entirely, but this matter has been eating at me all day and I had to get it out of my system.

I went over to the shops to get crumpets this morning, and that prompted me to think about the cost-of-living crisis. I couldn't find the crumpets for a few minutes. I was lost to dark thoughts. Apparently we are—each of us—to be squeezed, algorithmically, by corporations until the only people who can afford crumpets are the board directors of international grocery conglomerates. Big Crumpet, I'll call it.

I wonder how they think this will end for them. Do they not see themselves one day hanging upside down from street lamps—a feast for crows? Because I sure do.

But then the darkness faded, and I found the crumpets—they'd put them in a different place again and I don't know about you, but whenever they do that, I start seeing visions of skeletons hanging in rusted-metal cages (gibbets, I think they're called) and those skeletons are wearing, variously, bespoke suits and business-casual sports jackets. Then my mind cleared. How long before grocery stores start rolling out mind-reading devices alongside their surveillance cameras? You know, to assist with Loss Prevention? Well, when that day comes, I'm going to riot.

Sorry. I keep blacking out. I was going to say, I was wandering around the grocery store and wondering about my future. How many paid subscribers will I have at Substack when the grocery chains are charging nine hundred dollars per crumpet? I suppose I'll be writing for free, by then, because nobody's going to be able to afford to donate to me. That's okay. Stories are better than crumpets, anyway.

I have this whole separate rant about how, if they invented libraries today, they'd be outlawed immediately. A bipartisan group would stand before Congress and rail indignantly against these wild-eyed communist librarians who, they'll claim, are an attack on democracy and such. I mean, how dare people share things?

Anyway, I don't plan to ever retire from writing. Maybe one day, if I go Full Rowling and start ranting about some random minority or other, Hattie will have to lock me in her garden shed until I make a spiritual return to niceness. But my point is, I realize not everyone's going to be able to afford to buy my books or be paid subscribers to my Substack. So else what can they do to support me?

Well, I have an answer. When you read my posts—and when you enjoy it—always click the little heart symbols to let me know you're there. Let me know you're with me in spirit. That way, I get a pinprick of dopamine and the algorithm governing my fate senses my spiritual worth.

Consider it like a polite golf-clap of approval. Always do that, from now until forever. After all, and unlike crumpets, it'll cost you nothing and that makes me happy as well.

With chaste affection,

Kris St.Gabriel