Tonight I speak to my mother who is chipper as she tells me of the wonderful weekend she's had.
She says that on Friday night a group of her women-friends got together, they drank and ate, then ended up downing tequila at the Beulah bar for lesbians in Green Point in Cape Town.
Shit. It was far better when she was disapproving of that sort of thing.
Those mornings I used to come home and park the car on the lawn and stagger around gurning, she would be stood their with her hands on her hips calling me sleazy and disgusting.
When I left my clothes on the bathroom floor after showering she'd ask why they smelt so odd and would pick them up with rubber gloves.
She'd turn out my pockets before putting the trousers into the machine and find a drinks slip with "I wanna be your horny bottom-bitch" scrawled over it.
Who'd have thought she'd now be gloating about her Friday nights spent at the local bush bar? A bar where most of the balls are to be found on the pool table.
Next she's going to be wanting to come the Gay Pride holding one of those ridiculous banners that says "Our Bobby's a Bender". Or something similar.
And then she'll be hogging the floor at Fire in Vauxhall, with her T-shirt tucked behind her bra, passing around the poppers.
It'll end at Christmas with her giving me a Tom of Finland book, rubber underwear and the Queer As Folk UK boxset. In the card it'll say "the rimming scene in episode 1 is H-O-T. Luv Mum".
I sincerely hope not.
Thank god my parents live in Cape Town, 10,000 miles from Vauxhall or Fire.
I'm sure my mum probably thinks that Tom of Finland is one of Santa's little helpers.
And I hope my mum is convinced that rimming is how you apply Domestos to the toilet.
Please God let it stay that way.
Mum, I'm really not that comfortable with you telling me how drunk you got in a lesbian bar. No offence.