My mom to my aunt: Here's the money I owe you.

My aunt: I don't want to take it now. Give it to me later.

My mom: I'll forget.

My aunt: Forget what?

My mom: I don't know. I can't remember.

About a year ago, while I was still busy illegal alienating and expatriating myself abroad, my mom sent me an e-mail in which she casually mentioned that she had taken up a new hobby.

I was immediately wary, because when my sisters and I were little, some of my mom’s hobbies had included activities that some might have viewed as being a bit odd for a seemingly sweet and innocent young mother of four young girls.

Like target shooting.

Scarier still was the poor buggers targets they shot at, and the fact that my mom won the trophy for best shot in the entire district several years in a row! If the people in the small town where we grew up had been any more clued up about musicals and theatrical references, my mom, with her red hair, surely would have been nicknamed Annie Oakley.

Needless to say, I was almost too afraid to ask what on earth she had decided was stimulating enough to take up in order to liven up her retirement age.

“Painting.” She replied.

“Painting what?” I asked, still suspicious. “Houses? Skyscrapers?” And then, a terrifying and therefore very likely thought occurred to me: “Bridges and overpasses? Oh, no, Mom! Please tell me that you have NOT decided to become a graffiti artist!”

She laughed. “No, you silly girl! Painting, as in art!”

“OH!” My relief must’ve been evident. And since my mom had until then never even drawn a picture in her life, I added, in what I thought was a suitably encouraging tone but probably ended up sounding more like an adult does whenever looking at a toddler’s art works: “That’s very nice, Mom. Send me some of your pictures!”

“Mom’s painting.” My sister e-mailed me a few months later.

“Yes, I’ve heard. That’s so cute.” I replied, half distracted.

And then I promptly forgot about my mom’s artistic endeavours.

Until my return to South Africa on Christmas Day last year.

Jet-lagged and traumatised, I arrived at my sister’s house.

And saw this:

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My poor mom.

For the first years of my life, on a daily basis, she looked forward to the day she would finally be able to kick me out of the nest. Towards my thirteenth year, she nearly succeeded in accomplishing that by pushing me out of the nest and sending me to boarding school.

After a year and a semester out of the nest, my desperation to return to my mom was so great, I managed to sneak my way back up the tree and into the nest.

My mom relented, and so for the remainder of my high school and college years, I held the title envied by thousands of boarding school students the world over: that of ‘Day Scholar.’

Every day, upon our release from classes, the boarders were sent back to the dark corridors of chilly, inhospitable hostels, where they were held captive by strictly regimented increments of time enforced by an army of prefects, the most unpleasant and frustrated teachers and the shrill scream of a bell: Fifteen minutes for lunch... BELL! Fifteen minutes rest and relaxat... BELL! Three hours for homework....... BELL! Fifteen minutes to shower... BELL! Fifteen minutes for dinner... BELL! Four hours of homework...... BELL! Lights out... BELL!

Whereas I, who happened to for once in my life be a part of the crème de la crème, the elite, the most revered and envied DAY SCHOLARS, were picked up by boyfriends or parents (or in my case, the city bus) and then we made our different ways through the tree-lined suburban streets back to the comforts and coziness of our mothers’ nests.

In my third year of college, at the dawn of my turbulent twenties, followed by a rather firm push on my backside by my mom, I was sent fluttering out of the nest yet again. One would think I would’ve gotten the message then, yes? But nooooo. Not me.

For, after not even a year out in the wild, in my own chaotic little rented nest in which I was a very bewildered dweller, I managed to claw my way back up the tree and into the safe haven of my mom’s nest yet again.

However, before I could even scratch out a comfortable corner for myself, my mom gave what she thought would be the final push. In a moment of brilliance and ingenuity, she decided that since I was clearly never going to leave, SHE would. Not only that, but she’d sell the nest out from under me so that I would have no CHOICE but to leave as well.

That’s how I ended up in that petrol-scented nest I wrote about here.

And my mom’s plan worked, because after leaving THAT rental nest, I finally and quite literally flew. All the way to the United States.

Here it is a decade later, and what do you know? I have yet again found my way back to my mom’s cozy nest.

I’m rather interested to see how she is going to try and get rid of me this time, but just in case she mistakes my curiosity for a challenge – a challenge she’ll readily accept, I should add – I’m not going to tell HER that!

The other day, whilst talking to an English-speaking friend, my mom proudly told her about this blob I have which can be found on the internet.

A little later, as my mom and above-mentioned friend were discussing my immediate career prospects (or lack thereof), my mom, in a serious tone, said: "I think it's time for Red to set herself some goal posts."

(P.S. In case my mom happens to read this particular blob post, I have to add that she really REALLY does speak fluent English.)