I have to tell you about my mother.
I know, I know, it’s not the kind of blog subject you’ll expect from a South African crime author, but bear with me, it should all make sense in the end.
My mother. Eighty years old, sharp as a tack, still fiercely independent in her own apartment, a stone’s throw from the Milnerton beach near Cape Town. Every time I publish a new book, I duly deliver one to her, and then the ritual starts. Nowadays, it takes about two weeks before the call comes.
“Hello, my child,” she says.
I’m fifty-one years old, but I’m still ‘my child’.
“Hi, mom.” Bright and breezy, with feigned surprise, even though I know what’s coming.
Long silence.
I wait.
Finally, with that exasperated tone of the failed parent: “I did not raise you like that.”
“I know, mom.”
“Where did you learn those words? Not from me, that’s for sure.”
“Of course not, mom.”
“What are my friends going to think? Did you consider that?”
“I’m sorry, mom …”
And when I finally and gently put down the receiver twenty apologetic minutes later, I wonder if I’m the only one. Did Connelly and Child, Barclay and Blunt, Rankin and Mankell get similar calls? Did they feel as guilty? MORE…