The British Word for the Errand (Sod)

Lyrics

Twelve degrees inside.
November, 1958.
The gray light making ghosts on the linoleum.

My mother at the stove.
Her back to me.
The steam from the kettle, a temporary cloud.
A chipped enamel teapot waiting.
The Daily Mirror on the Formica table, headline about someone I've forgotten.
She had a wooden spoon in her hand.
Not for discipline. For conducting.
Conducting the afternoon.

And when I’d ask for the third time,
"Is it tea yet?"
She’d turn, not angry, just… tired in that way that was also a kind of music.
And she'd lift the spoon, point it at the back door, and sing it out, cheerful as a bird:
"Sod off."
Just like that. A little flick of the wrist.
"Sod off."

The word came from somewhere else, of course.
Somewhere dark. The Good Book, full of salt and pillars.
But in our kitchen, it wasn't a curse.
It was punctuation.
It meant, I love you, but you are directly under my feet.
It meant, patience is a virtue I'm running low on.
It meant, the shepherd's pie will be ready when it's ready.
A command, yes, but a soft one.
A little shove out the door to go play in the drizzle.

I learned the history later.
From Partridge's dictionary in the library.
The way a word can travel, shed its skin.
From a city in the desert
to a terraced house in Birmingham.
Losing its fire, keeping its shape.
Becoming a family thing.
Our word for the errand of leaving her be.

And I'd be halfway to the garden shed,
and hear her turn back to the stove.
Not angry, just… tired in that way that was also a kind of music.
And she'd lift the spoon, point it at the memory of me, and sing it out, cheerful as a bird:
"Sod off."
Just like that. A little flick of the wrist.
"Sod off."

The smell of boiled cabbage on the air.
And the sound of her humming.
The errand was done.