Self-deprecation

From the novel “Here am I Sitting in a Tin Can”

I was happy in a world of my own with my dinky toys, when suddenly something stole my attention.  It was my mother, looking down at me. Not with pride or maternal affection but with dismay and disdain.

“What’s wrong, Mum?” I asked.

“Malcolm,” she said.

“Mark,” I corrected.

“Ah yes. Mark, I think it’s time you got rid of those toys.”

“But Mum!” I cried, “I love them!”

“If you sold them,” she said, “You could buy something useful. Like books.”

“No!” I protested, “I hate books!”

“Playing with toys just isn’t good for you,” she said, “In fact it’s bad for your mental health.”

“Why?” I said, “Because I imagine they’re real?  I hear their voices?”

“No,” she said, “Because you’re thirty-two years old and it’s time you got a job and got out of my fucking house.”