In Laws: Outlawed.

Everyone knows that they exist, and that they are scary. Some will be lucky and have nice, friendly, warm in-laws. In extremely rare and fortunate cases, people may even prefer their mother or father-in-law to their own. From my in-depth analysis (consisting of swapping horror stories about in-laws with other wives in pubs), I have deduced that these people are the exception, and in-laws from hell are the norm.

They are the high street, the Primark of the family world; what most of us will end up wearing, but not what we feel we really ‘deserve’ to be seen in. The nice in-laws are the Gucci of this familial domain, worn by the truly fortunate among us. They exist purely to make the rest of us jealous.

My own mother-in-law is rather like George from Asda. Our relationship didn’t exactly start out well. She could never understand the whole ‘young, Christian, abstinent’ thing. I swear she thought I was holding out on my husband to entrap him into marrying me. Sure. I’m a sexually manipulative goldigger. It’s what all the young girls in church are doing these days…It didn’t set things off for a good start.

When the wedding day finally came round she turned up late, making me wait in the car for a full 10 minutes. She scuttled down the aisle just before I did, in turn making everyone turn to see her (not me), and ruined what was suppose to be one of the most special moments of my life. People comment at weddings, that the groom’s face is worth a thousand words, my own groom was struggling not to turn around and scream at his mother. No amount of Italian silk, pearls or flowers could change that.

My mother in law is the kind of person who hints that I need a breast reduction, not only to me, or my husband, but also to my friends behind my back. She insisted on straightening my hair the first time she saw me wearing it curly, and meticulously corrects my speech. She is the kind of person who will try on my coat, shoes, hats and scarves (basically anything I leave lying around) and comment on how they don’t, in fact, ‘suit’ her. She is also the kind of person who measured the size of my feet to compare them to hers; this was done by making me stand on the kitchen table barefoot, and tracing around the shape of both of my feet. She also attempted to weigh me on holiday once. If you yawn in front of her, she will offer you Valium. In a nutshell, my mother-in-law is mad.

That being said, every cloud has a silver lining. Over the years I have discerned her madness from her method, her bark from her bite and have even grown to love her.  She has thickened every inch of my skin. She is a Cordon Bleu trained chef (good Sunday lunches), and, like me, she is slightly addicted to charity shops. This has resulted in me filling my martial home with everything from second hand silverware, to medicine cabinets, to sheets. She might be crazy, but that bitch has saved me thousands. Having my hair straightened whilst she wears my clothes is only a small price to pay I figure. I know underneath all the madness, she has always just wanted to connect with me, and longed to see me as the daughter she never had. So I play along, I cut her slack, who knows I could end up just like her one day....crazy, threatened, but bloody good at a Sunday roast.