Wise are those who say “don’t air your dirty laundry in public”. And even wiser are those who actually manage to abide by this common-sense advice. Alas, I am far too fascinated by a recent experience to restrain myself from spilling my metaphorical tea all over you...
I have an extensive family that includes some relatives whom, I am sure, even the neurotic king of eccentricity himself, Woody Allen, would consider quirky. And years ago, I had a bit of a falling out with a couple of these idiosyncratic relatives. Like most longstanding broiges, it was triggered by a very trivial matter: a little unintentional thoughtlessness on my part, a big perceived snub on their part, and suddenly nobody’s talking for 20 years.
Then, out of the blue, one of those relatives contacted me asking for help. I was thrilled. A second chance! I’d been feeling sad about the feud since for ever, and was overjoyed that now not only did we get to make up and be part of one another’s lives again, but (to be completely honest) I would get to be the “good girl”, the “saviour”, and any potential past slights on my part would be totally absolved.
Ah yes. Another old saying that is equally pithy. How unfortunate I didn’t remember this over the next few weeks when I regularly, literally, jumped into my little car and raced over to this relative to try and help them. My sister became involved too. We paid for things that were needed and gave up days and evenings trying to help our mishpocha. We were both so keen to rekindle our relationship and do the right thing.
Sadly, as unexpected as the reaching out to us had been, after a few weeks our relative turned on us once more. My sister and I abruptly became the enemy. We did our best to persuade them of our genuine love and devotion to them; we begged, pleaded and implored. All to no avail. We had been utterly villainised. Eventually we gave up. And so, despite our best efforts, the family feud was resumed.
A few weeks after our last meeting with our now re-estranged relative, an official letter arrived at my house and completely astonished me. It was from a rabbinical court. Myself, my sister and our poor old dad were all being summoned. The date and time for the hearing was to be set “in due course”. You could say we were experiencing a “religious calling” of sorts.
The specific accusations were wild. We had (allegedly) stolen incredible amounts of money, gold, and mysterious “other things” that apparently included bags of old clothes and 23 jars of pickles. Yes, pickles. We were accused of pickle-nicking on an industrial scale.
Once over the initial incredulity, we began to see the hilarity. At first we scoffed at the idea that we would actually go to the hearing – but then I started to think that it might actually be a fun and interesting experience. My mind immediately went sartorial. What would I wear? A fascinator, obviously, I rarely go to a formal function without one. This occasion surely merited one with a little black veil. A modest black suit too, high heels (with some pumps in my bag for when the pain got too much) and a smart white shirt. Were any of my shirts modest enough? No. So should I buy a new one? Yes. And then how should we address the presiding rabbi? Your honour? Your Orthodoxness? Your Rabbiship? My Mosesship? It was all exciting and unfamiliar territory for us, defending the family’s reputation in a rabbinical court. I began to really look forward to the trial, already playing out the drama in my head like it was a viral streaming sensation.
A week or so later another letter arrived with the date and time of the hearing but, to our surprise, along with the court details there was also a demand that we pay £500 for the privilege of attending the trial. Five hundred pounds! Payable by either cash, bank transfer or credit card. We’d assumed the request for the pleasure of our company in court was free. This totally changed things. We decided we would not entertain the whole ludicrous scenario a moment longer and firmly ignored all subsequent letters.
Tragically, the dreams I’d relished (sorry) of starring in my very own Netflix show were crushed, as shattered now and messy as a dropped jar of pickles. And the feud was back on.
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