The Aged Ps are coming to stay for the weekend. Mother has been insisting that she "never" sees her grandchildren. This is clearly my fault, even though the Aged Ps have been on holiday twice since we ourselves returned from a summer break, and have also been in the eye of a tornado of social commitments which have excluded a visit either from or to us.
I have gritted my teeth during a number of phone calls where I have invited them to stay only to hear that "we can't come then because we're going to a talk on Pompeii/Herculaneum/Stabiae" or indeed any other town devastated by a volcano. Mother likes a disaster, especially one involving the Romans.
"You're always so busy," she complains, as I go through the calendar, crossing off the weekends they cannot make. "All I can say is, we didn't have a social life when we were your age."
I think back to the many Saturday nights spent on my grandmother's sofa watching the Generation Game while the then not-so-Aged-Ps went off to Vicars and Tarts parties, Toga parties, and any manner of other dubious fancy dress "dos" in the name of charity, organised by the local branch of the Round Table.
She's right, I think, you can hardly class that as a social life. More like institutionalised torture.
Finally I can bear the Diary Conversations no longer and so have agreed to shoe-horn the Ageds into one of the busiest weekends of the term.
I decide to call a couple of days before their arrival to warn them of the military timetable we are expected to adhere to on Saturday and Sunday in the hope that this might preempt a lot of moaning and groaning about how much we all "rush around these days".
Dad answers the phone, cheery as always. "Hello, love!" he trills. "Looking forward to seeing you this weekend!"
"Yes," I say. "That's what I'm ringing about, actually. Just thought I'd let you know our plans."
There is a second's silence in response to this and I curse myself. I should have known I would lose him at the P-word.
"I-I'll, er, just get your mum," he says, panic rising in his voice.
Some minutes later Mother's voice can be heard, puffing and panting and muttering ominously.
"Oh, it's you," she says. "I've had a terrible time recently." She pauses.
I say nothing.
"I had a sore on my foot so your father made me go to the doctor's!" she exclaims.
"Oh dear," I manage, teeth already forming into Gritted Mode.
"Yes. And do you know what the doctor said? Athlete's Foot!" Mother announces, appalled. From the tone of her delivery, she was evidently hoping for a much more dramatic diagnosis.
"And another thing," she says. "I hear you've been asked to be a godmother again. You didn't tell me."
I did actually, but what the hell.
"Mmmm," I say. My teeth are clamped so tightly together, I can't utter much more than an assenting grunt.
"Well," says Mother. How she can coat one word in so much disapproval is nothing sort of a marvel. "Well. As you know, I think godparents are a waste of time. That's why you don't have any."
"I do!" I finally open my mouth loud enough to protest.
"Yes, but your godfather's your uncle and your godmother's your grandmother, and she's dead."
This, sadly, is true.
I decide to change the topic of conversation. "I'm ringing to let you know what we're up to this weekend," I say. "Saturday we have to take Daughter to a match at 8.30, then Small Boy has to be in school at 10.00 to do the speech I told you about, then later on Husband and I are going out to dinner, as you know, because you kindly agreed to babysit."
"No I didn't," says Mother. She sighs heavily. "Oh well, I suppose we should be grateful that you can fit us into your busy schedule. I have to say, your father and I did not have a social life when we were your age."
"No," I say. I manage to set my teeth back into Grit Mode just in time to stop myself from mentioning my memory of the Vicars and Tarts parties.
It's not an image I really want to hold on to, in any case.
I have gritted my teeth during a number of phone calls where I have invited them to stay only to hear that "we can't come then because we're going to a talk on Pompeii/Herculaneum/Stabiae" or indeed any other town devastated by a volcano. Mother likes a disaster, especially one involving the Romans.
"You're always so busy," she complains, as I go through the calendar, crossing off the weekends they cannot make. "All I can say is, we didn't have a social life when we were your age."
I think back to the many Saturday nights spent on my grandmother's sofa watching the Generation Game while the then not-so-Aged-Ps went off to Vicars and Tarts parties, Toga parties, and any manner of other dubious fancy dress "dos" in the name of charity, organised by the local branch of the Round Table.
She's right, I think, you can hardly class that as a social life. More like institutionalised torture.
Finally I can bear the Diary Conversations no longer and so have agreed to shoe-horn the Ageds into one of the busiest weekends of the term.
I decide to call a couple of days before their arrival to warn them of the military timetable we are expected to adhere to on Saturday and Sunday in the hope that this might preempt a lot of moaning and groaning about how much we all "rush around these days".
Dad answers the phone, cheery as always. "Hello, love!" he trills. "Looking forward to seeing you this weekend!"
"Yes," I say. "That's what I'm ringing about, actually. Just thought I'd let you know our plans."
There is a second's silence in response to this and I curse myself. I should have known I would lose him at the P-word.
"I-I'll, er, just get your mum," he says, panic rising in his voice.
Some minutes later Mother's voice can be heard, puffing and panting and muttering ominously.
"Oh, it's you," she says. "I've had a terrible time recently." She pauses.
I say nothing.
"I had a sore on my foot so your father made me go to the doctor's!" she exclaims.
"Oh dear," I manage, teeth already forming into Gritted Mode.
"Yes. And do you know what the doctor said? Athlete's Foot!" Mother announces, appalled. From the tone of her delivery, she was evidently hoping for a much more dramatic diagnosis.
"And another thing," she says. "I hear you've been asked to be a godmother again. You didn't tell me."
I did actually, but what the hell.
"Mmmm," I say. My teeth are clamped so tightly together, I can't utter much more than an assenting grunt.
"Well," says Mother. How she can coat one word in so much disapproval is nothing sort of a marvel. "Well. As you know, I think godparents are a waste of time. That's why you don't have any."
"I do!" I finally open my mouth loud enough to protest.
"Yes, but your godfather's your uncle and your godmother's your grandmother, and she's dead."
This, sadly, is true.
I decide to change the topic of conversation. "I'm ringing to let you know what we're up to this weekend," I say. "Saturday we have to take Daughter to a match at 8.30, then Small Boy has to be in school at 10.00 to do the speech I told you about, then later on Husband and I are going out to dinner, as you know, because you kindly agreed to babysit."
"No I didn't," says Mother. She sighs heavily. "Oh well, I suppose we should be grateful that you can fit us into your busy schedule. I have to say, your father and I did not have a social life when we were your age."
"No," I say. I manage to set my teeth back into Grit Mode just in time to stop myself from mentioning my memory of the Vicars and Tarts parties.
It's not an image I really want to hold on to, in any case.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: only a member of this blog may post a comment.