The History Girl

The Aged Ps have had a lovely week. They have been up to London to see the Bronze exhibition at the Royal Academy. I, on the other hand, have been down the road to talk to 70 children about cats and dogs. I am also full of snot.
"Wow, I am quite jealous," I say. "What was it like?"
"Well, it was all right . . ." says Mother. "The layout wasn't very good."
"But what were the bronzes like--?"
"And the labelling was so annoying. Have you heard of this 'C.E.' business?"
For a moment I mishear and think she is about to go on a rant about the Church of England and how she is glad they have not voted for women bishops because it's bad enough having women vicars, etc., etc., and so forth. But no.
"C.E.?" I say tentatively. "Do you mean Common Era?"
"Common Era," Mother sneers. "What the hell does that mean? Common with what? With whom? With the Muslims, I suppose."
"Well, I think the idea is--"
"I know what the IDEA is," Mother says. "But it's Cringe Central, if you ask me."
"Er, that would make it C.C, actually," I say.
"What?" Mother snaps.
"Nothing."
"I mean why should we change our calendar to fit in with all these multi-cultural immigrants, anyway? We are a Christian country with a Christian heritage."
"Which is why you don't go to church or believe in any of that nonsense," I point out.
"Well, yes, I know, I mean, I don't but . . . it's our culture. It's part of Our History!" Mother says.
Saying that something is part of Our History is Mother's trump card. If something is part of Our History, it is sacrosanct, indelible, cast in stone. You cannot argue with Our History.
I think about tackling her argument from a number of different standpoints. But my head is full of cotton wool, my son needs help with his Chemistry revision, I am trying to make carrot and celeriac soup, and I am struggling with some knotty plot problems in a book about chickens. I have neither the time nor the willpower.
"Yes, I expect you're right," I find myself saying.
I shall probably live to regret saying this, but at least it brings the conversation swiftly to a close.

Don't Mention the Lingua Latina!

I ring the Aged Ps, armed with amusing anecdotes. I refuse to let the conversation descend into its usual rant against The State of the Nation, The Weather or What A Terrible Year This Has Been. Mother is gearing up for her annual Annus Horribilis speech early this year, and I am not in the mood for another rehearsal. Bearing this in mind, I have armed myself with a list of prohibited topics so that I can steer a path through the conversation to sunnier themes.

The list is as follows:

Thou shalt not mention Ed Milliband in the same sentence as Disraeli
This is sure to set off a diatribe against the conniving nature of the shifty left who will do anything to get into power. (Trouble is, I sort of agree with this. If Milliband can side with Disraeli, it won't be long before Thatcher gets a mention. But THOU SHALT NOT start this conversation because . . . )

Thou shalt DEFINITELY not mention Thatcher at all EVER
Mother worships at her shrine. The hagiography that ensues at the mere whisper of the woman's name is enough to turn the strongest of stomachs. In fact, come to think of it . . .

Thou shalt not bring up the topic of politics at all!
Which is hard, considering the only other stories in the news at the moment are about sex offenders or child murderers. And she would be bound to take great pleasure in reminding me about that letter to "Jim'll Fix It" about wanting to go in the Tardis.

So, if I can't talk about what's in the news, what else is there to talk about other than the weather?

This is why I have decided to focus on the children and how charming and wonderful they are.

"Hello, it's me."
"Oh, it's you."
"Hello, love!"
The Aged Ps have surpassed themselves. They have picked up the phone as one Aged Being.
"So, how are you?" I ask. I immediately kick myself. This was not the opening move I had planned.
"I'm fine," says Dad.
"Well, you know . . ." Mother begins. "Not so good. What with this dreadful weather. And the news - it's nothing but shifty politicians and disgusting sex offenders, which reminds me! Didn't you once write a letter to--"
"Your grandson is doing ever so well in Latin at the moment!" I shout, in desperation.
Latin?? Why did I have to mention THAT?
"Oh, quid mira et intelligens nepos habemus!" trills Mother.
I groan softly, put my head in my hands and thank the gods that she has not yet mastered Skype as I proceed to bang my forehead quietly on the table.
"Ita vero! Est mirabilie. Est continuans familia traditionem," Dad agrees.
H-e-l-p m-e! I mouth to Not-So-Small-Boy.
"I found a magazine our grandson would like, actually," says Dad.
"Great - a wildlife one?" I ask.
"No. A Latin one," says Dad. "It's full of cartoons and stories and pictures - and it's all in Latin! Isn't that great?"
I cannot take this any more, so I pass the phone to my son.
"Hi Grandpa," he chirps. "Yes . . . yes . . . I love Latin. Did you know that turdus stupidus means stupid thrush! It's so cool - it means you can swear without actually really swearing! And "turdus" is a hilarious word for a bird! And there is this other even more hilarious word "furcifer", which sound like "fuc--"
I grab the phone back.
"So, what did you think about Ed Milliband's One Nation speech?" I ask.
I sit back, close my eyes and let the battle commence.

Dad's Inner Domestic Goddess Goes Wild

With Mother in hospital, Dad does not seem to know what to do with himself. He is looking pale and drawn and bumbles through the house, creating a complicated new set of rules for how to carry out normally mundane domestic tasks. He hovers at my elbow while I do the washing up.
"I find if you soak all the plates for thirty-seven minutes before loading the dishwasher, they tend to come out cleaner," he tells me earnestly, watching as I hurl the breakfast things into the machine.
"But if you soak them, you may as well not put them in the machine," I point out.
Dad frowns. "I would rather do things properly," he says. He bends to unstack the dirty plates, fills the washing-up bowl with hot soapy water and lowers the crockery gently in, as though bathing a baby. "And wipe the grease out of the pan with kitchen paper before you scrub it," he directs, as I attack the grill pan with a Brillo pad.
I put down the pan and the pad, step away from the sink and say, "We'll get out of your way for a bit."
Not-So-Small Boy and I spend the morning in the pool, he inhaling as much chlorine as he can whilst teaching himself backwards somersaults, me thinking about Mother in hospital while Dad is left to hoover the inside of the washing machine.
We arrive back to find Dad marinading the entire contents of the fridge.
"Blimey, Dad! Have you invited the whole street for lunch?" I stare open-mouthed at the plates of food, neatly lined up on the kitchen surface.
"No, no. I just know that you both like different things and I'm going to do a barbecue, so I thought I would prepare a sort of smörgåsbord," he says, emphasising the Swedish word with his most authentic accent.
"Lovely," I say.
Not-So-Small Boy is preparing to pull a face at the feast laid out before him. Nothing is left in its recognisable state. Even the cucumber has been peeled, laced with vinegar, salt and pepper and arranged in a beautiful fan on the plate.
"Isn't there anything NORMAL to eat?" my son hisses. I shake my head firmly and suggest he goes on his Nintendo for a while.
"Dad," I say. "I know you're worried about Mum and everything, but she's going to be fine. Why don't you have a rest - you don't need to go to so much trouble for us. You'll wear yourself out. I'll finish preparing lunch. "
Dad looks at me doubtfully. "I'm not sure you know what to do," he says.
I think over the seventeen years of married life, the thirteen years of parenthood; I consider the forty-two years of being this man's daughter and take another look at the fifty-six plates of food in front of me. I conclude that nothing in my life experience has quite prepared me for seeing my Dad go into meltdown in quite such a manner.
"No, you're right," I say. "I'll leave you to it."
I never thought I'd say this, but maybe things were better with Mother at home.

The Day of Reckoning

It is Monday Morning. The Monday Morning. The one we have all been warned about.
Husband and I creep out of the house at first light (which is not difficult, as the M25 starts up outside the bedroom window well before that). This first light is very light indeed, as all traces of cloud have disappeared, the Gulf Stream having predictably moved just as Mother is going in for her operation. I almost comment on the fact, but stop myself just in time. Marital good behaviour between me and Husband is wearing considerably thin after 48 hours of the Ageds. I have no desire for him to use his ultimate weapon: to tell me that I am "turning into y'mother".
I need not worry, we are doomed to have a row before he leaves, the tension having mounted to seismic level.
As if on cue, I approach a roundabout and Husband yells, "LOOK OUT! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
"SHUT UP AND DON'T TELL ME HOW TO DRIVE!" I yell back.
I drop Husband at the station in stony silence and grit my teeth for the scene that will be awaiting me back at the house.

When I return, Not-So-Small Boy has already retreated to the Pink Sofa (still covered in a protective rug) and is watching TV. He turns and gives me a knowing look and says, "Grandma is ready to leave."
So am I, I think, as I make my way to the kitchen.
But the scene I am greeted by affects me unexpectedly.
Mother is sitting at the kitchen table, drumming its surface repeatedly with her fingers and chewing her lip. Her eyes are red and watery and she looks as though she has not slept a wink. Dad is pacing and washing and drying up everything in sight.
A surge of sadness mixed with guilt and anxiety overcomes me. I draw Mum to me in a rough hug and kiss her head.
"It's going to be all right," I murmur. "It'll all be over soon and then you'll feel better."
The words come from nowhere. I am sharply aware of the scales of time moving, millimetre by millimetre, to a tipping point from which they will not return. The roles are in the process of reversing.
I close my eyes as I hug my mum and Husband's voice comes to me, unbidden.
"You are turning into y'Mother."

Chapter Two of the Aged Ps Holiday Special

I wake up, bleary-eyed and fractious after a night broken on the hour every hour by the sound of traffic roaring past beneath my bedroom window. For a second I think "I have spent the whole night on the M25!" Then I remember: I am at the Aged Ps' and I am taking Daughter to a residential course today, which is closer to the Aged Ps than to our own house. This is the principal reason why I have committed myself to eight days at their house ("committed" feels like a strangely appropriate word, under the circumstances). I leave Not-So-Small Boy and his cousins quietly watching TV; they are sitting on the forbidden Pink Sofa which now has a woollen rug spread over it to prevent these apparently out-of-control grandchildren from wrecking it.
"See you in a couple of hours," I say to Mother. "If you go out, text me and I'll come and join you."
"Yes, yes," says Mother, eyeing her small relatives anxiously. "I hope they won't spill anything on the Pink Sofa. I'm having an operation next week, I can't cope with any extra stress you know."
"I know," I say. "See you later."

I come back to the house two hours later to find the house is empty. I check my phone. No text. I call Lovely Sis, but her phone goes straight to voicemail. I envisage her juggling two small children and an enormous bag full of spare nappies, spare clothes and spare patience. I phone Dad instead.
"Hello, love! Where are you?"
"I was about to ask you the same thing," I say.
"We're in the park, by the sandpit, having lots of fun. Can you drive down, though, as I think it's going to rain?"
I get back into the car and drive down the High Street at the pace of a snail which has lost the will to go at a snail's pace. After a lot of steering wheel banging and talking to myself I see the reason why I am driving slower than even my two-year-old niece walks. There has been an accident and the road to the park is blocked. I am forced the long way around the one-way system and park in an over-priced car park and then run to the park to meet the others, who are now convened in the swimming pool cafe.
"You took your time," says Mother.
"Yes," I say. "Can we find somewhere to have lunch now, please?"
"We're having it here," says Mother.
I look around me. The air is so thick I am sure it would not pass the basic standards of environmental health and the menu is so deep fried it clogs my arteries just to read it.
"Here?" I say.
"Yes. What is the matter with here?" says Mother.
"How about everything?" I say.
"Ah, now, let's not get cross with one another," says Dad.
"How about we go to Pizza Express?" says Lovely Sis.
"Yay! Pizza Express!" says Not-So-Small Boy.
"Humpf," says Mother. "I don't know why you have to boss me around so much. I'm having an operation next week you know--"
"We know," chorus Dad, Not-So-Small Boy and I.
"Which is why Pizza Express will be so much better for you," says Lovely Sis, patiently. "You can have a salad there."
Lovely, Lovely Sis. You have saved the day again.

Bumper Action-Packed Summer Holiday Aged Ps Special: Chapter One

Star Wars vs Classics For All

We arrive at the Aged Ps' house, hot and flustered after enduring an extra hour of that particular brand of hell which only the M25 can offer.
"You took your time," says Mother.
"Hello, lovely to see you," I say. "Where's Dad?"
"Y'father is at Classics For All up at the Mansion House," says Mother. "I was invited too, but I didn't want to leave you all here unsupervised."
"Oh, we would have been all right," I say.
"No you wouldn't. It's total chaos here," says Mother. "We haven't really got enough room for everyone."
Lovely Sis and her children are staying too. After many complaints from Mother that "I never see you these days" we made a pact to come down together.
But now the reality of a house full of Lego, Playmobil, dolls in various states of undress (and in some cases decapitation) has hit Mother hard. It is not a scene that bears much resemblance to the happy picture she had in her head of everyone sitting round, watching the kids play quietly, stopping briefly to cuddle their Grandmother and tell her how much they love her.
"Auntie Anna! Auntie Anna!" My nephew hurls himself at me in an enthusiastic embrace and explodes into a coughing and sneezing fit, wiping snot down my front.
"They both have colds of course," says Mother. "Typical. I'm having an operation next week and I don't want to get a cold."
"They're not infectious," says Lovely Sis, with infinite patience. She expertly scoops up a litre of snot and disposes of it cleanly and efficently while preparing a snack for one child and dressing a Barbie doll for the other.
Daughter, Not-So-Small Boy and I are swiftly dragooned into a complicated Star Wars Lego-building session in which I am told by a five-year-old that I am "not very good at this". He is a perceptive child.
"No, Auntie Anna. That piece is the wrong colour. And this is Auntie D2. Stop calling it a robot! And I am going to be Dark Vader. OK?"
After much eye-rolling on the part of my nephew, the Lego is complete and the battles commence.
"Honestly, you are just like y'father," says Mother, watching me fire ammunition at "Auntie D2" and make asthmatic attempts at imitating "Dark Vader". "You always were obessed with Dr Who."
"Actually, this isn't Dr Who," says my nephew, shooting his grandmother a withering look. "You are all a bit rubbish at this, aren't you?"
Mother sighs dramatically. "Well, it is obvious no one needs me. I mean, I am the one having an operation next week, but no one seems interested."
"Watch out!" shouts Nephew, as his two-year-old sister decides she is not shy of us any more and careers across the room, knocking the Lego flying.
"Don't sit on the pink sofa!" shouts Mother.
"I hate Lego," says Daughter.
"I hate you," says Not-So-Small Boy.
Just as the War of the Worlds is about to erupt in the Aged Ps' living room, a cheery voice booms, "Hello!"
"Dad!" Lovely Sis and I shout in unison.
"Grandpa!" yell four grandchildren.
"Oh, it's you," says Mother.
"I've had a wonderful time, drinking wine and talking to the author Tom Holland about The Homeric Tradition and also how Sophocles would view the modern banking system. Fascinating," says Dad, slurring his words slightly. "Brandy anyone?"
"You - met - Tom - Holland?" breathes Mother.
Tom Holland is, in Mother's eyes, the sexiest thing on two legs: a young(ish) man who loves Classics and has had books published about the Romans.
"Yes," beams Dad. "But I'm sure you've had much more fun here."
Mother snarls.
Lovely Sis and I scoop up our kids and leave the room. Fast.
This is going to be the longest eight days of my life, I think, as I listen to Mother tearing strips off Dad. I regret not taking up the offer of a brandy while I had the chance.

My Nice Weekend

Daughter is revising.
She is making it clear to anyone who will listen that this constitutes the End of Life as We Know It. She has also stolen my desk chair and all my pens, used sheaths of my computer paper and interrupts my work constantly by slouching into the kitchen while foraging for food and sighing a lot behind a curtain of unwashed hair.
"It's not fair," she wails at regular intervals. "Revision sucks!"
I decide to cheer her up by cooking a family lunch which has been carefully chosen to contain a selection of her favourite things. I think of it as a sacrifice offered to appease the twin gods of Sulk and Despair. It seems to work for a few minutes: the offerings are consumed heartily, and laughter and jokes are shared, but as soon as the spoon clatters into the bowl a loud sigh is uttered.
"While I was eating that ice cream, my life was good," declaims Daughter. "But now I have to get back to work, so my life is rubbish again."
Husband and I exchange looks.
"I'll do the washing up," I say.
Daughter curls her lip at me. "Really?" she says, scorn and faux-Americana oozing from every letter of the word. (I think this is meant to mean something along the lines of: "Do you really think that is going to make me feel any better about the fact I have to REVISE?")
"And then," I continue, "I think I might sit and read the paper for a bit."
"Oh wow," says Daughter. "Get you and your nice weekend." She flicks her hair and leaves the room, her curse hanging in the air like a bad smell.
Alea iacta est, as the Aged Ps might say.

The curse takes effect, just as I am washing the last plate and am thinking, with a smile, of the cup of tea I will drink while sitting on the sofa with the newspaper spread across my lap.
I glance out of the window and see . . . the Dog racing to far side of the garden. That looks odd, I think, as she sniffs at something and--
"NOOOOOO!" I yell.
Too late, the Dog has rolled. And she only ever rolls in one thing. Fox poo.
I hide my head in my hands, and the vision of sofa, tea and newspaper disappears like the sun behind a Bank Holiday rain cloud.
The Dog returns, joyfully, to share her au de chien with the rest of the house, rubbing herself against me and the furniture as she passes. I run, screaming, to grab dog-shampoo, dog-lead and the jet hose.
Then just as I am rinsing the Dog's head and leaping to one side to avoid being sprayed by the Dog shaking herself on to me, Psycho Cat pounces on our one friendly robin. I dash to intervene, hose still in one hand, but am, again, too late. The bird is fluttering helplessly, one leg and one one wing broken. I hesitate as I try to decide whether to finish the dastardly deed myself or leave it to the cat, when through the kitchen door, I spot Jet, the other cat, who has leapt on to the remains of the roast chicken, her yellow eyes shining with glee.
"ARGH!" I yell, throwing the hose to the ground. "Someone HELP ME!"
Husband appears, grinning and covered from head to toe in stinking brown gloop.
"What on earth--?" I gawp.
"I was just making some weed compost," he explains cheerfully. "What's the matter?"
"The animals - dead bird - filthy fox poo - roast chicken!" I stammer.
"Ah," says Husband, surveying the scene. "So much for you and your nice weekend, eh?"

The Aged Ps Go 3D

The Aged Ps are back from their foray into the Roman sewers of Germany and are full of zest and get-up-and-go.
"It's me. Y'mother."
"Hello. How was the holiday."
"Go on, tell her!"
"Oh hello, Dad."
I am caught in yet another telephonic pincer movement from the Ageds.
"Oooh, yes! Well, guess what!" says Mother.
I sigh. Waiting for Godot might be a more profitable way of spending the evening than waiting for this stereophonic wittering to make sense. I decide to play along and guess what the blazes they are going on about.
"Erm, the sewers still had real live Romans in," I say.
"Don't be so stupid. You watch far too much Doctor Who," says Mother. "I blame y'father for introducing that drivel to you at a young age--"
"All right, so I can't guess what," I cut in.
"What?"
"She can't guess what," Dad explains helpfully. "About the you-know-what!"
"Oooh yes! The you-know-what!" squeals Mother. She takes a deep breath and I imagine the twinkling in her eyes as she girlishly prepares to unveil her latest news: "WE'VE GONE 3D!"
"Well, strictly speaking we have always been 3D, but what your mother means is--"
"WE'VE GOT A NEW TELLY AND IT'S 3D AND - AND - EVERYTHING!"
I hold the receiver slightly away from my ear and shout, "That's nice!"
"So now you will have to bring the grandchildren to come and see us, because our TV is better than yours," sasy Mother triumphantly. "Small Boy will be able to watch all his wildlife programmes IN 3D! And the animals will JUMP OUT AT HIM! It really is amazing you know, this 3D. And do you know you get to wear specs as well?"
How the Aged Ps will manage 3D glasses when they already have glasses for reading, glasses for driving, glasses for swimming, glasses for deciphering Latin inscriptions on the walls of Roman sewers and glasses for seeing whether it is gin or water they are drinking, I do not know.
"And they are BATTERY OPERATED!" Dad chips in.
"Battery operated glasses? What on earth--?" I begin.
"We have no idea why they are battery operated. In fact, we have no idea how to work the TV yet!" says Mother, giggling at the outrageousness of it all. "But I leave all that to y'father, as you know."
"Yes," I say.
"But the problem is, all I can do at the moment is set it up on the analogue setting," says Dad, his voice dropping to the low, serious I-used-to-be-a-lawyer pitch he uses when any technical language is involved. "And I haven't worked out all the business with the hard-drive storage and the internet streaming. But it's OK because we haven't gone digital yet."
"So," I say. "What you're saying is that you can't actually watch anything in 3D yet and you can't record anything or watch any of the digital channels?"
"NO!" shrieks Mum. "Isn't it hilarious?"
I take a moment to picture the Aged Ps sitting on The Pink Sofa (the one that shall not be sat on by anyone who dares not sit on it correctly, thereby failing to appreciate the importance of it as a central feature in the Aged Ps' lives). There they are, side by side, gin and tonics in hand, battery-operated 3D glasses on, earnestly peering at a programme on analogue BBC1 (which is still very much in 2D) and wondering why it's all gone blurry.
"Yes," I say. "Hilarious."

Don't Mention the Bowels!

The Aged Ps have given up calling in stereo because they are "far too busy", Mother explains.
"That's great!" I say, with feeling. The busier they are, the fewer and further between the phone calls. "So what have you been up to?"
"Going to funerals, mainly," says Mother with relished gloom. "Everyone we know is dropping like flies."
"Oh dear," I say.
"It'll be us next," says Mother. She then pauses dramatically.
I rack my brains for a suitable response. "Oh, I shouldn't think so," I say eventually.
"Well, y'father's having his cholesterol tested again, so goodness only knows what that'll throw up. And his bowels are behaving most strangely, so he's having a tube shoved up his–"
"Holidays!" I interject.
"No, that's not what I was going to say," says Mother. "Haven't you been listening?"
"Definitely," I say. "It's just I was remembering that the last time we spoke you said something about going on holiday soon."
"And me talking about y'father's bowels reminded you of that?" says Mother. "Mind you, I'm not surprised. His bowels do get jiggered up whenever we go away–"
"Yes, so where are you going?" I persist, struggling to dispel certain extremely unwanted images from my mind.
"Germany."
"Oh?" I am surprised. They usually go to Italy, Greece or Turkey to look at Roman remains. How nice, I think, they are having a change.
"Yes, we thought it would make a change," Mother says, echoing my thoughts. "So we are going to walk along some Roman sewers that run underneath Cologne cathedral."
"That's . . . slightly . . . different," I say, wondering how Dad will feel about this, given his present predicament. "Anything else?" Even the Aged Ps cannot be doing this all week, surely?
"There's a reproduction of a Roman fort we thought we'd see as well."
"Right. This is with a group is it? An organised tour?"
"Yes. But we're not going with anyone with know. We prefer our own company. Which is a good job really," she adds gloomily. "As everyone we know is dropping like flies at the moment. . .'
And so (to borrow from a myth from that other great Ancient Empire most beloved by the Aged Ps) as with Sisyphus and his boulder, we are back where we started.
"Oh dear," I say.
"It'll be us next," says Mother. "I've told y'father to be careful on holiday. I've told him, 'Whatever you do, don't mention The War.'"
On that baffling note, I wish them a gute Reise.
"Don't you mean gute Fahrt?!" says Mother with a snort. "Knowing your father's bowels at the moment, that would be more appropriate!"
"Probably," I say, quickly adding, "bye, then!"
I know when I'm beat. There's only so far I will go with certain conversational boulders, it being too obvious where they will lead. And I am not woman enough to go there.

WAR IS PEACE, HEALTHY IS SICK

I break off from cooking supper, looking up the scientific definition of "adaptation" for Small Boy, feeding the dog, shoving the cat off the butter dish, hanging out the washing, booking train tickets for Husband and policing Daughter's use of Facebook to call the Aged Ps. I know I should not shoehorn this duty into the evening as it will only end in my becoming frustrated, but they called last night and I ignored the phone, so if I do not call tonight, they will start ringing every hour on the hour until I crack. I am sure they were trained in Extraordinary Rendition at their ante-natal classes.
I breathe deeply and dial.
Luckily Dad answers.
(He always puts on his I-used-to-be-a-lawyer voice when answering the phone, announcing his full name and reciting back his telephone number. I half expect him to advise me that before proceeding I should know that he will be charging me £500 for his time.)
"Hello, it's me," I mutter, my head in the oven. (I am still fussing over supper, not resorting to ending it all - yet).
"Ah! Hello, love!" Dad relaxes into Normal Human Mode. "I'll just get your mother--"
"NOOOOO!"
Too late. There is an ear-shattering clattering noise in my ear and then a grumpy, "Hello."
"Hi," I sigh.
"I want to talk to you about the summer," says Mother.
"I'm fine and how are you?" I say.
"I am not very well, as you know, and I am going to have an operation in the summer--"
"I thought that wasn't definite?" I cut in before I have to listen to all the details of what is going on Down There again.
"Well it may be definite, so I need to plan what is happening this summer just in case it is definite," Mother snaps.
"O-kaaay," I say. "Well, we were thinking of coming to see you at the end of July as usual--"
"That's my point. The end of July is terrible because I might be definitely having my operation."
"Right. Well, we could leave it until you know for sure?" I suggest.
"No, you can't do that!" Mother protests. "I want to see you!"
"Yes, that's why I'm suggesting we come and visit," I say.
"But if you come and visit and I'm having my operation, then I won't see you," Mother says.
Dad sniggers.
"Well, why don't we put the dates in the diary and then when you know whether or not you're going to be having an operation--"
"Which I might definitely be--"
"Then we can make some firm decisions."
"But I want to SEE YOU!" Mother wails.
Dad sniggers again.
I am beginning to feel out of my depth. Mother has perfected the art of doublethink to the point that I am no longer sure that we are conversant in the same language.
I am now beyond frustrated. I knew I should have listened to that little voice telling me not to call.

The Drugs Don't Work

I brace myself to pick up the phone and call my parents. It has been a week since I have spoken to the Aged Ps; more specifically to Mother. It was not a conversation I am in a hurry to experience again, so it is with some relief that the call is answered in stereo.
"Hello?"
"Hello?"
"Hello, Mother. Hello, Dad."
(I am vaguely aware of us sounding like a Dr Seuss script . . . What would the next line be, I wonder? "Hello, daughter. I am mad.")
"Oh, look at that! We've all picked up the phone at the same time.What are the chances?" Dad chortles.
"Huh," says Mother.
I force my face into a rictus grin and squeeze out the words: "So, how are you?"
"I'm fine, love--"
"No, you're not," Mother cuts in. "Tell her."
"Well, it's true I had a spot of bother yesterday--"
"A SPOT OF BOTHER! YOU NEARLY DIED! YOUR LEGS SWELLED, YOU FELT DIZZY--"
"Oh dear, Dad. That doesn't sound good."
"No, well. I think it's those statins the doctor put me on for my cholesterol--"
"Huh," says Mother.
"And I think really I would prefer not to take them."
"Huh."
"So I've decided to change my diet instead--"
"CHANGE YOUR DIET? HUH! I'D LIKE TO SEE THAT!"
"Mum!"
"Huh?"
"Mum, maybe Dad's right - if he hasn't got on well with the drugs--?"
"Y'father is stubborn. Too stubborn to listen to any advice, aren't you?"
Silence.
"AREN'T YOU?"
"Actually," rejoins m'father. "I am not stubborn. I am just a little bit fed up with you nagging me."
"I am not nagging. I am telling you that it is too late to cut down on fat now. Your arteries have had years of being clogged up with all kinds of rubbish. If you think you can lower your cholesterol just by--"
"Erm, hel-loooo?" I say.
"Oh, hello!" says Dad. "You're still there, are you?"
"Huh," says Mother.
"So, these statins," I say. "Are these the same statins you didn't want to take yourself, Mother?"
"Huh . . . mutter, mutter." Click.
The line clears and I can hear my father loud and clear with no interruptions.
"That's better," says Dad, with feeling. "I can hear myself think now."
"Yes," I say. "Maybe you should conduct all future conversations with Mother over the phone. Then you could cut her off whenever you felt like it?"
"If only it were that simple," sighs Dad. "If only . . ."

The Aged Ps' Health Check

I call the Aged Ps one evening and have the rare pleasure of a chat with Dad without Mother picking up the other phone and echoing everything he says or correcting it. Dad, however, is sounding a little downtrodden.
"Y'mother thought it would be good idea to have a health check," he informs me wearily. "I can't say I see the point. If you find out something's wrong, you only worry. But she says she's worried already and she'd rather know exactly what she has to worry about."
"Oh dear," I say. "Well, best just to go along with it I suppose."
"Hmm. It's costing us a fortune though."
It transpires that said health check is to be carried out at a local hotel; the same hotel at which my grandmother's wake was held, I realise. I choose not to mention this fact.
"Bit weird, having a medical appointment in a hotel, isn't it?" I venture. It's not even a nice hotel. The last time I went there the paint was peeling off the walls and the food was along the lines of the catering I remember from school i.e. grey, cold and mostly unrecognisable as actual food.
"Yes," says Dad sighing. "But you know y'mother."
There is no answer to that.
We finish our chat, which surprisingly lasts for a good twenty minutes before Dad says, "Well, as you've probably realised, y'mother isn't in at the moment, so I'll get her to call you when she gets back."
"No really that won't be necess--" I cut in hastily.
"OK, bye then love." Dad puts down the phone.
Half an hour later, the phone rings. It is Mother. She proceeds to tell me everything I have already been told by Dad, only in a much more strident manner.
"I told y'father he needs to lose weight and watch his cholesterol," she barks. "So we're having a--"
"Health check, yes," I say.
"--at the hotel--" she goes on.
"Down the road," I say.
"And it's going to cost--"
"A fortune," I say. "I know, Dad's already told me."
"Oh, has he?" she said. "And did he tell you that I had to nag him into it? He never listens to a word I say."
I wonder why . . . "Didn't you have a check recently?" I say aloud. "I thought you'd had your cholesterol levels checked before Christmas?"
"Yes," says Mother. "But you know what I think about the medical profession. They don't know what they are talking about half the time. I think you can never be too careful and it's always good to get a second opinion - "
From a bunch of people in a hotel, I think. Hmm, yes, they're bound to give you more peace of mind than your own GP.
" - I need to know if I'm going to have an aneurism or a pulmonary embolism or a massive stroke," Mother finishes accusingly, as if I am personally plotting her downfall by one of these methods.
"OK!" I say, in my fake cheery voice. "Well, good luck with all that then."

I call the next day to see how they have got on. Dad answers. He sounds distinctly grumpy. "Well, we went. In The End," he adds ominously.
"Oh?"
"Yes. When it came to it, y'mother had a last minute panic, didn't she? She was up all night saying she didn't want to go as if there was something wrong she didn't want to know about it because it would make her worry, which is EXACTLY WHAT I SAID IN THE FIRST PLACE!"
"What's that?" Mother has picked up the other phone.
"Hi, Mum."
"Oh, it's you," she says.
"Yes. How did the health check go?"
"Bit disappointing really," she says. "It turns out we have absolutely nothing to worry about and we'll probably live for another twenty or thirty years at least."
"That's - great!" I say cautiously.
"No it's not," Dad retorts. "It means I'm going to have to go through this whole palaver over and over again for years and years until y'mother is satisfied that we actually do have something to worry about."
"Well, you know the medical profession," says Mother. "They don't know what they are talking about half the time. I think you can never be too careful and it's always good to get a second opinion."
"Yes, Mother," I say.
There really is no point in saying anything else.

The Aged Ps Go Berserk

Dad has joined a Swedish drinking society. No, you have not misread that sentence.
"It's called the BVs," he tells me.
"Sounds, ah, interesting," I say.
"Yes," says Dad. "I get to dress up as a Viking, drink Swedish beer and eat Swedish food. And the best of it is, we get to sing songs - in Swedish!"
I open my mouth to respond, but am at a complete loss.
I needn't worry, as Mother has already piped up in my other ear. "It's all bloody ridiculous, of course," she sneers. "But it keeps y'father quiet and gives me a night off, so I suppose that's something."
A night off from what? I wonder. Singing Swedish in the kitchen?
"So," I speak tentatively into the silence that crackles expectantly down the line. "Who are all the other people in the group?"
"Oh, I can't tell you," says Dad gleefully. "It's a secret society, you see. We are known offically as the Berserkers and Vikings and each of us has a name. There is a hierarchy too," he goes on. He is sounding more and more like an excitable ten-year-old who has just been admitted into the popular kids' gang at school. "You can progress from one stage to another once you have learnt the correct responses to certain questions."
"And the special handshakes," Mother guffaws. "It's like the Swedish Masons."
For once I have to agree with her.
(I Google it while I am on the phone to discover that the website is blocked and that I have to have a special password to be allowed to read anything about it at all. "Nytt anvandarnman och losenord" it tells me, sternly.)
"I'm going tonight," Dad continues, ignoring Mother. "And I've learnt all the questions and answers and if I get them right, I become a Hirdsmen."
"A herdsman?" I say.
"No," says Dad with infinite patience. "A H-irrrrds-men," he repeats in his best Swedish accent.
"Can anyone join?" I ask, breathing hard to supress my giggles.
"Absolut inte," says Dad, who seems to have gone into full-on Swedish mode now. "Sallskapet Basarkar et Vikingar genom inbjudan enbart. Och inga kvinnor ar tillatna."
"OK," I say in my fake Swedish accent. "Vell, I vould laik to buy some deorrrdorrant."
"Oh?" says Dad, playing along. "Ball or airsole?"
"Needer," I answer. "I vant it for my arrrmpits."
We fall about laughing and Mother slams her phone down in disgust.
"It's a shame that kvinnor aren't allowed in the BVs," I say, wiping tears of mirth from my cheeks. "I think I'd make rather a good Berserker woman."
"Ja," squeaks Dad, "Jag tror du skulle!"
Indeed.
God Jul minna vanner!

[The editor would like to apologise to any Swedish readers for grammatical and orthographic errors, which are no doubt legion ... Mainly because Blogger doesn't like writing in foreign.]

Hell On Earth or Goodwill to All Men?

I have had my head so deep in writing the final draft of my latest book that all contact with the outside world has stopped. Also domestic tasks have ground to a halt. This has not gone unnoticed by the rest of the family, but not in a way that could be described as helpful.

“I haven’t got any hockey socks,” says Daughter.

“Nor you have,” I reply from behind my laptop.

“You haven’t signed my homework diary,” says Small Boy.

“Nope,” I say.

“I don’t have any pants,” says Husband.

I lower my head behind my laptop and hide.

The laundry pile has mated with the washing up pile and is reproducing at an alarming rate.

The animals are on the point of declaring war. I forget to feed Psycho Cat and she retaliates by pulling the carpet away from the stairs in such a way to ensure that I trip and injure myself enough for it to hurt for several days, but not enough to prevent me from ever feeding her again.

I give the dog the shortest of walks and am repaid by baleful looks and much getting-under-my-feet at every available opportunity.

I forget to let the chickens out in the morning.

I forget to shut the chickens in at night.

Fortunately Mr Fox is evidently consumed with writing the final draft of his book too, so we have not been paid a visit.

In the midst of the chaos, the Aged Ps ring.

“How are you?” asks Dad.

“Well, OK. Just a bit hectic,” I reply. “I’m finishing my book.”

Mother picks up the other phone. “I hope you’re ready for Christmas,” she barks. “It’s only five weeks away, you know.”
“Christmas?” I repeat. Surely the words “it’s five weeks away” tell you everything you need to know about why I am not ready for it yet, I say. But only to myself.

“Yes. Christmas,” says Mother. “I need to know what you all want.”

Mother does this to me every year, and every year I manage to forget that this is what she does. She makes asking me what I want for Christmas sound like asking me what form of execution I would prefer.

“I – I don’t know,” I say, staring, dead-eyed, at the wall for inspiration. “Nothing.”
“You can’t want nothing,” she says, disgusted. And then in the same breath, “Mind you, people make far too much of a fuss over Christmas these days. It’s all spend, spend, spend. And it starts earlier and earlier every year. Really, with the state the economy is in, it should be banned.”
“I agree,” I lie. I actually love Christmas, but I love it at Christmas time, not in the middle of November.

There is an uneasy pause. I never agree with Mother on anything. The fact that I just have seems to have thrown her.

“So,” says Mother, eventually. “Would your husband like Max Hasting’s new book on the Second World War? It’s called All Hell Let Loose.”

Sounds like a description of the sort of time we have as a family at Christmas, I think.

“Er, I’m not sure. I’ll ask him,” I say.

“Because I would like it for myself, actually,” says Mother.

“O-kaay,” I say.

“So what do you want for Christmas? Because I need to know,” she persists.

I think about saying “Peace on earth and goodwill to all men” just to annoy her. In the end I say, “Clarins face wash?”

This, it would seem, is the right answer.

I put the phone down with a sigh of relief and return to my deadline, Christmas forgotten about until the next time she calls.

Which will be tomorrow when she will announce that she has bought Husband the Max Hasting’s book and that he can give it to her if he doesn’t want it, and that she hasn’t been able to find Clarins face wash in Sainsbury's, so she's bought me a copy of the Max Hasting's book too.

Joy to the world, and all that.