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.

The Very Important Birthday

Mother is back on form, having been finally assured by her doctor that she may resume "normal activities". I am thinking that most people would take that to mean resuming an exercise regime or going back to eating habits formerly proscribed by the doctor during the period of illness. I don't know. What I do know is that "normal activities" for Mother comprise resuming badgering her family with phone calls delivered in an obstreperous tone with Dad on the other end to maximise the effects of stereophonic insanity.
To bastardise Jeanette Winterson's latest book title: "Why be normal when you could derive enormous pleasure from driving your family round the bend?"

"Yfather and I sat on the M11 for two hours last night," she informs me. "I've said it before and I'll say it again -" [sharp intake of breath] " - there are too many people in this country."
"It wasn't that bad, dear," Dad pipes up on the other line. "We spent a lovely time listening to our Italian CD."
"Harrumph," says Mother. "We could have done that at home in comfort instead of being stuck in a traffic jam of immigrants--"
"What were you doing on the M11?" I ask, more to cut Mother off at the chase than because I need to know the answer.
"We went to see y'sister, didn't we?" snaps Mother. "She's 40 now, you know."
"Yes, I did know," I say.
"Well," sniffs Mother. "Everyone seems to have forgotten that I have a Very Important Birthday coming up soon."
She pauses.
I pause too before saying, "Oh?"
Mother's Very Important Birthday is not until August 2013. My poor sister has literally only just celebrated hers. But of course, this is nothing compared to what Mother is building up to.
"I," says Mother, "I . . . shall be SEVENTY."
Pause again.
I had forgotten that getting older was a competitive event on a par with entering an Olympic heptathlon.
"So you shall," I say.
"Well, I hope you're going to make a fuss of me," says Mother. "No one ever makes a fuss of me on my birthday."
Perhaps that's because by the time the nine month gestation period between the announcing of the event and its actual occurrence has elapsed, any enthusiasm we may have had about a celebration has worn so thin you could use it as cling film to wrap the party food in. And even if we do throw our all into a knees-up or a special present, it is generally met with comments along the lines of, "Well, I didn't think much of the meal/present/party/guests."
"Are you still there?" asks Mother.
"Yes, dear. I'm still here," says Dad.
"I meant y'daughter!" Mother says. "Is y'daughter still there? It's gone very quiet."
"Yes, I'm still here," I say.
"So are you going to make a fuss of me or not?"
"Am I going to make a fuss of you in nine months time when you turn seventy?" I ask.
"Well, if you're going to put it like that . . ."
"She didn't mean anything by it," says Dad.
"Yes she did. Everyone else gets spoilt on their birthday. What about me . . . "
I put the phone down gently on the table and let Mother and Dad talk to each other for a bit while I start jotting down ideas of how to survive the next nine months.
Maybe I should join the traffic jam of immigrants on the M11.

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.

It's a Tangled Web We Weave

"I'm thinking of joining The Face Book," Mother announces.
"Oh," I reply.
What the Dickens has prompted this? Has Mother read something in the Torygraph about Trojans and taken it to mean that the Ancient World is now accessible via the web?
My mind goes into freefall as I imagine her going back through my timeline, reading the inanities I have posted for the past five years (not to mention finding her way on to this blog). All I can think is, "I must stop this. I must stop this NOW."
"I thought it would be the best way to keep in touch, since I never see you or speak to you," she presses on.
I hold my breath to prevent myself from reminding her of our eight-day stay which is still so fresh in my mind, I feel I have driven away from my childhood home only seconds ago.
"And I never get to speak to my granddaughter now that she has become" [audible shudder] "a TEENAGER."
"Ah, well she's not likely to respond on Facebook either," I say, thinking OH MY GOODNESS, IF MOTHER CATCHES EVEN A GLIMPSE OF DAUGHTER AND HER FRIENDS ON FACEBOOK WE WILL HAVE TO GET ON THE NEXT SHUTTLE TO MARS TO ESCAPE THE FALL-OUT. "And the other thing is I'm not sure you've got the time to check all the news feeds and so on," I continue.
"News Feeds?"
"Yes, and then there's all the palaver of what to stick on your wall and who to befriend or de-friend and whether or not you've been poked."
I hardly know what any of these things mean myself, so I am hoping this is jargon on the level of Dawkins-esque genetics for Mother.
"Ah," says Mother.
"And then there's the added problem that Dad turns the WiFi off after ten o'clock every night, so you would only have a limited window in the evening to update your status anyway--"
"So what exactly is The Face Book for anyway?" Mother says, cutting into my mounting hysteria.
"Oh, it's a load of nonsense really," I say. "To be honest I think you would find it rather silly. It's just banter. And chit-chat." I carefully emphasise two words I know will immediately cast a pall on the idea of joining the social network.
"What kind of - banter?" Mother says. Thank heavens. I can hear her eyes narrow as she speaks.
"Well, to give you the most recent example," I say, "there's been a lot of talk this week about the new series of Dr Who--"
"That rubbish?!" Mother spits. "Oh well, in that case. I won't bother."
Phew. That was close.
"I think I might start Twittering instead."

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 Four of the Aged Ps Holiday Special

It is the weekend, and Husband has come down to join me and Not-So-Small Boy at the Aged Ps'. Mother has often commented that "It would be nice to see your husband once in a while. I'm beginning to think he doesn't think much of us," so it is with some bafflement that news of his arrival is greeted with the words:
"When is he leaving?"
"I - er - Monday morning, I suppose," I say.
"Monday morning? MONDAY MORNING?" cries Mother. "But that's when I'm going in for my operation. He can't be here when I have to go in for my operation."
"It's OK, I'm sure he'll be leaving really early," I assure her. Mother is looking rather wild, I notice. I take a deep breath. "I will make sure he leaves before you do. I will drive him to the station myself. Now, how about I cook supper tonight to give you a rest?"
Mother glances anxiously about the kitchen. "I don't know what food I've got - if I've got to feed Him as well," she says pointedly.
"It's fine. I'll go shopping--"
Too late, Mother is already rootling aggressively through the fridge, chucking things over her shoulder as she gives me a running commentary on what is "going off" or "needs using up".

I collect Husband and warn him on the way to the Aged Ps' that Mother is liable to explode at any moment, "So tread softly," I say.
He and Not-So-Small Boy behave impeccably, helping me get supper and laying the table out in the garden. The Ageds come out to inspect.
"That looks lovely," says Dad appreciatively.
"We're not eating outside, are we?" says Mother, eyeing the cloudy sky. "I mean, I know they say the Gulf Stream is moving north, but knowing my luck that won't be until I'm in hospital." She fixes Husband with a steely glare. "I'm going to have an operation on Monday, you know."
Husband sets his jaw. "I know," he says.

Supper goes smoothly, with not a spot of rain to marr the proceedings. Mother smiles and thanks me and says how nice it is to all be together. The Ageds finish their meal and Mother announces she is going to put her feet up and watch the cricket Dad has recorded for her.
All's well that ends well, I think.
But then--
"I, er, I don't think I did record it actually," says Dad sheepishly.
"WHAT?" Mother shouts. "YOU DIDN'T RECORD THE CRICKET? WHY NOT??!! YOU STUPID *&%$£?!"
Dad cowers as Mother chases him into the house, shaking her fists at him and using extremely colourful vocabulary.
I cover Not-So-Small Boy's ears while Husband looks on in amusement. He turns to me and says with a grin, "You wouldn't think she was having an operation on Monday, would you?"

Chapter Three of the Aged Ps Holiday Special

Lovely Sis has to leave this morning. She has a mammoth train journey to do with her two little ones, so she has to start off after breakfast.
"I suppose you've had enough of us," says Mother, arms folded defensively.
"No, no, not at all," says Lovely Sis. She is crawling around on her hands and knees, giving the house a final professional mine-sweep for miniscule Lego pieces.
Mother sighs. "Well, you haven't stayed for long," she says.
Not-So-Small Boy frowns and whispers to me, "I thought Grandma wanted them to go. I thought she said that it was Total and Utter Chaos here and that she didn't have enough room for us all?"
"Shall we go for a swim later?" I ask him, in a lame attempt at changing the subject.

Mother returns from ferrying Lovely Sis and her brood to the station. 
"So can we go swimming now?" asks Not-So-Small Boy.
I look out of the window at the gathering clouds and curse myself for not thinking of a better way of diverting my son from offending my mother earlier that morning.
But I am going to have to do something with him as he has become worryingly bouncy, having been kept inside for twenty-four hours. He is, in fact, performing a particularly bouncy routine perilously close to the infamous Pink Sofa.
Mother leaps in between him and the precious piece of furniture. "Don't jump on the--!"
I cut in. "He's just getting a bit cabin-feverish. But it's OK," I reassure her. "I'll take him to the pool. You stay here and have a rest."
"Why would I want to have a rest in the middle of the morning?" snaps Mother.
"I, er, I just thought, what with your operation and everything--"
"Don't be stupid. I'll come with you."
Which is how I find myself swimming up and down the outdoor pool under a lowering, grey sky, trying to think of yet another variation on the game "let's swim under water for as long as we can without drowning" while Mother swims length after length alongside a woman of about the same age as her. Occasionally I catch snippets of their conversation.
"So they all come to visit and once and make a mess and it's frankly exhausting."
"Oh, I know! It's dreadful . . ."
"And I'm having an operation next week . . ."
"Oh, my husband had to have his feet done and they kept him in for weeks . . ."
"And the doctor said, 'I can't tell you to have this operation, I can only advise you . . .' And what good is that?"
"Oh I know! Doctors . . . they don't make you feel very good about yourself, do they?"

"Well, that was a lovely swim," says Mother once we are out of the water. "And I met such a nice lady."
"Oh, I thought you two knew each other," I say.
"No, no, but it was just nice to meet someone who is actually interested. I told her all about the fact that I am having an operation next week, and she was so kind." She glared at me pointedly.
Not-So-Small Boy and I make our excuses and go to have a shower. I am hanging up the towels and getting our shampoo when I feel an insistent tug on my arm. It is Not-So-Small Boy, trying to drag me away to see something.
"Come and look and this!" he says in hushed tones. He gestures to a class which is going on in the indoor pool. "What are they DOING?!" my son asks, his eyes wide.
I stifle a giggle. "I think that is Grandma's Aqua-aerobics exercise class," I say. "She would normally have gone today, but she didn't want to because of her operation."
"Exercise class?" my son echoes. "But they aren't DOING ANYTHING!" he protests. "They are just floating. Anyone can do that."
"Ssh!" I hiss, as Mother comes to find us.
"Oh thank goodness I didn't go to Aqua-aerobics today," she says, looking in on the class. "I feel worn out just watching them, don't you?" 
I glance back at the rows of silver-haired, rotund sixty-somethings as they bob merrily up and down on coloured woggles to the tune of "Tears of a Clown". I picture Mother doing this while telling everyone about how her daughters never come and visit and when they do they make a mess and how they just don't understand that she is having an operation next week . . .
"Yup," I nod. "It makes you feel like lying down and never getting up again."

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.

Another Roman Holiday for the Aged Ps

It has been quiet for the past week as the Aged Ps have been on holiday. Again. But now they are back and have left three messages in the space of an hour, the tone of which becomes increasingly panicky when it is clear no one is picking up.
"Hello, it's y'Mother. We're back from a lovely holiday in Lake Garda. It really was very relaxing."
[How nice for you. It has rained non-stop here and we have all been working.]
"Hello. I rang to tell you we're back but you are obviously out."
[I know you did. We have been busy.]
"Hello. Hello? Hello! Where are you? We are back!"
[All right! All right! I surrender!]
I have fifteen minutes before I have to drop off one child and pick up the other before then taking the dog and cats to the vet, so I call.
"Hello! I got your messages," I say.
"Oh, it's you," says Mother. "We got back hours ago."
"I know. Like I say, I got your messages. So, how was it?"
[off-stage to Dad] "It's your eldest daughter. *mutters* At last."
There is a familiar clattering noise as Dad picks up the other phone. "Hello, love! We had a lovely time thanks. The weather was great--"
"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say that," Mother chips in.
"Ahem, so apart from the weather?" I ask, forcing myself not to mention the storms and fallen trees and cut-off phone lines in the UK. "What about the friends you went with? How did that go?"
Mother takes and deep breath and says, "Well . . . !"
Oh, foolish, foolish me! Why do I never learn?! Quick, change the subject - anything, anything - even Tony Blair would be a better topic of conversation . . . Too late--
"I wouldn't exactly call them friends," says Mother. "I mean, John's all right, but his wife is a pain. Jane the Pain, I've decided to call her."
Original.
"She's not--" Dad tries.
"She is! She never wants to go and look at any interesting Roman Remains. She wants to sit and drink. And she goes on and on about her aches and pains, which is so tedious. Apparently she had a problem with her piles. Disgusting! No one wants to hear about that, do they? I mean, take the problems I've been having Down There - it's agony, I'm telling you. But I don't go on and on about it, do I? And then there's y'father's cholesterol. But we just don't talk about these things. Not like her. And the amount she drinks! Which reminds me, did I leave my G & T in the kitchen, Father?"
"Er, I think you finished it," says Dad.
"No, I didn't! You must have drunk it by mistake--!"
"SO!" I shout. "Anything else about the holiday?"
"All I can say is, it's the last time I go away with people I know," says Mother. "The good thing about going on an organised tour is that you are with like-minded people who want to do the same things as you, but afterwards you say goodbye and you never need see them again."
And I am sure the feeling is mutual, I think.
But I don't say so. I wouldn't dare.

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 Aged Ps Ring To Share Their Latest Purchase - With Each Other

The Aged Ps have been on the phone in stereo rather a lot this holiday. They seem to think that because the children are on holiday I must be too, and that that will mean I will be standing by the phone at all hours, just waiting for the latest update on their health, holiday plans, latest purchases and trips to Tunbridge Wells, the one-way traffic system, speed bumps, Waitrose versus Sainsbury's, and exactly what they think about Ken Livingstone.
Today's call is typical of the kind of thing I have sat and listened to over the past three weeks.
"It's me," says Mother. "How are you?"
"Oh, well I've got a bit of a cold actually--"
"Really. Well, y'father and I are feeling a bit under the weather, so we thought we'd go and buy ourselves something to cheer us up," says Mother.
"That's nice," I say, cracking open a fresh crate of gin. (It's only ten thirty, but needs must.)
"Yes," says Dad. "So we bought a book called '50 People Who Buggered Up Britain' by Quentin Letts."
"That sounds, er, edifying?" I offer.
"It missed out a few people though," says Dad.
"Well, it would have done, wouldn't it?" says Mother. "There are only 50 people in the book, and we know there are more than 50 people who have buggered up Britain, so--"
"Hello!" I shout. "I am still here!"
"Who's that?" says Mother.
"Me, your daughter?" I say. "You phoned me."
"Did we?" asks Dad. "That's funny. I thought I was talking to y'mother."
"And I thought I was talking to y'father," says Mother.
"You were, but-- nevermind," I say. "So, what have you been up to - other than reading about people buggering up Britain?"
"Well, for a start we've not been sleeping," says Mother.
"You've been sleeping," says Dad.
"No, I haven't," says Mother.
"Yes, you have. I heard you snoring," says Dad.
"Well that wasn't me," says Mother.
"HELLO!" I try again.
"Who's that?"
"Well, it's been lovely talking to you both," I say, "but I must get on."
"Why?" says Mother. "I thought you were on holiday. I haven't told you what I think of Ken Livingstone yet."
"He should be number 51!" chortles Dad.
"He should bloody well be number 1!" scoffs Mother.
"And what about that ghastly Tony Blair?" chips in Dad.
"Bye then!" I whisper, and put the phone down.

Competitive Hypochondria

Mother is feeling hard done by. For a change.
"Y'father's been getting far too much attention because of his cholesterol and his statins and his leg and his operation, and I just want someone to give me a bit of a fuss," she announces.
"Oh?" I say.
"Yes, I'm not feeling too good myself, you know."
"Oh?"
"Stop saying 'oh'! I have decided it's about time I went to see a gynaecologist," she says.
"O-oh."
There is a pause while I digest this information. I don't really know what to say. I have no intention of asking for the details of her latest medical needs if they involve an account of what is going on Down There.
But, inevitably, Mother does not wait to be asked.
I contemplate putting the phone down, covering my ears and singing, "La-la-la! Can't heeeeaaaar yoooouuu!" while she witters on at length, but I know I will only be tested on it all later, so I grit my teeth and let the words waft over me.
"Well, that all sounds, er, very uncomfortable," I offer, once she has finished. "I can see why it would be a good idea to go to the doctor about it."
"Yes," says Mother. "But, of course, it's not as simple as that, is it?"
"It isn't?" I am racking my brains for a good excuse to get off the phone. It would have to be an emergency situation to warrant cutting Mother off in full flow. Why won't the sofa catch fire or the dog be sick or a child fall out of a tree when you want them to? I think.
"Are you still there?" Mother shouts.
"Wha-- oh, yes, sorry I was just looking at - the cat," I say.
"You see, even my own daughter is too busy to listen to me. I don't know why I--"
"I am listening and I am still here," I butt in. I don't want to risk her repeating all those unmentionable symptoms again. "You were saying that it's not easy getting a doctor's appointment," I prompt.
"And that's putting it mildly!" she scoffs. "I just cannot believe that anyone can tell me the NHS is 'sacred'. No one does any bloody work there if you ask me. I only want the receptionist to arrange an appointment with a specialist, and she has the gall to say there's too much paperwork involved! I'm going to have to phone her again today to give her a piece of my mind . . ."
I wonder whether I should offer to phone this receptionist myself and give her a piece of advice instead: "Do the paperwork. If you don't, Mother will be on the phone every single day from here until eternity giving you A Piece of Her Mind. Not to mention a graphic account of what is going on Down There."
But instead I nod, mutter "Oh dear" in all the appropriate places and wait until the conversation has reached its natural conclusion.
"Anyway, I must go. It's University Challenge."
CLICK.
I never thought I would say this, but God Bless Jeremy Paxman.

Birthday Revenge

Dad and I almost share a birthday.
As Mother reminds me every year, "You were two weeks late. And as if that wasn't bad enough, when you did finally decide to arrive, you made y'father burn his sausages."
For the past couple of years, Dad and I have celebrated together. In other words, the Aged Ps have come to stay at Hotel Wilson and I have spent my birthday cooking, washing and cleaning while they sit, huddled on the sofa and Mother bemoans the fact that it's too cold or too hot and how much she hates the drive from east to west and how the daffodils are much better in Kent.
This year I have decided not to invite them.
I do ring Dad on his birthday, though, to wish him well.
"Hi, Dad! Happy Birthday! Hope you've had a good day?"
"No, he hasn't actually," says Mother.
"Oh."
"He hasn't had many cards. As usual my useless brother didn't send him one. And your present hasn't arrived. And we haven't done anything special at all."
"Well, I'm sorry about that, Dad. I ordered it a week ago so--"
"It's OK, love," says Dad. "I'm sure it's on its way."
"Humpf," says Mother. "Y'sister sent him a very nice parcel. Of things. More than one present in actual fact. Including a very useful book about how to cook for a low-cholesterol diet. I don't suppose you even knew that y'father has high cholesterol--?"
"Yes. I did. So, that was a good idea. Anyway, I hope you got my card at least, Dad?"
"Yes," he chortles. "Very funny."
Dad and I compete every year to find each other the silliest card. This year I found a cartoon of a grandfather and grandson contemplating a birthday cake with the child saying "I want a Wii" and the old man responding, "Me too, this coffee's gone right through me." (Well, it appeals to our sense of humour, anyway. . .)
"All I can say is, wait till you get your card!" Dad adds mischievously.
"Ha!" says Mother with an evil cackle. "I don't suppose you'll like it."
"I can't wait," I say.

Small Boy is up at six on my birthday. He is almost as excited about me turning forty-two as he was about turning eleven.
"Time for your presents and cards!" he trills, bouncing into bed with me.
"Uh? Oh - lovely. Go and get your sister," I mutter, one eye open.
Daughter shuffles in groaning. "I hate mornings. And I hate you." I think this last comment is directed at her brother, though I couldn't be sure. "Here," she says, giving me a small packet of fudge.
"Thank you, darling."
"I haven't got you anything," says Small Boy. "But you've got loads anyway. Open this card! It's from Grandma and Grandpa. I can tell cos I can't read the writing."
I steel myself for the contents.
It is a cartoon of a woman in curlers, looking at her reflection and crying: "Oh no! It's Mother!"
Inside Dad has put a row of exclamation marks and Mother has written: "I don't think this is true. Y'father chose it."
"What does it mean?" asks Small Boy.
Daughter curls her lip. "It's not very nice. Why did they choose it?"
"Oh, it's revenge," I say. "For Grandpa burning his sausages forty-two years ago . . ."

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 . . ."

Mother's Selective Memory Loss

Mother rings. I can tell from the first word she utters that she is in One of Her Moods.
"Hello."
That's all it takes. One tight-lipped, two-syllable word and my hackles are already up.
"Hello," I say, forcing a bit of bright-and-breeziness into my voice.
"I hear you're going on holiday," she says. She says it as if what she actually means is: "I hear you've just murdered a small child and eaten its pet kitten for breakfast."
"Ye-ess," I say. "I told you at Christmas that we were going skiing at half term."
"No you didn't."
I breathe in deeply and let the air out slowly through inflated cheeks. "I did," I say. "I also told you last week when you told me you couldn't speak to me as you were watching University Challenge."
"Nonsense. And how am I supposed to know when half term is anyway? You never tell me anything about your life and I never speak to the grandchildren."
"O-kaaay," I say. "Well, it's half term this weekend and we are going skiing."
"Stupid idea. You'll only break something."
"Probably. How are you?"
"Y'father's leg's playing up but I've had a lovely time playing bridge and going to a birthday party and we are going to Cambridge this weekend. We wanted to go and spend half term with y'sister, but she--"
"I thought you didn't know when half term was?" I say.
"Er, well, how am I supposed to know that your half term is the same as their half term? Anyway, that's not the point. What should I get y'daughter for her birthday. That's over half term, isn't it?" she says in an almost-change-of-subject.
I bite the inside of my cheeks and punch a poor unsuspecting cushion very hard indeed. The dog scuttles to take refuge in her basket in case she is next in line. "Yes, but you've already got her something," I remind Mother. "You bought her a jacket for Christmas and said that it would have to do for her birthday as well."
"I did not."
"You did--"
"Well, I want to be a lovely grandma who my grandchildren think fondly of, so I want to get her another present. And by the way, I hope she thinks of me every time she wears that jacket."
"I'm sure she does, Mother," I say.
Even the dog is rolling her eyes.
I replace the receiver with quiet deliberation and then go into the larder.
Husband comes home minutes later to meet me coming out of the larder, red faced, fists clenched, eyes wild.
"What on earth's the matter?" he asks.
"I've been swearing in the larder," I say.
"Swearing in the larder is still swearing," he says, with a raise of the eyebrows.
"I know," I say. "And I'll be going back in there in a minute if you don't stop looking at me like that."
Husband sighs. "The holiday couldn't come a moment sooner," he says, shaking his head at me sorrowfully.

Carry on Moaning

Mother is following the general trend of neediness. She phones to tell me that she is feeling miserable.
"Oh?" I say.
"Well, y'father's got to go into hospital to have his varicose veins removed."
"Yes, poor Dad," I say.
"What do you mean, poor Dad?" Mother scoffs. "Poor me, more like!"
There is a prolonged silence while Mother waits for me to concur.
"It's so much worse for me than it is for him," she says, when it transpires that I do not concur.
"How's that then?" I sigh.
"Well, he's got to have a general anaesthetic, hasn't he?" she says.
"Yes, poor Dad."
"It's all right for him," Mother sniffs. "He'll be out of it; he won't know what's going on. Whereas I," she pauses dramatically, "I will be up all night, tossing and turning and worrying myself sick about whether or not he'll survive."
"What have the doctors said about this operation?" I ask.
"What do you mean?"
"Have they reassured you that it is a simple, routine operation? Have they told you not to worry? Have they--"
"Oh yes, they've said it's a 'routine' operation all right, and they've said that there's 'nothing to worry about', too, but what do they know? You know my opinion of the medical profession . . ."
And she's off.
I pour myself a glass of wine and allow my mind to wander while Mother recites the well-known chapter and verse which is "her opinion of the medical profession". I often wonder if this opinion stems solely from the fact that her younger brother is a GP.
"Are you listening?" Mother says.
"What? Oh yes, of course. So, give my love to Dad and wish him well," I say.
"Thanks, love!" trills Dad.
I jump and spill my wine. "Flip!"
"Sorry, love," Dad chortles. "Didn't mean to scare you. I was just listening in."

I call the next day to see how Dad has got on. He is home already and sounds chirpier than ever.
"I had a lovely time," he says. "I had salmon for tea and, between you and me, it was nice to have a break from - things," he adds cryptically.
"What's that?" Mother barks down the other phone.
"Nothing, love!" Dad replies, and replaces his receiver with a clatter.
"Dad sounds very chipper," I say to Mother.
"Humpf," says Mother. "Yes. It would seem so."
"That's good," I say.
"Whereas I," she pauses dramatically, "I was up all night, tossing and turning and worrying--"
"And as it turned out, you didn't need to," I say. "The doctors obviously knew what they were talking about and everything has gone smoothly."
"Humpf," says Mother. "I wouldn't go so far as to say that. You know my opinion of the medical profession . . ."
Indeed I do, Mum, indeed I do.

The Perfect Christmas Lunch

We have survived church.Husband sprints down the road making muffled excuses about having to "save the turkey", leaving me to whisk the Aged Ps out of the door before they can get the vicar in a corner and tell him what Richard Dawkins would have to say about his sermon.
Small Boy has almost reached the point of spontaneous combustion by this point.
"CAN WE OPEN OUR PRESENTS THE MINUTE WE GET IN?" he hollers, bouncing up and down in the middle of the pavement in front of me.
"You take them into the sitting room while Dad and I put the veg on for lunch and then we will open them, I promise," I mollify him.
"I hope the turkey will be done on time," says Mother.
"I'm sure it will be," I say.
"Did you know that it takes until you are 47 to perfect cooking Christmas lunch?" says Mother. "You've still got six years to go - ha!" she adds.
Small Boy rushes in to get the presents from under the tree and has them organised into separate piles for each person before I have had time to take my coat off.
"What's this one?" he asks, running up to me with a small packet which appears to be addressed to Mother - from Mother.
"Er, I don't know. Must be a mistake," I say.
"No, it's not a mistake," Mother says. "That present is for me."
"But it also says it's from you," says Small Boy.
"Yes, well. I don't get many presents," she says sniffily. "And I bought your mother the same thing in a two for one deal, so I thought I'd keep the free one."
I concentrate my energies on the roast potatoes and leave Small Boy to ponder on the appropriateness of this version of gift-giving.
Dad, meanwhile, has ferretted out a bottle of bubbly and cracked it open with the excuse that he has to "toast my brother in South Africa at this time of day". It is only 11:30, but frankly I am not going to turn down a glass the way I am feeling.
"SO CAN WE OPEN THE PRESENTS YET?" Small Boy yells, dancing around dangerously near a pan of sizzling hot fat.
"Yes, yes," I say, waving him out of the kitchen.
"Is that turkey all right?" Mother asks. "Why don't you let me help? After all, technically I perfected the cooking of Christmas lunch 21 years ago!" She laughs heartily.
Small Boy and Daughter are ripping the wrapping paper off the iPods we have given them. Once opened, there ensues a tedious exchange of texts, which unfortunately I am party to, and which goes something like this:

- Hello. This is me. Is that u?

- Who is this? I cant see ur name.

- u r a loser.

- Not Im not Im kl.

- This is Mum. Please stop texting me while I'm trying to cook.

- Hello. Is that Mum?
- no its not u loser.

- I dont hv a username do u?

- SHUT UP!

Mother quickly gets huffy as she doesn't have an iPhone or iPod so feels she is missing out. "I don't agree with all this technology anyway," she says. "The Kindle's rubbish for a start. I find I can't remember anything I've read on the Kindle! It's as if it wipes my memory the minute I've finished with it. And as for texting . . . " She fishes out her own archaic brick of a mobile. "I mean, it doesn't even work." She begins prodding at the keyboard and swearing. "Take a look at this, can't you?" she says, thrusting it under Dad's nose. "I want to send a text to our other daughter. Seeing as no one here is talking to me." She glares at her grandchildren. "But every time I press send, it doesn't do anything."
Dad frowns, presses a few buttons and says, "You've sent the same text ten times already."
"Well how on earth am I supposed to know that?" Mother says, throwing up her hands in despair.
"Never mind, Mum," I say, downing another glass of bubbly. "Technology is kind of the opposite of Christmas lunch."
"What do you mean?"
"If you haven't perfected it by the time you're 47, you're most unlikely ever to be able to manage it," I say with a grin. "Oh, look at that. The turkey's ready. Lunch anyone? Or would you like to wait another six years, just in case it's not perfect?"