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.

On The Twelfth Day of Christmas My Mother Said To Me

Mother calls to remind me that it is time to take the Christmas decorations down. "I know," I tell her. "I probably should have done it before the kids went back to school but I can never bring myself to. I wish I could leave them up for the whole of January to be honest." "Oh no!" Mother exclaims in horror. "You can't do that! It's terribly bad luck to leave them up after Twelfth Night." And why would that be? I feel like asking. Will a nasty beardy man called Herod come and slit Small Boy's throat if there are still fairy lights around the door on 6th January? Will three wise visitors arrive bearing gifts and then sorrowfully tell me that they are not for me and could I please point them eastwards? "Are you listening?" Mother says. "Yes, sorry, just looking at the decorations and feeling sad," I say. "Well if the Christian church hadn't ruined the perfectly good festival of Saturnalia we wouldn't have to worry about Christmas decorations at all!" says Mother, gleefully. "Yes mother," I say. It's normally the best response when such topics arise, I have found. Even if there are a million other responses I can think of. "So you won't forget, will you?" she continues. "Sorry, forget what?"  "To take the decorations down. We can't start the new year with bad luck. Not after last year. And it was a terrible year, wasn't it--?" "Yes, no - I won't forget," I cut in hastily before I am subjected to a re-run of Mother's Annus Horribilis speech. As I put down the phone I ponder over the many superstitions I have been brought up with. Mother's list of Things That Will Bring Bad Luck include: Crossing on the stairs Walking under ladders Throwing salt over your shoulder after you've accidentally spilt some Horseshoe hung upside down over a door Breaking a mirror (SEVEN WHOLE YEARS BAD LUCK for this one) Seeing one magpie (she always commanded that we quickly look for another - although I would say more than one is worse, the pests...) Putting new shoes on the table "What was Grandma calling about?" asks Small Boy. I tell him and explain about the superstitions. "It's funny, though," I say. "Because I was born on Friday 13th, and she's never said anything about that." "FRIDAY 13th?" exclaims Small Boy with a shiver. "Ooo, no wonder she's never mentioned that." "Oh. Why?" "That would be like admitting that she's the mother of a zombie-vampire," he says, raising one eyebrow. "And that would be the worst luck of all." I suppose he's got a point there. Although if that nasty beardy man did come and try to slit Small Boy's throat, maybe I could take a chunk out of his neck in revenge.

The Aged Ps' Christmas Speech

Mother is gearing up for her Christmas Day Speech which she prepares every day as a rival to Her Majesty's. Ever since the Queen announced she had had an "annus horribilis", Mother has felt the need to compete. Once the lunch has been consumed, the crackers cracked and the pudding set on fire, Mother can be relied upon to sit back, sigh and say one of two things: "Well, I'm glad that's all over." Or "I have to say it's been a dreadful year."
Every time she phones she makes it clear that she is getting her material together early this year and gives me tempting little trailers so that I can have some idea of what I am to expect on the day.
"Well," she says, with feeling. "What do you think about Jeremy Clarkson?"
She knows very well what I think about Jeremy Clarkson, so I decide to keep my mouth shut. As it happens, it doesn't matter very much what I think as she leaves just about enough time in the conversation for me to draw breath before diving in with:
"If you ask me, it's ridiculous that he was forced to make a public apology. I mean, you can't say anything about anyone any more without being forced to make a public apology."
Actually, I think, you seem to do a very good job of saying exactly what you think whilst avoiding making apologies, public or otherwise.
"I mean, next they'll be saying we can't say the Greeks are lazy shits," Mother continues. "Which they palpably are. I mean LOOK at the state of their economy."
I make a mental note to warn Husband of the topics which will crop up over Christmas. Perhaps we can play "Aged Ps' Bingo" while they rant away to each other.
"Well, it's all the fault of their language," chips in Dad, who predictably has picked up the other phone. "Don't get me wrong, it's beautiful, but any culture whose language contains verbs which have four moods, three voices and three numbers as well as being conjugated in four main combinations of tense and aspect with a full complement of moods for each of the main tenses is bound to be a bit - moody!" he chortles.
Mother guffaws with glee at this Classicists' in-joke.
"Dad," I edge in, tentatively, "that wouldn't be Ancient Greek you're talking about, would it?"
"Ah," says Dad. "Well, doesn't matter much, does it? It's all--"
"Greek to me. Exactly," I finish. "So, apart from following Jezza's exploits and spitting tacks about the Greeks, how's life?" I ask.
Except I don't, as they have already moved on to howling about the state of the Euro and the perfidiousness of our Gallic neighbours.
"So what do you think about David Cameron's decision not to back the Euro?" Mother asks.
"I--," I begin.
"Tell you what," she says dangerously. "Don't tell me now. Let's save that discussion for when we come to stay next week."
I groan quietly and reach over to turn on the gas oven, ready to stick my head into it once I've put the phone down.