My dear old Mum, she’s such a darling, no matter what some of the younger generation may think. I feel rather guilty that in my previous blog post I alluded to her (albeit in a light-hearted fashion) as being just a tiny bit like the Grandma in the old Giles’ Cartoons; in case I gave the wrong impression, I must tell you that my Mum does not wear a big black coat and a black hat with feathers; on the other hand, the grandchildren are just like the naughty children in the cartoons.
Chris and I take Mum shopping almost every Saturday morning and we always have a lovely time; she’s bright, perky, full of fun and not at all irascible. Last Saturday Mum looked at me in my nice white trousers, pink top and sunglasses, and she said, “Sally, you look so young. No-one would believe your age. You don’t look a day over thirty!” Isn’t she sweet? What a kind thing to say. I felt good (na, na, na, na, nah…. as the song goes – love that song!), even though I’m well aware that her sight is not what it was (and even then she used to wear glasses!). In truth, this last week of long days sat at the computer, editing and performing technical procedures for the self-publishing of my book on Amazon.com, has taken its toll on me. Every time I look in the mirror I see the result of too much brain strain and not enough sleep (Chris has had a bad snoring week); I appear tired and haggard.
In fact, I’m considering having a facelift if things don’t perk up, provided, of course, that my books sell well and I become a wealthy woman any time now. I remember a time, many years ago, when my mother was about the same age as I am now… I was living in Woodbury, East Devon, and my old boyfriend (who really was quite old) and I were taking my parents out somewhere for the day. They were divorced but used to go out en famille for the sake of their children; Mum and Dad didn’t argue but there were sometimes some quite interesting conversations.
It was around the time that the British press had reported a suspicion that Margaret Thatcher, who was looking especially young after a holiday, had had a facelift and we were all in the car when Mum suddenly came out with…..
“I wonder if I should have a facelift… like Margaret Thatcher?”
“You don’t need one Mum,” I said, “You are lovely as you are.”
“Oh, I don’t know. What do you think Charles?” she asked Dad.
“I should,” he said, giving me a wink.
Mum didn’t notice (her sight wasn’t that great).
“But… then again….” Mum continued in a dreamy way as if conversing with herself, “why do I need a facelift? Who really cares? Who would I would be doing it for?”
“For the sake of the general public,” Dad said dryly.
If my mother heard the comment, she ignored it. There was a silence in the car that lasted for several miles; and during the silence at least three pairs of eyes looked ahead assiduously, lest a sideways glance at one another should set off uncontrollable laughter.