Bookless & Feckless

No book review this month, because I didn't read it. It was "We Need to Talk About Kevin" by Lionel Shriver. Out of all the books I've missed reading, this is probably the one I should have read. The conversation was one of the most stimulating the club has had, and I sat on the periphery thinking it all sounded very interesting.

Next month it's The Life of Pi. Christmas intervenes and there's no club meeting until January, so I might actually get round to reading it given I have twice as long as usual.

I had a phone call from Mother before I went out to the club gathering. She phoned to apologise for being "off" last time we visited (the weekend before my birthday). It was one of those visits where Nikki has to keep kicking me to remind me not to rise to the provocation. In one respect it becomes increasingly difficult not to react - as the conversations become ever more bizarre with her recollections of what has actually happened gradually leaving reality behind in the same way a plane gradually climbs to its cruising altitude - but in another way it gets easier. The more it happens and the more extreme the example, the easier it is to realise she can't help it and indeed doesn't even know it's happening. This particular visit was the most surreal so far, all the more so since the topic at the heart of the argument (or what would have been an argument had I not been kicked almost to death) was such a fundamental and long-standing part of our visits.

Being creatures of habit, we generally have the same thing for lunch each time we visit my Mum: corned beef, oven chips, and mushy peas. She gave up cooking anything more involved than a can of soup or a ready meal many years ago, so we take care of the chips and peas, but this has been a staple of weekend visits to my Mum's for a long time. Five years, easily. Probably longer.

So this particular day, when we'd arrived a little earlier than usual if anything and had been looking forward to the usual banquet, we were surprised to find she'd just eaten. A late breakfast, we assumed, and so we left it rather later than usual to mention lunch. By the time it got to 2 o'clock we were both being deafened by the protestations of our stomachs, so I ventured "you've already eaten then, have you?" in a kind of non-committal way.

"Well, you said you didn't want anything," was the (rather accusatory) reply.

I stood with what I thought was a bemused look on my face. At least, it should have been. I was, after all, bemused. Mum interpreted it as the look I give her when I know she's ... misremembered ... something. I was treated to standard phrase #15: "Don't look at me like that. I know I forget some things but I'm right about this."

Let me draw you aside for one moment to explain how many times I've been accused of doing something, or saying something, that there is no Earthly way I would ever have done or said; how many heated arguments such accusations have led to; and how many of those arguments have ended with something being said that triggers the right memory, resulting in standard phrase #16: "Oh yes, I remember now. You're right John." I can't count the first or second number, but the third is "all of them."

So, egged on by the kicking, I didn't rise to the bait but instead waited for the off-the-wall explanation. It came. Apparently I'd phoned to say we wouldn't be wanting the regular corned beef meal as we planned to stop somewhere en-route and eat before we got there. This was clearly fixed in my Mother's mind, and she believed it was as true as the fact that we were in the room with her right then. But it never happened. I bit my tongue, and mashed a cup of tea to silence the rumbling of our stomachs.

As is usually the way with my Mother, we returned to the subject several times that afternoon. When she knows I don't agree with her she'll try to convince me she's right. Sadly the process for this isn't to bring any additional information into the discussion, or look at things from a different perspective. No, she thinks I'll change my mind if she simply repeats what she's already said on the subject. Which she did. Several times. Pretty soon my right leg, the one nearest Nikki, was swollen to twice its normal size, but I never rose to the extreme provocation. We left early, with the incontrovertible excuse that we had to stop off on the way home to eat.

The theory of clouds and silver linings was given added credence by the fact that we chose, at Nikki's suggestion, to stop at the Dog & Partridge on the A628 just past the Flouch. We walked in to this delightful haven of warmth and hospitality and all the frustrations of the day fell away. They had a roaring fire in the grate, a well-stocked bar from which we chose two different pints of locally brewed ale (both delicious) and a kitchen that served pub food of a standard I have not enjoyed for many, many years. We will definitely be returning, and arrived home relaxed and satisfied.

And so to tonight's phonecall from Mother. "I hope you didn't think I was awful not having any food in, but I've had to defrost my freezer because I can't bend down to clean it any more, so I didn't have your usual chips."

I reassured her that it was fine, but there was more. "I told John [next-door neighbour] you were coming and he said 'corned beef, chips and mushy peas?' [we're something close to a national institution] but I had to tell him I wouldn't be able to do it because the freezer was off."

Discovering the real reason behind the lunch fiasco was, I guess, some comfort. Obviously there was no recollection on Mum's part of the conversations we'd had the Saturday before. Thinking about it later, we decided she'd become confused with an earlier visit, when although we had in fact eaten lunch, we'd later declined dinner because we were eating out with friends in celebration of another 50th birthday. You have to laugh though. Standard phrase #9 is "Thank God I've still got all my marbles. My body might be packing up but at least I've still got my mind." Something tells me I'll be using the "irony" tag on this post.