It is disconcerting to see, on TOO MUCH TO DECLARE's newly improved tag list, that I have tagged 'Mother' 166 times and 'writing' a mere 111.
Last weekend I had a holiday from my regular visit to my mum's, which seems to have done me no end of good. But we speak on the phone - and that means finding things to tell her about.
Stupidly last night,I mentioned I had found a new doctor. After all, I have been here for almost four months, it did seem time to register.
"Why did you see a doctor?" She sounded alarmed, and wanted to know every detail of the ten minute consultation. I resisted as usual except for generalities. Her medical questions always feel invasive, often perverted even. I mean, is it normal for a sixty-five year old son to provide his mum details of the state of his stool?
In fact, in her spare time (she can't read for long at a stretch, and Radio 4 has its limitations... plus another of her friends died this week, there are so few left) she has obviously been worrying about my health and possible premature mortality. And facts never stand in the way of a good, bleak fnatasy.
By Saturday, when I see her again, she'll have a whole new Worry in place, with the unsuitable solutions to barely-existent problems - and lots more Questions for me to avoid - proving once more I am (never say it aloud) Just Like My Father.
