CORONAVIRA DREAMIN'

Warm oat milk with a shot of brandy really is my saviour in these difficult times. 

I’ve never been a great sleeper – in fact, I truly hate going to bed owing to major FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out). I was the same as a baby, a young child, and even at 61 I have a terror that something might be happening from which I have been excluded (actually, that might just be FOBH – Fear Of Being Hated).

   

I thought that in the current crisis, my sleep patterns might become disrupted, but given that there is nothing happening from which anyone can exclude me, bedtime isn’t such an ordeal. But the milk and brandy give me something to look forward to; they’re very soothing, doubtless bringing back childhood memories of warm milk before being tucked up for the night. In those days, though, I hated the skin that formed on the top of the dairy milk; thankfully, there is no foreskin on oat milk and I really do love it (I no longer buy almond milk, by the way, because I learned that the pesticides they use to spray the almond trees kill all the bees. I don’t like bees at all, but hey, they need an office job, too).

   

More than one in five people (22%) say that their sleep quality has suffered since the rise of Coronavirus, and many are reporting an increase in strange or vivid dreams. Mark Blagrove, a leading expert in sleep and dreaming at Swansea University in the UK, also says that a lot of people will be having very emotional dreams.

   

Last night, I dreamt about my mother and her dog, Maddie. My mum’s house in Bristol is currently under offer, but in the dream, I was in the house in Bridgend, where I spent my teenage years. Last week, the neighbour directly opposite that house died. We were all very close and one of her two daughters, Nerys, at that time was my best friend. I bumped into her in Bath last year and it was as if we’d seen each other the day before, despite decades having passed.

   

The dream took me back to that Coity house, where I was disturbed to find that the buyers (for the Bristol house) had already started to move their stuff in, despite exchange and completion not having taken place. They had even glued a rack for utensils to a kitchen cupboard. I was crying and upon leaving the house saw Mum, her back to me, walking up the drive. “MUM! MUM!” I called, but she didn’t answer. I caught up with her but when I reached out to touch her, my hand went through her and she walked on before disappearing altogether. I returned to the house and tried to remove the utensil rack.

   

In the next part of the dream, Mum had died and I was holding her Bichon Frise, Maddie. Mum was always fearful of Maddie outliving her because she didn’t know where the dog would go. In the dream, I decided to take her with me to New York; in reality, she had been euthanised (I still cannot bear to say the words “put down”) 15 months before Mum was admitted to hospital for the last time.

   

It was at least 10 years before I dreamt about my dad, following his death in 1990, but I dream about Mum all the time. As the one-year anniversary approaches next month, I won’t pretend it’s been a good 12 months. My own health, which had been suffering as a result of stress for a while, hadn’t been great with all the long haul travelling, and being hospitalised with a suspected heart attack last year did not help matters (it turned out not to be, but the loneliness of lying alone in a hospital bed, on the opposite side of the Atlantic from friends and family, gave me a lot of thinking time).

   

It is ironic that self-isolation has given me a calm and contentedness that I haven’t felt in decades. I’m sure it won’t last, because human contact is, basically, what humans thrive on. But I am finding the space - physically, mentally and emotionally - rather soothing. It’s a long time since I’ve had such a defined routine in my life (although I could recite the Virgin Atlantic flight schedule by rote) and structure is, for me, the easiest way to survive these bizarre times.

   

Also ironic is that I’m talking to family and friends far more than I ever managed to do in “real life” as we must now remember it. I have been Face Timing, talking on the phone and, yesterday, participated in an online quiz on Zoom with a group of people and made new friends into the bargain. After a slight initial self-consciousness, it genuinely felt as if we were in the same room. We laughed, joked, showed off our different awards (even in the throes of a killer virus, media folk are so competitive) and, after the quiz, stayed online to talk about other matters.

   

Zoom, by the way, is terrific. It’s a conference app on which you can host 10 people for free and, for $149pa, up to 100 (you can have as many hosts and people as you like, by the way; the price goes up accordingly).

   

So, it was quite an event filled weekend. I cleaned my apartment and changed my bed linen (always a Saturday morning job), did my washing, coloured my hair and squeezed the blackheads in my nose (a daily job, but I get a strange kick out of it, especially the squishy ones that lurk in the corners and ooze out gratefully, like inmates jumping a prison wall).

   

It’s now lunchtime here and I’m having homemade chicken curry, a glass of Whispering Angel rosé and looking forward to a quiet afternoon of reading and watching TV. Who knows: I might even decide to speak to another human.

   

Before long, it’ll be bedtime again, and I’ll be hitting the Courvoisier. Incidentally, did you know that brandy/Cognac has no carbohydrates and is very good for “bad” cholesterol.

   

Now if that thought doesn’t give you sweet dreams, I don’t know what will.  

  

     

HOW TO BE . . . SANE IN A CRISIS IN AMERICA

The epicenter. 

Every day brings a new headline informing me that, in New York City, I am where it’s all happening in relation to the Coronavirus pandemic. More cases, more deaths, more fear as the cries for ventilators and help are drowned out by too much misinformation and the hunger for political gain.

   

We are lucky in New York state having an extraordinary governor in Andrew Cuomo; our Mayor Bill de Blasio is also doing a terrific job of keeping us up to date with regular TV appearances, stressing the seriousness of the situation and yet strangely calming in his delivery of facts rather than speculation. 

And we all have to be grateful to the physician, immunologist and the country’s leading infectious diseases expert, Dr Anthony Fauci, whose analysis of the situation is the one I am taking on board, rather than that of deluded optimists who think we will all be licking each other’s Lindt chocolate bunnies, come April 12^th.

   

I have lived in NYC for six years and feel safer here than anywhere I have ever lived; there is security in crowds, particularly late at night. True, you run the risk of the odd manhole cover blowing off and decapitating you, not to mention debris falling from one of many construction sites and slicing you in two, but for the most part, for me, it feels safer than the UK cities of Bath or Cardiff ever did – places in which I had friends raped, mugged, burgled (I was burgled in both cities) and attacked by drunks in bars. 

I am not saying there are not incidents in NYC, but by the end of the 90s violent crime had dropped by 56%, most of the credit being given to Mayor Rudy Giulani for the clean-up.

   

September 11^th 2001was the day New Yorkers felt vulnerable once more, falling victims to an act of terrorism that continues to cast a shadow, both emotionally and physically, over the lives of so many today. The city came together, and, in the current crisis, comparisons are constantly made about the spirit of the place as it faces unprecedented difficulties. 

We are not alone, but we are, at this moment (and it could all change by the time I finish writing this), the most vulnerable. The city that never sleeps isn’t so much having a nap; it feels in an advanced state of rigor mortis.

   

We, like the rest of the world, have no control over the situation and when humans lose control, they enter panic mode. But while we have lost control of the bigger picture, there are still aspects of our lives over which we still have influence and that can at least dispel fear, even though not eradicate it entirely.

   

My friends have always laughed at my having enough food and supplies as if I am preparing for war. They’re not laughing now. I have always had a pathological fear of running out of toilet paper and so, at present, I could keep the backsides of a barracks in pristine health for at least two months. I have enough dried pasta to open a couple of Italian restaurants (I wouldn’t be allowed any customers, but hey ho, you can’t have everything); likewise, enough rice to set up a “Write your name on a grain of rice” sideshow (don’t laugh – it’s big business on Santa Monica pier) that would give me an income for life.

   

My fridge is full of fresh food; my freezer packed to the gills with home-made dishes – Quorn Bolognese, ratatouille, lentil curry, bœuf Bourguignon (see what I did there?), chicken gravy, banana bread, plus the usual frozen staples: blackberries, blueberries, peas, edamame and fava beans. My wardrobe is an orchestra of Evian water and wine bottles, competing for attention.

   

Every morning, I do my meditation (I’ve been an on-off Transcendental fan practitioner for decades), then go for my morning run around the pier. I live in Hell’s Kitchen, and Pier 84, which is never very crowded now that there are no boats sailing from there is a godsend when I need to exercise. Funnily enough, I used to have to drag myself to the gym right next to it, but I have found I am much more disciplined now that option is denied.

   

Outside, I have discovered all sorts of stones and steps on which I can do my stretches. I also live 31 floors up in my apartment block and take advantage of what has become an in-built gym of sorts, running up and down the stairwell (okay, running down, dragging myself back up). I have my own sets of arm and leg weights anyway (I told you I was prepared), so use those every day, in addition to doing a few yoga exercises I learned many years ago. 

Oh, the joy of doing Downward Facing Dog and not having the person in front farting in your face – the reason I gave up yoga classes in the first place.

   

I am reading more than I have in years. I subscribed to the Paris Review and this week re-read Goodbye, Columbus, the Philip Roth novella that began his career when the periodical published it. I’m a big Roth fan and am hugely enjoying The Plot Against America on TV, too.

   

I’m reading Woody Allen’s autobiography Apropos of Nothing (Don’t judge; I’ve always had my doubts about The Plot Against Woody Allen, for reasons I won’t go into here). It’s a fabulous, easy read and beautifully captures New York at a time and place long gone.  

   

I’m watching classical music concerts online (though I gave the Met’s Wagner operas a miss this week – every port in a storm and all that, but not where Wagner’s concerned). The divine violinist Andre Rieu had a NYC concert in Radio City and it’s been intercut with black and white footage of the first hopefuls arriving in the city, full of hope and excitement; it feels especially poignant at this time.

   

So far, my health is good and, while I was sick over two weeks ago, I self-isolated, just in case. I’m less stressed than I’ve been in years and I’m sleeping better, too. 

My bedtime treat is a glass of hot oat milk with a shot of brandy. If, one day, I don’t wake up, you’ll know I went contentedly.

   

Stay safe, everyone. Stay sane. 

This is New York, New York. 

We’ll make it here.

     

     

MOTHER'S DAY - WITHOUT MUM

Every Mother’s Day with Mum became an argument. 

Although a bit like the annual Christmas argument over the Royals when Mum wanted to watch the Queen’s Speech and I didn’t, the Mother’s Day one was relatively new.

   

About five years ago, Mum started to call it Mothering Sunday and made a big deal of my continuing to call it what it had always been throughout my childhood. We didn’t know then that this was the American version and that Mum’s new affectation was the correct one for the UK, nor will I ever know what precipitated the change; it was just another thing to add to the list of her increasing contrariness that, basically, was the opposite of whatever I thought or said.

   

It was always a special day growing up. The day before, we would go as a family on our usual trip into Newport town and have ice cream in the Kardomah café, where Mum chose two different types of coffee beans and had them ground and securely packed in brown paper bags. I hated the smell almost as much as I hated the smell of hops from the brewery when we ventured into Cardiff; to this day, I cannot bear to be around the smell of coffee.

   

Usually, this was followed by Mum parking Dad, Nigel and me in Howells’ make-up department while she went off exploring for three hours. The day before Mother’s Day, however, was always different because we got to disappear with Dad to buy the “secret” presents for the next morning. I specifically remember a grey smoked glass vase, not least because Mum dropped it and broke it a week after. She couldn’t stop crying. Nor could I. It had cost me five shillings, which must have been a year’s saved pocket money back then.

   

After that, we always played it safe and she had a purple potted hydrangea every year. During the past few years, if I have been out of the country, I sent her a hamper of smoked salmon goods. How she loved her fresh smoked salmon. When she was in hospital for what would turn out to be one of the last times, she nagged and nagged me about what I’d done with the salmon that was in the fridge.

Was it still there? Had the carers thrown it out? Why hadn’t I put it in the freezer? I told her I’d send her another hamper of flamin’ salmon, enough for her to have it every day; but no: she wanted that particular piece of salmon. She went on about it so much, I swear she’d probably even given the dead creature a name.

   

I used to take a long time choosing her card. She read the verses over and over, invariably crying at seeing how much she was loved actually written down. Little did I know that on March 31^st last year, she had just 17 days to live. I had sent her the proverbial salmon hamper that she never even got to open because she was admitted to hospital for what would be the last time.

   

Inevitably, thoughts of Mum are uppermost in my mind as the first one without her arrives. A few weeks ago, I was in Poundland in Cardiff, excited that I’d found a pack of two Dove soaps for just £1. Pondering my cache, I turned a corner and there was a whacking great Mother’s Day display. I burst into tears, just as I had done in a store in December as I faced my first Christmas without her, Have Yourselves a Merry Little Christmas blaring out and making me sick with the sense of loss. 

   

Mum enjoyed being a mother. She told me many times that when I was born, she just wanted to be alone with me and she was distraught when the nurses took me away when they needed to show the other mothers how to bath a baby; apparently, it was because I was so well behaved. I suspect herein lies the root of my obsessive-compulsive disorder about cleanliness.

   

We had a happy childhood. Trips to the seaside, ballroom dancing lessons and competitions (as a family, we all danced), cooking on a Saturday morning (all of us except Dad were pretty good cooks), late night “treats” when Mum suddenly decided to make toffee or Cornish pasties. My parents could not bear to leave us out of anything, and on the rare occasions they treated themselves to a Chinese takeaway, they would put a small amount on two saucers and deliver it to Nigel and me in bed. No food ever tasted so good as that late-night feast.

   

When one parent dies, the relationship with the other inevitably changes and although Mum was fiercely independent to the end (much to the physios’ consternation as she refused treatment when Emmerdale was on – which was often, and in the end, they sacked her), when Dad died in 1990 I felt the roles reverse.

   

I moved to Bath to be closer to Mum just six miles away and saw her several times a week. In recent years, as she became increasingly frail, she became more dependent not just on me but on other friends, and she hated growing old and being what she perceived as being a “burden”.

   

But she was still Mum. She didn’t know much about the minutiae of my life, but she knew me better than anyone. With a mother’s instinct, she knew when I was sad or hiding my emotions, and with that same instinct she knew not to pry; that I would tell all when the time was right.

   

She had a big heart, an enormous capacity for love and always said that her greatest fear was something happening to her children. 

   

On her last day, I sat at the hospital bed, smoothing her always fine hair and talked to her as Mum. I told her I loved her and thanked her for being my mother and for everything she had done and been. 

   

And, so comes to pass another “first” among the many others that accompany the first year of grief.

   

Happy Mothering Sunday, Mum.  

   

    

   

HOW TO BE . . . SELF-DISTANCING IN AMERICA

Manhattan is taking a nap. That is how I am trying to think of my voluntary self-isolation as the city, along with the rest of the world, comes to grips with the not-so-brave new world living under the cloud of the Coronavirus pandemic. To think of this break as anything other than a brief hibernation is just too horrible to contemplate, so I am attempting to enjoy the eerie silence and fill my time with activities I normally claim I am too busy to attempt.

Like becoming fluent in French (I am probably about 50% at the moment) and Spanish (0.000000000000001%. I can order a taco and a glass of wine). I am going to read Michelle Obama’s book, Becoming, which has been languishing on my bookshelf since Christmas and also the 30+ books I’ve downloaded from the Internet (message to self: downloading a book doesn’t mean it’s Mission Accomplished).

I’m also going to finish watching series 5 of Madam Secretary before moving on to series 6 when, I hear, the good lady becomes President. Gosh, it’s a tough show, though. Does anyone, apart from Russell Jackson (exquisitely portrayed by Željko Ivanek) have a clue what they are talking about, least of all the Madam herself, Elizabeth McCord?

“The Russians blah blah blah Nigerian minister blahdeblah Philippines gobbledygook.” On and on and on, everyone spouting incomprehensible lines from a script while staring into the middle distance and just praying for the next break from filming. Thank goodness they put it out of its misery in December.

I’m going to do more cooking. I cook every day but now I’ve subscribed to New York Times Food I’m going to try some of the many thousands of recipes they have online (second message to self: paying $40pa to a food app doesn’t mean you’ve cooked anything).

Having suspended my gym membership (to every cloud, eh?), I’m going to do more walking. The city is in bigtime spring mode now and the sun is shining. There are hardly any cars on the roads, even fewer people, and I can happily walk to Central Park without fear of being killed or trodden on.

Yes, I know that going for a walk means that I am not a totally committed self-isolationist; it’s like saying you’re a vegetarian when you eat chicken, or a vegan who eats cheese (I confess to having been both; now I just call myself a lying hog). But given that I can now walk miles and count the people I see on one hand, I feel I’m a relatively low risk, both to myself and others.

It’s ironic that in an age of social networking, social distancing is the new black, but then social networking was always about breaking real human contact and establishing virtual friendships and relationships; in fact, social distancing has always been at its heart, so this enforced lack of communication feels rather apt – the prophecy fulfilled.

I’m enjoying not hearing the constant honking of car horns entering the Lincoln Tunnel at Rush Hour; the dogs not barking on my apartment floor when delivery people arrive because, quite simply, our building isn’t letting anyone in; the quiet of sitting at a bar, finally being able to capture every word of other people’s conversations – yes, even the couple last night, trying to enjoy a first date and making a real hash of it . . .

Shoulda left it. But they were making so many mistakes and it was all going to end in tears. He was being critical of her; she went on the attack. I intervened, he confessed he was insecure, she became more interested in who I had on my Instagram page than in him, and the evening ended well for all. Especially for me, anyway.

“OMG!” she cried, opening my Instagram page. “You’re in Influencer!” Who knew it? I still have no idea what she was talking about, but they left happily. Joe Allen are quite keen that during these quiet times, I sit in my favorite corner, dishing out relationship advice. They suggested calling it Jaci Unhinged. Nothing new there.

My social distancing did not extend to my hair stylist, Caesar, and I had to visit him yesterday as by my standards I was a veritable Rapunzel. I was doused in sanitizer before anyone could commence work and then had a very interesting time learning about birds and, in particular, parrots - a species, it transpired, Caesar knows a great deal about.

Did you know that most birds have just one mate for life, and parrots don’t want another one when their one and only love dies? They even pluck out their feathers with grief. They live for 50 to 100 years but become sexually mature at the age of two. Apparently, that’s when their personalities change and they become very aggressive (both males and females); they also become very possessive of their owners. They are also, says Caesar, even more intelligent than dogs and pipe up about things they’ve witnessed months later (spooky; I can barely remember this morning these days).

I hope I get a couple of parrots for Jaci Unhinged; I could really teach them a thing or two about possessive behavior (which reminds me: I really need to find myself a therapist).

Today is Saturday and I plan to clean my apartment (this blog is merely work avoidance), start on my taxes, write a reference for a friend, eat the ratatouille I made yesterday, open that bottle of Whispering Angel (I lie; I’m already halfway into it), go for a walk, pop into Joe Allen (touting for business), catch up on some TV shows that have come highly recommended, take Michelle Obama’s book off the shelf (or will I?) and spend another three hours reading about what my chances are of dying from Coronavirus.

That’s the trouble with social distancing; it makes you focus too much on mortality; we are sociable creatures and need human touch, both physically and metaphorically.

Oh, sod it; I don’t think I can manage it, after all. I’m just going to go out, throw caution to the wind and bag myself a parrot.

THE LEAST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR

The dried figs set me off. 

Tightly packed in their plastic drum, they look as unappetising as they always did. The figs that every Christmas throughout my childhood appeared next to the box of JL dates and tin of Quality Street on our sideboard. The figs that, come the first week of January, would be thrown out in their entirety.

   

I am in my local supermarket and the music blares over the loudspeaker: ‘It’s the most wonderful time of the year.’ And I start to cry. I sob next to the figs and the dates because this is the very worst time of the year. It’s the first Christmas I won’t have my mum.

   

Mum died on April 17^th after a fall 18 months previous left her incapacitated and dependent on carers for her every need. The end was sudden and unexpected, and the “firsts” without her keep coming. 

My parents’ wedding anniversary (April 18^th; she almost made it), Mother’s Day, my brother’s birthday, my birthday, and now Christmas, which I’m dreading.

   

I’ve spent just four Christmases away from Mum in 61 years and although the actual day was not spent with her on those rare occasions, we still spent the preceding days together, exchanging gifts and reminiscing about the past.

   

Mum loved this time of year and even from her chair, nursing a broken kneecap, she managed to shop – and how. I swear that one of the reasons Jeff Bezos is a billionaire is because of the amount of stuff Mum bought online from Amazon. In the Christmas of 2017, she insisted on checking herself out of the nursing home where she was recuperating, against medical advice, because she was determined to have Christmas at home; she was hysterical because she hadn’t written her cards. That was the beginning of the downfall in a big way – emotionally, physically, practically. 

Christmas killed my mother.

   

My brother Nigel and I have nothing but happy memories of the annual festivities. The excitement began in the autumn with the arrival the catalogues featuring dozens of new toys and games. ‘Don’t tell anyone I buy from catalogues,’ said Mum, a warning it took me years to understand was because no one should know she had to pay in instalments.

   

How I loved those toys: the sea of red, yellow and blue plastic that was Mouse Trap, Booby Trap and Hats Off (we had a poodle called Emma, who was very good at Hats Off: pressing her paw on the lever and sending the plastic cone high into the air); the sophistication of Masterpiece, where the aim was to sell artwork; the excitement of Cluedo. Nigel and I spent weeks trying to guess what Santa might be delivering, an illusion that was soon broken when I discovered a bike under a blanket in my parents’ wardrobe and when the postman arrived with a radio for Nigel and a record player for me. Mum was furious they had handed the parcels to us and ruined the surprise.

   

The build-up in the preceding weeks was filled with excitement, laughter and anticipation. The advent calendar (I used to wake early and rush downstairs to open the day’s window before anyone else got to it); the arrival of the tree (always a real one) and the heady scent of pine; the box of decorations – long chains of colourful crepe, lights (always broken), a special frosted crystal bauble that was my particular favourite, the fairy, who looked as if she’d just done 15 rounds with the Angel Gabriel. Piece by piece, as it all came together, we knew we were loved.

   

On Christmas Eve, we put down the saucer of milk and biscuits for Santa and, when we no longer believed, were allowed to open one present. This was also the time we were allowed to dive into the sweets and nuts. How we loved cracking open those nuts with the silver device that ensured you’d still be picking up bits of walnut shells from the sofa in July.

   

And then, the day itself. Waking at 5am, we sat on the stairs, coughing loudly and praying for Mum and Dad to wake and come down to watch us open present after present: a symphony of paper-tearing and the dog barking wildly with excitement, the scent of turkey already taking up residence in her super-sensitive nose. We wanted for nothing.

   

The presents didn’t stop when we became adults and this is the first year I won’t be receiving anything from Mum and, of course, the first year I won’t have anyone to buy for, my friends and other relatives having long ago decided that we really didn’t need anything and that the money would be better spent on food and wine.

   

Mum’s presents were always so thoughtful and she took great pride in keeping up with her children’s lives and choosing accordingly. She was especially thrilled when she bought me Walter Isaacson’s biography of Steve Jobs in 2011. When I had all my jewellery stolen some years ago, Mum gradually replenished the supply every birthday and Christmas and she had exquisite taste. She bought me so many things useful for travel, which has become my favourite pastime. She was excited when she discovered a book of Sylvia Plath’s artwork, remembering how much I admired her as a writer. She bought many fabulous clothes for my brother and also contributed hugely to his rugby book collection.

   

I have her iPad and it’s painful to see the thousands of e-mails coming through from all the online stores from which she made purchases. Eden, Zulily, Liz Earle Beauty Co. Every time I use my facecloth from one of the many wonderful Liz Earle presents Mum bought me, I am tearful. She swore by its cleansing properties and daily I am reminded of her tiny hand wiping the last vestiges of the day’s dirt from her increasingly fragile face, even though towards the end she rarely left the house.

   

Present buying was always Mum’s domain; I had a wonderful father, but shopping was never his thing. Mum had to choose her own Christmas presents from him because, on the rare occasions he chose them (just before the shops shut on Christmas Eve), they were disasters. I’ll never forget how her face fell when she opened the amethyst necklace and ear-rings: pretty enough, but more suited to someone of 90 than 40. 

Then there was the year of The Bird. Oh, goodness, that was ghastly. Mum opened the box to reveal a hideous china bird ornament and, initially, feigned pleasure. It took less than half an hour for all that to change: ’Why would you think I’d want a china bird?! I hate birds!’ Not since Dad accidentally left the tea-cloth in the turkey after cleaning it out and baking it along with “the bird” (how Mum hated it when he called it that; clearly, she really had a thing about birds) had voices been raised so much.

   

After Dad died in 1990, Mum came to me for Christmas, firstly to my home in Bath and later in Cardiff. She was able to drive at the time and arrived with a car packed to the gills with food and drinks. We could have gone on safari for six months and not wanted for anything. She was a great cook and always brought her homemade Christmas cake and puddings. Her greatest disappointment, when she was hospitalised, was not being able to make them.

   

No Christmas was complete without the proverbial row over the Queen’s Speech. Mum a Royalist, me a Republican, I refused to watch it. Mum never watched it either, but every year made a big deal of wanting to. When she was no longer able to drive, I used to pick her up from her house in Bristol and, one year, spent a tortuous motorway journey during which she admonished me for not having set her Sky box to record the speech. 

‘I’ll come off at the next turning, go back and do it,’ I said, impatiently. 

‘No, don’t bother.’ Then we passed the turning. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t record it.’ 

What I wouldn’t give this year for that annual row.

   

Mum’s Bichon Frise Maddie always accompanied her on these visits and I had to be prepared for the dog being sick on every cream rug in my house when she overdosed on turkey, slipped to her under the table by Mum. Maddie always had her own dinner anyway, but Mum could not resist her pitiful Oliver Twist impression, silently begging for more. The dog had to be put to sleep in January 2018. I’ll even miss the hours I had to spend trying to coax her out from the bushes in my garden, her stubbornness as integral to her personality as her greed.

   

With my having taken over cooking duties in recent years, Mum was content to just watch TV. She loved her soaps, but as I, because of my job, had already seen them all, I left her to enjoy them, even though the volume at which she had the TV meant that I heard every word. I’ll miss that noise.

   

I’ll miss her jumping with fright every time she leaned on the dishwasher and it sprang into life; the horrific mess she made making her porridge in the morning; the disapproving looks when my brother or I opened another bottle of wine: all those niggling things that were irritations of Christmases past suddenly feel like gifts to treasure: memories to make me smile and be thankful for 61 years when Christmas really was the most wonderful time of the year. 

Happy Christmas, Mum.