Old people

Now much as I love my mother, there comes a point when oldpersonicide becomes a distinct possibility. Every year for her birthday, we go up to the Midlands and bring her back for a week1 so that we can take her out and all those good things. My wife organises her work and takes a few days off, I arrange "no meetings" so I can come home for lunch and the children make sure that they are "in" during the evenings. We drive the 4 hours up to the Midlands.

"Hello Mom, get your suitcase we're going back, we've got a table booked tomorrow for your birthday"

"I'm not going."

I think it's because her shoes don't fit - don't ask.

So, thinking on feet, we decide to go to a place called Ironbridge in Shropshire and have an afternoon out. We go to a quintessentially English Tea Room opposite the Iron Bridge and have Tea and Scones2. So there we are, sitting in glorious sunshine sipping English Breakfast Tea and eating possibly the best scones we've ever had when a large(ish) lady walks up to the Georgian Postbox behind me, bends down and posts a letter.

"My God!", exclaims mother to everyone on the terrace, "I'd never go out with an arse that size, would you?"


1Don't worry, we see her every two weeks as well!
2Note to non-Midlanders: Go and take Tea & Scones at Ironbridge - it should be on your list of 50.

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