My relationship with Mother has never been an easy one. Not since I went through puberty and emerged a young woman, with thoughts, ideas and a strong will of my own.

Mother seemingly didn’t cope well with any of this. Looking back, maybe it co-incided with her own menopause (she had me at 35, so by the time I was 15 she’d have been 50..) who knows. She doesn’t remember experiencing any of the symptoms of “the change” as she calls it, which is hysterical really, because I certainly remember some vicious mood swings.

Up til puberty, I enjoyed a blissful childhood. Summers were long and hot, we holidayed at the same chalet at Hunmanby Gap (a place I was always embarrassed about whenever I was asked where we’d been on holiday, as no-one ever knew where it was) near Filey on the east coast.  The car would be piled high with bedding, clothes, buckets, spades and food for the fortnight. We sat on the bedding, meaning we always got a good view out of the windows of Mum’s maroon coloured Morris Minor traveller.

Fast forward 40 years and it’s Mum who needs the linen to sit on, as I now tower over her, a giant at 5 ft 4.

I’ve decided to try and document our trips together, as they are so ridiculous that I know that when I come to retell them to my children, or even grandchildren – I will doubt my own memory and resort to “no, that can’t be right… she can’t have drunk 9 pints at the age of 87..”

So here goes.

We’re on a telephone call. I don’t phone as much as I should. Usually Mum phones around 9pm at night.  The timing of the call is a big indicator that she’s just got back from the Upper George, where she calls in after 3 pints in Jacob’s Well in Bradford. She gets the bus back up to Wibsey, then calls in the Upper George for another couple, then they call her a taxi home.

I don’t remember the timing of this particular call, but I end up telling her that I’m coming up to Yorkshire in November to go on the Uke Express, a steam train on the North Yorks Moors Railway out of Pickering, filled with Ukulele players.  As I hear myself saying the words, I realise she would absolutely love this trip, and impulsively I invite her on it.  The fact that I only bought one ticket for myself, and the fact that I know the trip is sold out will need addressing at some point, but for now, Mum is made up.

Plans are made. As we near the date,  we agree that in order for Mum to see Oli, and the flat I moved into earlier this year, she could come here first, then we’ll both travel up to Pickering together.

So on Wednesday 31st October 2018 Mum wakens at 4am. She doesn’t need to get up that early, but can’t get back to sleep. At 6am, she stops trying and gets up, in order to be ready for the taxi at midday. Mum has not embraced the smartphone and although she does have a mobile phone, bought for her by one of my brothers, she never has it charged or ready to use. So I have no way of contacting her, and just have to hope that she arrives at the right station at the right time.

I’m on the platform at Colchester at 17.52, feeling rather proud of myself, as I didn’t leave work until 17.30 and normally I’d allow 30 mins for the journey I just did in 20. I had to ask the guard to let me through the barrier so I could be there to help Mum with her bags. I know from previous trips, that she doesn’t pack light, despite there being only one of her.

The train arrives from Ipswich and spews out its passengers onto the platform.  I wait until they dissipate around me, but there is no sign of Mum.

I wait for the next train to arrive, at 18.02. The same thing happens.

I go back through the barrier, wondering what my next move is. Should I just go home and wait for her to phone me? But how would she phone me? Would someone allow her to use their phone? Would she even have my number on her?  I realise I haven’t planned this through very well. I now have absolutely no way of knowing whether she made any of the 4 connections she was due to make today, or at what point on her 211.5 mile journey she is at.

I realise I can’t very well leave the station without her, so my only choice is to wait for the next few trains from Ipswich to come in and hope that she’s on one of them.   I ask the guard to let me back through again, and head over to platform 3, where the Intercity from Norwich (calling at Ipswich) is due to arrive shortly.

I’m losing hope as the last of the passengers filter past my desperately hopeful expression on Platform 3. Then, as the train pulls out, I see a very small figure moving slowly up the platform, pulling a large suitcase whilst carrying a holdall and a handbag.  It is Mum.  Apparently, she was assured she had plenty of time to make her connection in Ipswich. Whoever told her this obviously doesn’t quite understand that Mum has two speeds. If she has her drinking pants on she can achieve quite impressive speeds in getting her next pint.  If it’s not a drinking day, things are considerably slower and you will need the patience of a saint to not start muttering about hurrying up under your breath.

Anyway, we’re both relieved to see each other, I take her bags and we get back to the car, pick up fish and chips on the way home and are soon home safe and sound. Mum is tired after her 6 hour journey, which involved getting a taxi to Bradford, a train to Leeds, another train to Peterborough, another train to Ipswich and a final train to Colchester. All I can hope is that people were kind and offered to help with her case, as it’s bloody heavy and I have no idea how she could lug it up and down the steps on the train let alone the stairs over the platforms.

Despite being told not to, she feeds the dog from her plate.  Mum disagrees loudly with my practise of only feeing the dog once a day (in the morning) and appears to try and make up for 12 years of dietary distress and negligence by giving him a fish butty. Soon the air in the lounge becomes heavy, the dog is farting up a storm. Thanks Mum.

She asks me where Toby is. I remind her he is at university in Canterbury. She asks me where Alex is, and I remind her he is at university in Northampton.  But we can see both of them, I say, and fire up the laptop.  I point at the screen and hit FaceTime and Alex appears on screen, in someone’s kitchen somewhere on the Northampton campus.   Mum is bewildered. The fact that the person on the laptop bears an uncanny resemblance to her grandson is enough, but the fact that he appears to be hearing what she is saying and responding to it, is frankly, blowing her mind.

Alex is chuckling. So is his friend. So am I. Mum is happy to join in. Soon we’re all giggling uncontrollably, and nobody really knows why.  It’s Halloween, so Alex pulls out his V for Vendetta mask and scares his Grandma.  It’s comedy gold.

We say our goodbyes, and I hit Toby’s number on FaceTime.  He answers. He is walking back from the gym in Canterbury so it’s dark all around him, then light (lamppost) then dark, then light etc. He is wearing a ridiculous 80’s style John McEnroe headband.  Despite this change in appearance and surroundings, it’s a while before I realise Mum thinks she is back talking to Alex again.  I have to demonstrate with my phone how the video could be working, as she can’t get her head around the fact that Toby doesn’t have his own camera crew stumbling backwards three feet in front of him, like a politician under fire on Channel 4 news.

Still reeling from the miracle of modern technology, Mum disappears.  When she returns, she announces, with more than a note of incredulity, that I have 13 doors.  She has counted them. She looks at me, expecting a reaction. I pretend to be astonished. Not that I’m underwhelmed by 13, but just that I don’t consider it to be remarkable, in the whole scheme of things. It’s a big old house, converted across the three floors to three flats and I have the entire ground floor. My ceilings are 3 mtrs high, although I don’t share this with her, feeling any more architectural info could be more than she can cope with.  She remarks at the height of the skirting board and shakes her head. Incredible.

We attempt to watch Gino, Fred and Gordon but she doesn’t like Gordon’s swearing. She’d like to watch the news, can I get Look North on the telly for her.  Feeling I should be able to, I start to scroll up, then remember that on Sky a few years ago, the regional channel sat just below BBC1, so I start to go backwards.

The screen is soon full of xx channels and for some reason pauses for an agonising two or three seconds on MILF TV. I am pressing channel down furiously, and thankfully the radio stations appear, then the regional stuff.  But I can’t find BBC North.  BBC Northern Ireland, yes. Look North, no.  No Mum, I can’t get Look North or Calendar. In actual fact, it turns out my telly thinks I’m in Kent, so I can’t even get my own local news. So Mum contents herself with someone else’s news, still managing to get upset and shout at the telly at issues which aren’t on her doorstep and therefore don’t affect her at all.

Mum gets lost on the way to the bathroom again (“is it any wonder, with 13 doors to cope with?”) and I call it a night. I show her that all the lights in the lounge go off with the big switch, and tell her to leave the hall light on so she can find her way around in the night.

I’m asleep before Mum has seen what the weather is going to be like in Kent tomorrow.

Day 1 complete.

Beer 0
Disagreements 0
Giggling fits 2 4
Patience levels 10