Friday dawns, and as usual, I’m up with the dog. The dog is a bit like a disabled child. Full of love, means well but utterly no comprehension about anyone else’s need for a lie-in.

Because I’m up early (and I haven’t actually cooked Mother any food at all since she arrived) I decide to get up and go off to Lidl. This will enable me to walk the dog, as he didn’t get a look in yesterday, what with all the excitement about the 50 pence piece.

I make Mother a cup of tea but she’s making the most of a lazy morning and doing that thing where you pretend you’re asleep so that the other person doesn’t speak to you.

So into Petunia the dog and I pile. Although it’s routine, happens at least once a day most days of his life, the dog is beside himself with excitement. I swing by Costa and experience a similar feeling about my large skinny decaf latte and soon he’s shitting and I’m scooping, the natural order of things having been resumed.

In Lidl afterwards, I pretend that I’m going to pick up items for breakfast so I can cook for Mother, but actually the real reason I’m there is for the battery operated de-fluffer I’ve seen advertised in the magazine. Last time it was in store, I got one and flaunted it ostentatiously at work the following day.  My colleague coveted it so badly, that I caved and gave it to her, meaning to call in and get myself another one, but by the time I did, they had sold out.   Not wanting to miss this opportunity, I get in early.

My search is rewarded with a basketful of them, but as I’m selecting one I instinctively know that I’ll be in the same situation with Mother coveting it, so I buy two. I also buy mushrooms, bread, eggs and bacon for breakfast.

When I get back home, Mother has surfaced and has just eaten some old granola I found in the back of the cupboard yesterday morning. She can’t manage a cooked breakfast now, so I suggest that maybe we have something around 11am and then head off about 12pm, so we don’t have to stop for lunch on the way up.  It’s going to take us around 5 hours to drive to Pickering, so if we can avoid stopping for long, that would be good.

I present Mother with the battery operated de-fluffer and she acts like I have read her mind, which in a way I guess I have. She is ecstatic, and I am happy with her reaction – worth way more than the £4.99 it cost.

We spend an hour or so pottering and packing, eat a bacon sandwich and I show Mum how I can play Danny Boy really badly on my piano accordion.  I also play her Moonlight Sonata on the keyboard I bought at auction. I feel a bit like a needy child showing off.

Of course we don’t manage to get off at 12pm, in fact it’s nearer 1pm when we finally leave. I’m already in the car, having decided to take the “lead by example” method. I have the engine running, to signify to Mum that it really is time she stopped procrastinating, and committed herself to joining me.  I didn’t realise it would take this long to leave the flat. When I want to go somewhere, I do it. I don’t have to wait for anyone else to check their pockets, check their handbag, check the kitchen counters, check the back door, check the stove, check the lights, check the heating, check the telly.

Finally, Mum is outside the flat, all her bags are in the car.  Mum hesitates on the step, asking what she should do with the front door. Close it, Mum, I say. She is again incredulous that my home security relies on just the one (seemingly flimsy) Yale lock, and by the look on her face wonders just how I made it to the age of 52 without being attacked by the hoards of robbers, rapists and sneak thieves who lurk around every corner.

We drop the dog off at Oli’s – he’s looking after him while we’re away, and hit the road. Mum has a birthday card to post, it’s the birthday of my younger brother’s partner. Unfortunately, and despite them being together a fair few years, Mum doesn’t know her surname. “I’ve never needed to know it before now”.  So the card is addressed to just “Karen”.

Over the 240 miles we cover a lot of ground. Mum tells me the story of how she discovered my father’s infidelity after 26 yrs of marriage, how the voice in her head told her to look in the boot of his car, and then under the spare wheel,  where she was rewarded with a stash of secret love letters between him and his married lover. She moves on to the family tree, drawing it mainly by death and disease (“he had lung cancer, she committed suicide..). I marvel at her long term memory. Her father, my grandfather was one of 9 children, each having children and grandchildren of their own, leading to a lot of cousins, most of whom I’ve never met.

The journey itself takes around 6 hours, which is tiring, by anyone’s standards, and we’re thankful to reach the hotel around 6.45pm.  We check in, I order Mum a Mail on Saturday – at which point she feels the need to explain to Rachel on reception that she doesn’t get a Daily Mail every day, just on a Saturday. Would she like one on Sunday, asks Rachel. Gosh no, says Mum, astounded at the thought, as if two papers in one weekend is the height of extravagance.

Mum remarks that the tartan carpet looks just like a suit fabric.

The room is lovely, though too hot for her Northern bones and my menopausal ones. Mum is concerned that we might not be able to open the window, as it’s a large window which once unlatched, could be opened the whole way by anyone who just happened to be 12 foot tall or perched on the roof outside.

We explore the room like it’s the first hotel room either of us have ever been in; (“Look in the bathroom… they’ve every kind of toiletry you could ever need… even cotton buds..”) and I check the time and ask her if she wants anything to eat.

She hasn’t eaten anything since the picnic we had whilst stuck in traffic on the A1.  I had bought a single cheese and tomato sandwich at the petrol station before we set off, along with a packet of Walkers Salt and Vinegar (the king of crisps, or potato chips as Mum calls them.)  We split the sandwich, she supplemented her half with some home grown tomatoes picked this morning from the grow bags outside my lounge doors (doors number 14 & 15 – thank the lord she never realised) and bits of other food she has accumulated over the previous weeks and squirrelled away in her handbag.

She eats half the crisps. She thinks I don’t notice, but once she’s finished eating, I see her carefully fold up the remaining crisps in the packet, like she’s folding up a tube of toothpaste, and squirrel them away again in her handbag, waste not want not.

She doesn’t want to eat, and doesn’t want anything to drink. This is Mum speak for “I’m worn out and I want to get into my nightie”.  I on the other hand, need sustenance. I also know that it’s important to have space, so I gave her a kiss and headed down to the bar for a gin and tonic intending to get something to eat. I was going to give the Friday night Sing and Strum in Pickering’s Recreation Club a miss, I didn’t know how far away it was and I frankly couldn’t be bothered venturing out on my own.

However, I re-read the email from the organisers and the words Pie N Peas stand out, so I venture out, bag myself a seat, grab some pie and peas and enjoy the Open Mic sing and strum on my own. I meet some lovely people, two of whom are staying in the same hotel as me and Mum.

When I get back around 11.30pm, Mum is tucked up, so I join her and we turn the light out on another successful day.

Day 3 complete

Beer 0
Gin 10 = me, 0 = Mum
Disagreement 0
Giggling fits 0
Patience levels 10… okay 8