Mothering Sunday

I turned up at 1pm with a big bunch of flowers to find Mum at the dining table clearing the last morsel from her plate. The staff member on duty gave me a guilty look - perhaps suddenly remembering that I'd phoned to tell her I was taking Mum out to lunch today. I sometimes feel like pointing out to this place that their web url contains ".org", which stands for "organisation" - something they noticeably lack.

The table was booked for 1:30pm at a Restaurant about 5 minutes away by car, so we got there 20 minutes late. Since the parking was around the back and Mum walks so slowly that passing glaciers tut as they overtake, I let her out of the car directly in front of the Restaurant and said, "There's the door - follow those people inside and tell them we have a reservation. I'll park and join you in a minute." I found a space and ran back around the corner to find a gaggle of old ladies assisting Mum, who had managed to walk another 20 yards down the road and had been trying to enter a private house, telling the owner that she was sure she had a reservation. Mum wore her usual beaming bewildered expression that is there whenever she is the centre of attention.

I thought maybe Mum would perhaps just manage a starter and dessert, but she ate a whole second lunch. At the table she regaled me with the same stories of Screaming Lady and the Gentleman, who has morphed over the weeks into Screaming Lady's husband in Mum's imagination. She's still calling the Home "that Hotel I'm living in". She tells me the same stories every time we speak.

A very large lady came in at one point and sat at the next table. Mum very loudly commented that the lady's blouse was not the best choice for someone so fat. I think even the kitchen staff heard that one.

We had a good afternoon and I didn't get frustrated with her once. Well, it was Mothers' Day and not "Chronically Single Sons' Day", after all. I must look up that date.