Some people have pubs or churches at the end of their streets; others fish and chip shops or launderettes.
At the end of my road is a stonemasons with a window full of tombstones, urns and kneeling cherubs. "That's nice," said The Mother as we walked past the other day. She nodded in the direction of a marble stone decorated with two pink roses.
I was just about to say, "Yes, and it's quite unusual too," - as you would if you were standing outside the Co-op looking at a window display of kitchen fixtures and fittings - when I surfaced from my day dream and realised what we were admiring.
"That's a tombstone! You're not dead yet - are you?" I snapped.
The Mother smiled with a sweetness I found unnerving. "Well," she said, "knowing what I know now, I'd like to have everything arranged before..." and there was the faintest of sighs as her voice trailed off.
She's been like this for almost a fortnight, ever since she went to the doctor to get her ears syringed. While the doctor, a locum whom she hadn't seen before, was peering into the offending orifices, The Mother coughed - the rasping cough of an I-wouldn't-like-to-guess-how-many-a-day smoker.
"Ah," said the doctor, who was young and keen. "That sounds very much like A Smoker's Cough. Are you A Smoker by any chance?"
The Mother, who is at her most formidable when defending her addiction to the noxious weed - in fact she'll recommend nicotine as an antidote to everything from colds to senility - answered in the affirmative. The doc regarded The Mother with a look of interest. "We don't see many smokers of your age," he told her.
The Mother preened. "Really," she said, relishing her new found status as a rarity. "And why is that?"
"Because," said the young medic, "they're all dead, that's why."
The Mother could think of nothing smart to say as a put-down and, in fact, was obviously troubled by the doc's words. Which was probably what he intended - "That'll make the old girl think twice before she lights up again," I expect he hoped.
Sorry, doc, not this old girl. She's still smoking as if someone had put a lighted match up her bottom. But - and a big but - she seems to have lost the defiant stance that used to accompany the inhale and splutter ritual.
Now there's a sadness in her eyes as she peels the cellophane from the Silk Cut - followed by what can only be described as an, 'I'm only doing this for my country' look as she reaches for the ashtray. She is, she has decided, a nicotine martyr and consequently this had made any dialogue between us extremely fraught.
Me: "I saw a lovely pair of sandals in Marks' the other day, your size, your colour, let's go get them."
The M: "No, there's no point in buying anything new now. . . the ones I've got will last me out."
Me: "Let's make the most of the lovely weather, let's go to Eastbourne for the day."
The M: "Yes, that would be nice, I'd like to go there again. . . before it's too late."
"Aargh! Sometimes I could kill you," I squawked in exasperation at the weekend.
"You're too late," said The Mother stoically - and she lit another cigarette.
Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.
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