Knock! Knock! Who's there? It's the postman with a pile of letters, far too many to push through the letterbox.

The Mother collects them and brings them into the kitchen.

She flicks through them, noting postmarks and trying to spot any handwriting she might recognise, before sighing and telling me they are all mine. Since she came to live with me this has become something of a routine.

"What? No billet-doux for you from a secret admirer?" I tease.

"I think I know who this is from," she says, waving an envelope with rather distinctive writing. "And there's an official looking one for you as well."

When I don't respond immediately she asks: "Aren't you going to open them then?"

"Later," I say, meaning later in the privacy of my own room.

"Well, was it important?" she asks a couple of hours later when I've dealt with my correspondence, binned most of it and forgotten the rest (no billet-doux for me, either, you see).

"Was what important?" I ask.

"That official letter," she replies. "What did they want?"

"Which 'they' are you referring to?" I say. "You've got a good choice. Do you mean 'they' at the Inland Revenue, 'they' at the local health authority, 'they' at the city council . . ."

I don't mention the real 'they' - 'they' at the pensions offices in Newcastle who have sent me a forecast of my state pension.

"Well, I hope you're not in any trouble," says The Mother, not inclined to let the subject drop.

I'm obviously going to have to put her out of her misery and save myself further interrogation.

"All right," I say. "It was from the pensions office, telling me how much of a pension I'm going to get."

"Pension?" says The Mother. "You're not 60 yet - and I should know."

As my latest birthday draws closer, so should I. And I know that there are now so many of them that no cake could cope with the candles.

"It's advisable to get a pension forecast before you retire," I tell The Mother.

"I thought you already had," she says dismissively. Being a traditionalist who believes that work is what you do in an office, she has consistently (and deliberately I feel) confused my working from home with retirement ever since I bought a desk for my bedroom.

I ignore her jibe. "Once you know how you stand financially you can start making plans for the future," I say.

"And what plans have you got?" says The Mother. She doesn't ask whether my plans include her but I know she's curious.

"Ah, you're wondering if I will be doing all those things people are supposed to do when they retire aren't you?" I say.

"How many world cruises will I be going on? Will I take up golf? Will I spend my winters in Florida?

"You don't need to ask if I will pack up and retire to the seaside, however, because according to you I've done that already."

"Very funny," says The Mother with an expression that suggests she doesn't find it at all amusing, "but how much pension will you get?"

"Well, let me put it this way,' I say. "If this were a weather rather than a pension forecast I would have to warn you that the outlook was extremely bleak with a fast approaching cold front and below zero temperatures."