Resistance

Just back from a weekend at the house of my ancient parents where a visiting aged aunty is also in situ. When I say aged, I mean in years: father is 84, mother is 81 and Aunty Grace will be 80 in October. So that’s a combined 245 years and it took me longer to calculate that than it does for Aunty Grace to tot up who owes what in the weird card game she taught us. Or amass the total number of pills they take between them for various ailments; all of which are seriously debilitating and none of which hinder their chosen lifestyles.


Arthritic hands can no longer knit. No problem: we’ll just move on to appliqué, patchwork and cross-stitch. Slipped sciatic discs cause sleepless nights but dare not intrude on bowls. Bad knees may warrant a second thought with regard to eighteen holes of golf but only momentarily: we can walk the first nine and take a buggy for the rest. Infections and contagions are rampant but dismissed in the light of line dancing and creative writing. They aren’t even a consideration in the decision of whether to engage with overseas’ male friends on the part of Grace who seems to be under the impression that she’s just turned fifteen. The house remains spotless, the vast expanse of garden is pristine and wonderfully complicated meals appear with regularity, chosen with care from a veritable library of cookery books.

Who do these people think they are? Have they no weaknesses? Can’t they just behave quietly in their dotage? This generation don’t know the meaning of ‘chill out’. It’s positively exhausting being in their company. Aunty Grace complains of ‘feeling lazy today’. What she means is ‘relaxed’ but it’s not a word known in their vocabulary. The ‘lazy day’ comprises a five hour yomp round Warwick after which I have to lie down quietly in a darkened room.

Throughout the weekend, I listen to them talking together. It’s tricky for an outsider because an inability to maintain related conversation might be the only crack in their armour. This holy trinity share two things in common: they each have a view on anything and everything and they all possess a malfunctioning hearing aid.

All of their many interests, experiences and opinions are voiced simultaneously and often without a common theme, apart, of course, from the maintenance of bathrooms about which there is a heated debate. This concerns the option of keeping cleaning materials available versus the eyesore of doing so when you could easily wipe down the shower with a handy flannel. I have no contribution to make as I am sharing a bathroom with Grace who resides in the anti-flannel camp. She has taken over all potential spare space with more toiletries than might be imagined in a Boots’ warehouse. It’s ok. I put my soap-bag in a small hitherto undiscovered corner. I go to bed at 11.30 and nod off quietly to the sounds of her gurgling and swishing and dripping followed by that weird howling noise that the toilet makes. I am woken up at 8.30 the next day to more swishing and gurgling and shut the window so that the Sunday-morning-sleeping-in neighbours don’t have to experience the weird howling noise that the toilet makes which is currently drowning out the pleasant sound of the village church bells. Has she been in there all night I wonder?

It’s only slightly noisier than the previous evening when the three of them were in musical competition tuning in their hearing aids. Late night three-way conversation on the efficacy of Lanzarote versus the tastiness of streaky bacon versus the current drabness of Marks and Spencer is hard enough to follow. Accompanied by tired hands rubbing against ears, it’s virtually impossible: ring, ting, screech. It’s a regular Tubular Bells. Is this where Mike Oldfield got his inspiration? Did he make millions purely by the inspired addition of a mandolin whilst observing his own relatives?

I drive back to Dorset for a bit of Sunday third generation experience. The man-child is cleaning. Always a worrying phenomenon to intrude upon when one has been absent.

Did you have a party? I ask warily
Why are you here? comes the welcome
I live here

I look around for something to eat. Were I at my parents’ house, I would probably find the odd Lobster Thermidor and Isles Flottant in the fridge. No such luck in this establishment.

Do you fancy eggs on toast.
Is there any bread?
Yes, but I can’t read the date says the visually impaired mother
Doesn’t matter as long as it’s not blue comes the student mantra
It’s blue
What about those slices underneath?
No, they’re not as blue as the others

Eggs it is then. I might have a bit of a nap after this.