Tips for when your parents don’t do as they are told…

Following what Moo was talking about last time – how you are always a child to your parents even when you are an adult; I can’t pass this topic by unless I put my oar in too. My mother says things like ‘I’ve got your favourite bikkies in’ or ‘what you need is a nice hot bath’ to me, a 60-year-old with a senior rail card.

And yet, at the same time you will find that you must take over the task of helping them organise their lives when they are past it need a bit more help, and you have to start issuing instructions back to them. There is this strange see-saw period when the balance of power veers from one side to the other, sometimes in the space of one visit.

After being offered my favourite bicky, I then glance down to find a box of Belgian chocs by the side of each chair. It’s a free country and my parents are consenting adults, so they can eat what they like without input from one of their ‘girlies’, but when they say things like – ‘my blood sugar was up last week, and I have no idea what I am doing wrong’ – I feel obligated to tell them why.

There is a protocol involved in correcting aged parents, and I have a few tips to offer middle-aged children like me who are placed in this position of responsibility.

1.       Never tell them they are in the wrong directly. You just have to accept the fact that however old you are, however many achievements and experiences and qualifications you have amassed since you left their direct care – you are still their kid. Which means, ultimately, that they know better than you do even when they don’t. Ah, yes, there are times when they ask your advice, but I get the feeling that it is because they want to make us feel valued and useful. Kids need all the encouragement their parents can give, and the habit is hard to break.

2.       Give them dietary advice with a pinch of salt. Well, maybe pass on the salt if it is refined table salt. But will they try the Celtic sea salt which retains 84% of the minerals that are lacking in the table salt? Nope. Or believe the recent research on wheat and gluten? Nope, and why? – because their parents ate it and were fine, is why. To be fair, if you are in your 80's and you couldn’t get to the shops easily and wasn’t able to use a computer to order home deliveries, then the whole diet thing would be really hard to get your head round, even when your daughter writes a week’s menu and a shopping list. It’s just too much hassle, and I do understand that guys, I really do.

3.       Give them lifestyle advice with your fingers crossed behind your back. And yet, one day they surprise you. The crafty old so and so’s make sure that they leave just enough time between your advice and their action, so it looks like it was their idea all along. Fair enough. They’ve probably forgotten you said anything anyway [it’s the statins…].

4.       Expect failure with cheerful resignation. Because, at the end of the day why should they listen to you? So, if any of my kids ever read this and want to wade into my life with good advice when I am 80 I think it is fair to say I will be probably retain the right to do my own thing anyway. So kids: all your advice will roll off my back when I enter my dotage and I will live how I please. But at least, I will understand how you feel. And you have my sympathy…

Rice pudding and teaspoons

...or the upside of having elderly parents.

I’ve been spending more time with my parents recently for one reason and another, and I can’t help thinking how lucky I am that they are still around. They enrich the whole family’s life in ways they probably don’t even imagine.

It’s a funny feeling when you are almost at pension age and you spend some time with your parents. Suddenly you are a child again. It doesn’t matter how many years you’ve been an independent adult, how many children you have reared, how many grandchildren you already have, how many exams you have passed or how much of the world you have seen. Parents never leave off being parents, and my parents are no exception.

So if Mum wants to give you petrol money when you’ve taken her to an appointment or something, you don’t refuse. I’ve tried it, but I get The Look. I feel as though I might get sent to my room.

Mum and Dad have always had a gift for seeing the funny side of things, and they have not lost it. Which is just as well, because as you get older there is much more scope for it. For example, due to certain confused online purchasing by Dad, we have been blessed with an overabundance of rice pudding and teaspoons  Well, we couldn’t leave them to munch their way through the quantities of pudding Dad ordered in error. Then there was the teaspoon incident. There are only so many teaspoons a household of two needs. For some reason Dad decided he was short of a teaspoon or two and unintentionally ordered about a million, only to open a drawer after they arrived to find he had plenty of teaspoons already.

Dad’s tendency to systematically label and number things like margarine tubs, eggs and milk bottles has been noted before. These things can’t be easily explained, although Dad has had a good go and we got a good laugh. And always ready to laugh at himself, he has told most of the family how he recently took Mum her breakfast in bed minus the egg which was supposed to be the main feature of the meal.

There’s something I’ve noticed about visiting Mums house. You always come away carrying more than you went in with. No, I don’t mean we’ve been systematically robbing her. I mean she gives you stuff. Even if it’s only old newspapers to wrap your rubbish in or light fires or something. It’s always been like this. I don’t know where she gets all the excess stuff from. I’m not counting Dad’s over-ordered things. Recently Mum has taken to accidentally buying way too much meat for their Sunday dinner. Rather than using it the next day or freezing it or something, I get a phone call on Monday to ask if I can use the best part of a lamb joint (I can!) or a couple of cooked chicken legs or whatever. I’m the lucky offspring who lives round the corner, so I get this quite often. I’m not complaining! She says its for the dog (yeah right) but he doesn’t see much of it. I don’t know that Mum deliberately buys too much in order to have some to feed her offspring with, but it’s the sort of thing she would be likely to do.

I know they won’t mind me mentioning this, but Mum and Dad keep us all entertained with their bickering. They are famous for it anyway, and have even been presented with a house name plaque ‘The Bickeridge’ by their grandchildren. This is proudly displayed outside their front door for all the world to see, so it’s no secret. Recently I was with them when Dad was due to be discharged from a brief hospital visit. Mum was going to help him dress, the curtains were pulled round the bed, so I went out to make a phone call and left them to it. Returning to the ward ten minutes later I got a bit confused and couldn’t remember which bed was Dad’s. But I needn’t have worried – I soon heard them bickering away behind the curtains.

And where would we be without Mum’s fascinating stories of her childhood and her laugh aloud tales of characters she has met? Yes, I count myself very lucky indeed to have these two still in my life. I just hope they realise how much they mean to all of us.

The Great Escape...

My husband and I are going abroad for Christmas.

Not to somewhere warm with sandy beaches, palm trees and coconuts. No, we are going to Norway where it will be colder than it is here, but hopefully with SNOW.

Remember singing ‘I’m dreaming of a white Christmas’? Well, we are always dreaming. One year we had 20 minutes of snow in Somerset during the whole winter. What good is that?

In 1962 we had a cracker of a winter. We lived in Kent then [with no central heating till the 1970s BTW]. By gum we knew how to survive in cold weather, with frost on the inside of the window, huddled over a small electric fire in the middle of the bedroom trying to do homework. There was a fire in the front room but the hall was so cold all you could hear during the evening when people went in and out was ‘Shut the door!’.

Anyway, I digress. In Norway it is colder [outside not inside] but we are not going for the dip in temperature. Apart from seeing our grandchildren I am looking forward to experiencing a scenario that looks like Christmas. White lawns, gently falling soft snowflakes, the scrunchy sound as you are the first one to walk down the drive in the morning leaving your footprint behind on the previously unmarked swathes of pristine white...

This means that we leave some of our kids behind in the UK to sort Christmas dinner, presents, decorations etc themselves. They can do that. They are all big enough. I will just say that again – our kids can sort Christmas dinner – does that not sound good?

I know I will help out where I will be, I can lay the table, I can load the dishwasher and peel potatoes – but it’s a lot different to being responsible for everything. Most importantly, I won’t be responsible for organising the clearing up after every meal, for checking the table has been wiped properly, making sure that stuff which needs to be defrosted has been taken out of the freezer and that all the leftover meat has been put in the fridge.


The housewives among us may understand why I am referring to this as The Great Escape.

Who would have thought it...

This is my dog Archie trying to escape having his harness put on prior to going for a walk. We go through this fiasco every time we take him out. I mean, he wants to go out but makes us catch him first. I have no idea why.

Whatever made us get a dog? I’d never really thought of myself as a ‘dog person’ if you know what I mean. Not too fond of dog-slobber on my clothes, dog poo in the garden and hair all over the carpets. I was fond of the dog we’d had when the children were young. William was such a good natured, obedient, friendly character with a weakness for rooting in rubbish bins and getting on the sofa when he thought nobody would catch him. He spent his last few months living with my son Tom, who needed a dog and loved him to bits. I was sad when he died, especially when I came home from work and found Tom burying him in my garden. I felt privileged to have him lying beneath my lawn, but I wasn’t quite as heartbroken as I suspect I would be were our little Archie to pass on.

So, why did I sign up for all that slobber, poo and hair again? Not sure I can explain really. But,

a)     he doesn’t slobber

b)     he rarely poos in the garden

c)     he doesn’t shed his hair

So, with my main objections to dogs taken care of, there are almost no reasons NOT to have one. Call it mid-life madness. Or empty nest syndrome.... Whatever.

Besides, I needed something to make me get more exercise – no excuses!

Every morning I see a gentleman of military aspect marching his dog down to the beach. A well behaved, obedient dog with an impressive physique and not a spare ounce of flesh on him. I can only imagine the training that guy put his dog through and the regimented life he must lead. He seems happy enough though, so maybe it suits him. Dogs are supposed to be like their owners (or is it the other way round?) That’s probably why I have a small, scruffy, stubborn little dog. But SO adorable!

The strong bonds between humans and their dogs and/or cats can’t be denied. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea perhaps, but those of us who do cherish a furry friend get a lot of happiness from them. And when they pass away, as they do far too soon, we mourn as for a lost family member. It’s common to have to have time off work when we lose a pet. Which reminds me of a staff memo which was sent round to my colleagues a few years ago. It included the line 

‘...and thanks go to Carol whose cat died and carried on working anyway’. 

After falling off my chair laughing I sobered up and felt mean because I could imagine what poor Carol was suffering.

Since the day Archie arrived, a cute bundle of puppy sweetness, he has brought something special into our lives. His face is so comical it makes you want to laugh just to look at him. 

There are times when I marvel at his intelligence, and others when I shake my head at his idiocy. He has been part of my life for two and a half years now, and I have no regrets at all.

Butter wouldn't melt...