The bank holiday weekend has passed and the parental visit is over. For another year. At least. Next time, may stick them on the train to France and dare them to get home. When I saw them approach my flat, as I scurried around with a hoover, throwing a copy of Boyz magazine into any drawer I could find, I could hear the Omen music in my head. When that film came out, she checked my head to see if it had 666 etched on it. Now it’s just 999, a desperate cry help but from me.
We had dinner at my brother’s flat up the road in Hendon on Friday where nothing much happened other than that she did not like the tomato soup he prepared, she spent most of the main course on the phone to 93 year-old Uncle Geoffrey in Blackpool, who had had a fall and spent most of the night in his hallway before the inappropriately-named home help arrived. As a result, her main course of chicken went cold and she does not like parsnips so she dumped them on my plate whilst my brother was in the kitchen. My dad said nothing and ate.
After dinner, we were filled in on all the events in Manchester with a posse of people in my parents’ lives, the only one I can recall was my dad and his friend Louis’ desperate trip to the loo in Southport where they entered a house filled with very friendly women. There was not much noise, no sky sports and little sex. It was a convent and just like home, apparently.
Saturday, my brother needed a rest. My mother’s negativity had worn him down so he stayed in to watch the football whilst I took them on the bus to the Strand from Golders Green. “What do I do with the tickets?” was one of the more advanced questions posed before my heavy Dad nearly toppled onto my mother as the bus pulled out. I sat at the back. After a baguette experience in Baguette Du Monde opposite the Savoy Theatre (we were to see Fiddler on the Roof there) my Dad decided he wanted to go to the toilet. He used his little walker amazingly to wheel himself into London’s most prestigious hotel after which we headed in to see an amazing Fiddler on the Roof. They laughed here.
Avoiding west London because of the Notting Hill carnival, the following day began with a trek to Greenwich on the boat from Embankment. My brother was grumpy before we even left. Apparently my dad had been up three times in the night to go to the loo, which he could not find. In a smallish apartment. We boarded, sat them at the front, sat us at the back, got off to take the lift up Hungerford Bridge, walked across the bridge to find that the lift down was not working that day. More than 40 steps awaited and 20,000 people were ascending. I refused to panic and alerted him to stay on the right, and directed them to the left. We made it. We then disected a further 100,000 people queuing for London’s most visited hotspot – the London Eye. Before we could take the boat from there, my Dad needed the toilet again so we made the 230pm boat with 2 minutes to spare. Craving independence, my Dad wanted to sit on the top deck of the boat in the sun, which he did, bounding up the stairs and listening to the guide whilst my mother ate a peach and looked at the overpriced riverside apartments. My stubborn brother had uttered 5 words since we left. At Greenwich, we descended and made our way through more crowds to the market. On one particular pedestrian crossing, we were half way across when the lights changed. One van driver yelled at my mother for walking slowly to which she replied “Can’t you see he’s disabled?” to the van driver. There is nothing wrong with her mouth. He rather logically said he could see that but did not know why she was walking slowly. She told him to piss off. He called her a slag. My brother told him to f off. My dad laughed. I stood there in useless disbelief. In spite of my list of reasons why people do not get involved any more in London situations, she threatened to deck him if he got out and started. She is 58 and five foot two. He was 6 foot 3 at least. Then again, she is from Liverpool. Too close to call. We left Greenwich intact, had a schwarma take away at mine and then my brother took them away. I called him in the morning to see if there were still three people in his house. There were. We parted. They had a great time. We had a great time. That wasn’t it, though. Well, maybe a bit.
Still, you are born into a family for a reason and when I have worked it out, I will let you know.
