I was staring out of the window just now, idly washing up (very idly, but DOING IT) when mother spoke. (And see? What did I tell you? Any excuse to leave the washing up and scribble something inane. I’ve even turned off the soup.) I am honest, (mostly - there are some things she really does not need to know), so I told her.
At that moment, for some out-of-the-blue reason, I had been reminiscing about our driving through the west side of Shetland one fine summer’s day when I lived there (well not living on the west side but at the south end) along a deserted road where there was one isolated cottage. Now one of my mother’s favourite hobbies is going past a house and saying I’d like THAT one, please. But I got in first.
Because she had just asked me what I’d be doing at her age (about 80 at the time) and I'd said: Probably living in a house like that, growing weird herbs and feeding twenty cats.
Twenty cats.
And I looked down at my feet. Chocolate was staring up at me. His eyes were wide with fear. His little mouth was all crumpled. He was about to burst into tears.
Dear God. I know, I just know, he understands every bloody word I say.
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