Hello Mudda............

"All right, mum. Have it your way. You don't even want to go to a Harvester!"

"Wait a minute, it's stopped hailing, guys are swimming, gals are sailing........"
Well, there might not be much swimming and sailing going on around Pither Towers, BUT IT HAS STOPPED RAINING! Hurrah!!
I made this startling discovery shortly after waking at my usual 5.30am. My very-soon-to-be ex-wife is not at her best at that hour of the morning. She tends not to like daylight and instead flits around at night when the powers of evil are exalted - she gets it from her mother. The dogs, while slightly earlier risers, are not into dawn, however, and so remain motionless on my bed, only managing to summon up the energy to growl and grumble when I wriggle out to begin the day.
The upshot of this lack of activity elsewhere is that the first two hours of the day are mine - all mine!! - and that's when I get my thinking out of the way. I like to have it over with early so that I can spend the rest of the day on automatic pilot, smiling inanely at people while intermittently saying "dunno" when they ask me for my views on something.
This morning's lateral thinking went thus: Wow! It's stopped raining! - That's like the line from the famous Camp Grenada song by Allen Sherman - The song's called "Hello mudda, hello fadda", I think - My fadda may be deadda but my mudda is still going - Oh Christ! Remember, it's her 80th birthday on Tuesday!

This forthcoming familial anniversary should, of course, be a cause for celebration, a reason for the entire Pither clan (there are three of us) to gather and toast the senior member's longevity. There is something, however, which makes this an impossibility. How can I explain? Well, put it this way, when my mother is in the vicinity there is a distinct whiff in the air. Don't get me wrong, it's not a personal hygiene problem leading to that overpowering smell of urine you encounter when most geriatrics are around. No, when the soon-to-be octogenarian Mrs P is in the neighbourhood there is an all pervading odour of burning martyr!
Our mother can make St Stephen seem like a genuinely selfish and unprincipled wretch at times. Her 80th anniversary (it's Kyptonite, isn't it?) is an ideal chance for her to step onto the proverbial pyre and she's taking full advantage of it. My brother and I have tapped her up over various ways of making the birthday memorable but they have all been rejected out of hand. "I don't want to celebrate it." "I don't want to do anything." "Just forget about me, I'll be all right." "You're too busy." "It's a waste of money" etc.
Living 170 miles away from her, my options for showing I care are curtailed somewhat and they have been curtailed even further down the years by the lady herself. I used to send her a big bouquet of flowers on her birthday but she eventually rounded on me saying "I don't like flowers. Flowers die. It's depressing!" Ok, fair enough, onto Plan B. I took to sending her a bottle of champagne and some chocolates. A winner, I thought - nope! "I don't like champagne and chocolates make me fat!" Plan C, I remember, was to send her vouchers for her beloved Marks & Spencer's. That went tits up after she phoned one year to say "Don't send me anymore M&S vouchers. I haven't spent the last lot and don't get into town enough to spend more!"
My brother has run a plethora of ideas up the flagpole for her 80th but all have been rejected out of hand - she doesn't like the Red Arrows, the Band of the Coldstream Guards have let themselves go, apparently, and the Queen is a surly old trout who wasn't nice to Diana! Even going out for lunch or dinner was turned down flat because it constituted too much "fuss".
All of this would be OK if she genuinely didn't want a "fuss" or any kind of memorable occasion. The trouble is, she does!! Unfortunately, if she did get what she wanted that would not give her any cause to moan, feel sorry for herself or achieve martyrdom, all things she feels she has to do if she is to keep going!
A decision has been made on what to do, however. The proverbial stake was driven hard into the earth, mother was bound hand and foot to it, the brushwood was piled up all around and then a flaming torch was put to the tinder-dry fuel as she enquired of our kid, pitifully: "Can I just come round for m'tea?"
So, that's it. She's going to our kids' for her tea! On her 80th birthday! No doubt she'll reject the birthday cake, scones, clotted cream, jam and jelly and just suck on a rag moistened with PG Tips while shivering in the corner, her shawl pulled up high against the bitter 80F temperature in the dining room.
Ho, hum! I, by the way, have sent her an enormous and really unusual display of plants. They don't die, you see - or shouldn't, anyway. That will fox her for a while. Still, she's got a full 12 months to come up with a reason why I should never send her anything like that again.
Having said all of the above, our mother is a unique individual. She instilled in me, certainly (although not intentionally), a love of comedy and has survived not only Hitler but tragedy and testing times. She cannot, therefore, go to Grantham - but martyrs can.