Friday!

A grey one. Cloud blowing in off the North Sea on a cold wind.

Work went fine. I did what had to be done, but nothing more. No dramas to upset things, although I did have to ignore an email which came in just after lunch. Seemed safer, knowing where it came from.

It would have been my late Mum’s birthday today, had she not moved downstairs upstairs almost a year ago. I wasn’t sure how it would go. We always had a difficult relationship and it became worse when dementia got its teeth into her 7 or 8 years ago.

Anyway, it was fine.

She always insisted that birthdays (even significant ones) be low key affairs. “No fuss”. It was only after her death we discovered why. She’d been lying about her age for as long as any one can figure out. Her birth certificate was from 1923. Everything else gave her birth year as 1926.

Typical.

Soon after she went into a care home (my Dad had died not long before) she formed a new relationship with another of the inmates residents. Nice chap. Blazer. Golf club tie. Grey flannels. White trainers.

Then one morning I got a panic call from the home. They’d been caught about to have sex in her room in the middle of the night. Well, trying to at least.

I had a power of attorney, so the next thing was me attending an emergency meeting of healthcare, social work and care home jobsworths, and I had to decide if it was OK for her to have sex. She’d have been 86 (or 89) at the time. I got old quickly at that meeting.    

Tonight’s dinner was a grand concoction. A Friday night special. Kefta mkawra tagine. Meatballs with eggs. Worth a Blip.

Before the comments start, I didn’t eat it all. Half will go in the freezer in a minute.