My final rendezvous today is with my mother, who is waiting
for me somewhere else in Derbyshire with her suitcase packed and the milk
cancelled, in the hope that I will whisk her off to a Christmas of domestic
bliss down in the Wess Curntry.
Obviously she is losing her memory, because we have never had a
Christmas of domestic bliss in our house even the year when I gave everyone a
Cornish pasty.
On the way to my mother’s house, I have an argument with the
sat nav. It tells me to bear left but I
am in the right-hand lane, so it shows me a picture of me careering into a
blank yonderness of non-roads and then into a reservoir. I feel this is an unhelpful image. I shout at the sat nav to get a grip. Instead it does the exact opposite, bouncing
off its dashboard cushion and into my lap, from where it continues to shout
muffled instructions into my thigh. The
minute I get a hand free, I throw it onto the passenger seat, where it shouts
muffled instructions into what’s left of the mince pie.
My mother offers me a sandwich when I arrive. I say no thanks I have already eaten a mince
pie and half a sat nav.
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