My mother rang to tell me my father is definitely dying and I am to come at once. He then rang and invited me out to lunch and when I arrived at their Fulham pad found him mending the front doorknob to the block. Hardly pushing daisies! We then walked through posh Chelsea to a lovely restaurant for lunch. He seems to have got better. He walks slowly but then he's old. I think he probably has bad days and she is prone to exaggeration.
In an extraordinary moment of rare generosity my mother offered to lend me money. In my hour of need and greed I nearly grabbed this gift horse with both ears but then I thought a bit (a nano second during which my miserable childhood sobbed before me) and remembered my horse dentistry. There will be strings that make Thunderbirds puppets look unmanipulated. Am I being paid to visit my father? What does she want? Is she trying to appease her guilt? Don't be daft, she thinks she did it all perfectly; the woman is without soul. I consulted Mr Smith. Interest free loan for possibly ever? NO. She will, like all banks, ask for it back when you can least afford it. So back on the game then.
I took a few daubs along with me to show them what I had been up to. They were most complimentary. My mother offered me the money against the proceeds of the sale of these paintings. I told her a three legged nag in the 3.30 at Wincanton was a safer bet. I think she wants me to have this money but I just know the price is too high. It's ok she'll do what she always does, give it to my brother, which actually is fine by me. I dislike her marginally more than he does.
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