My mum is 89 years young. Two years ago, she packed up her things and moved in with me. Every morning, I hear her shuffling about at 7:30 sharp. Then she starts whispering sweet nothings to her venerable old cat, Mrs Whiskerson, and serves her breakfast with far more ceremony than necessary. Next comes her own breakfast prep before she settles herself out on the sunny patio with a mug of tea (coffee is her secret vice) as she waits to wake up properly.
Afterwards, she grabs the mop and proceeds to march around the entire house (about 240 square metres, to be precise)insisting its her daily workout. If the mood strikes, shell whip up something in the kitchen, rearrange cupboards, or do her usual spot of stretching.
Afternoons mean beauty routine time, which rarely stays the same two days running. Sometimes shell rummage through her immense wardrobe, which is less a wardrobe and more a walk-in museum. Some clothes she bestows unto me, some she passes to neighbours, and some she manages to selllike a proper businesswoman. I often tease her:
Mum, if youd invested all that money, youd be living the high life now!
She chuckles: I happen to love my clothes. And besides, one day itll all be yours. Your sister, bless her, wouldnt know Prada from Primark.
To keep ourselves amused, about five times a week we stroll three kilometres around the lake. Once a month, theres the grand girls night in with her friends. She devours books and is constantly raiding my library. Every day, she phones her 91-year-old sisterAunt Edithwho lives over in Bath and visits twice a year. (Aunt Edith, by the way, is still balancing ledgers for a private client. Marvellous woman.)
Apart from Mrs Whiskerson, mums pride and joy these days is the tablet I got her last Christmas. She reads all about her favourite authors and composers, keeps up with the daily news, watches ballet and opera, and is generally more online than I am. Around midnight, Ill often hear her mutter,
Should go to bed now, but YouTubes gone and switched itself to Pavarotti.
Honestly, mum and Aunt Edith must have won the genetic lottery. Not that mum doesnt have her moments:
I look dreadful! she complains.
And I try to lift her spirits:
Mum, at your age, most people would be pushing up daisies.She laughsa full, warm laugh that fills the kitchen and makes Mrs Whiskerson purr even louder. Well, darling, Id rather be picking peonies than pushing up daisies, any day.
I watch her lift the mug to her lips and glance out at the morning sun, her silver hair shining like spun silk. Theres a tenderness in her eyes, a defiance tooa certainty that joy is found in the smallest habits, the private rituals we share. In her presence, time feels elastic, gently stretching across laughter, long walks, and late-night concerts with Pavarotti. Mum settles into her chair and smiles at me, a look that says: Thisright hereis life, and I mean to live every inch of it.
So I sit beside her, and together we watch the day unfoldgrateful, and, for a moment, certain nothing in the world could possibly be finer.
