Neither Agenda nor a bovverer be

Nonna is off colour, giddy and out of sorts.

Her son phones at frequent intervals for updates and progress reports throughout the day, in brief, as he has a busy schedule. My schedule is scrapped. No time to catch up after a long three day weekend in sole "custody" of "everybody."

I am keen that Nonna should revert to vertical as soon as possible and take great care to ensure that my wishes succeed, primarily because my worry timetable is already fully booked. My knowledge of diabetes and age related complications is sketchy. My knowledge of England in January is legendary.

When he walks through the door at the end of the day, I am all over him, like a rash. We huddle in the corner to scheme and plot and foil poor Nonna’s plan to return home. Independence is all well and good, but safety is a priority and trumps freedom every time. On completion of the debate, I then launch into my own agenda, tact, persuasion, consideration and most of all, kindness and patience. It’s a tricky one. Nonna is his mother not mine. They have their own relationship with a long and well worn history. It’s not easy to turn the tables from Mother and son, to adult man and intermittent frailty.

We wait until dinner time, when we are all at the table together. I prod him into speech. Thereafter follows a lengthy diatribe outlining the copious logical reasons why it is best that Nonna remains in permanent residency. At the end of his speech he pauses, slightly breathless with a smear of food at the corner of his lips.
“Well?”
“Well wot?”
“Do you agree?”
“Agree wiv wot?”
“Agree that it’s better for you to stay here………with us?”
“Why I stay ere?”
Much eye rolling and sighing ensues. A brief recap of the pertinent points are bellowed at poor benighted, overwhelmed and outnumbered Nonna, but she rallies.
“Look ere! If I woz at ome…….in bed all day……den der would be no laundry, no washing up and no mess……..I would be just fine……I am just fine on my own…….no bovver to anybody.” She beams, lifts a quaky arm, extends a shaky finger and dabs his mouth, “butter! You mucky pup!”

Neither Agenda nor a bovverer be

http://sandwichedgenes.blogspot.com/2009/01/neither-agenda-nor-bovverer-be.html