A Kept Woman

Lucy’s column for April 8th
Birthlo..1
If I’m reading it right, I’m about to become a kept woman.
It means giving up my day job, jetting hither and thither, first class, perhaps, weekly hair-dos and acrylic nail jobs, designer frocks, and no need to run for the hills when the bank statement comes. Yes, he’s recently reached the era of the old age pension. And my, isn’t it going to stretch us into the realms of luxury living?
As anybody on the receiving end of the pitiful pittance will confirm, all that is in my dreams. He means well, bless the hole-y socks he insists on wearing, when brand-new, still-in-the-pack, cotton-and-silk-mix pairs still languish, untouched, in his knicker drawer. The older he gets, the more like his late father he becomes. Eccentric. And slightly dotty.
Now, I loved my father-in-law to bits, and he indulged us all come Christmas and birthdays – I used to get such huge "coffrettes" of Clinique stuff that I often ended up giving some away. He wasn’t short of a bob or two. If him indoors mentioned a particular bottle of wine or brandy brand, it was in our booze cupboard before we could say "slurp". Our kids could always rely on a generous financial gesture. But to see him trundling his trolley on his twice-weekly shop to the village, you’d think he hadn’t two ha’pennies to rub together. His whole life was in that trolley pocket – bank books, photos of his late wife, rain hat, scarf, and a list of "things to do on my death", involving company pension, state pension, probate, chosen funeral director, whatever.
When, turned 80, he sadly shuffled off this mortal coil, we found brand new shirts, sweaters, gloves, jackets, we’d treated him to over the years. Then came the cut up cereal cartons he’d use as shopping lists, and a pantry full of tinned fruit salad, and Ambrosia Creamed Rice, Camp Coffee, and Fray Bentos Steak and Kidney Pies. Tinned.
And as I watch the old man doing the same daily trudge – we have two papers delivered, he insists on "popping out" for a couple more, plus the running-out-of-bread-and-milk essentials – I reckon he’s morphing into his dad. Which is no bad thing. Except he’s getting old before his time – nearly 15 years before his dad did.
Come his 65th, son Simon and daughter-in-law Claire displayed their powers of observation. How they must have hooted as they searched the stores – and Burton Market – for his commencement-of-old-age birthday gifts. Grandchildren Jacob and Grace trolled in with a balloon-bearing shopping trolley, rubber wheeled, adjustable handled, chav-checked design. From inside, beautifully wrapped, emerged tins of fruit salad, creamed rice, Camp Coffee, steak and kidney pies. These were, announced Simon, the sort of stuff you find in every old knacker’s pantry.
The parcels included a pair of slipper bootees with zips up the front. The design was only two pom-poms short of the ones they’ve promised me for my 70th.
But they did redeem themselves in their little joke. Because nestling in the trolley pocket, which is where, one day, he’ll keep the will, the pension book, and perhaps a photo of me, circa 1970, was Great British Menu Challenge winner Marcus Wareing’s cookery tome, on How to cook the perfect….. You see, when I had my recent loss-of-sight fright, he promised he’d learn to cook. This was their discreet hint.
I’m not holding my breath. A list of Mr Wareing’s suggestions, such as Plan Ahead, Make a Shopping List, Dress the Part (him, in a pinny?), Be Prepared, Tidy and Clean as you Go, Read the Recipe, Organise, and Enjoy Cooking, just aren’t in keeping with the man who, after 65 years, can just about perfect a pan of frozen peas – prodding knife, and stop-watch, at the ready.
Home-made soup, seared tuna, sichuan chicken, lemon posset with hot, spiced fruits, and pan-fried scallops may beckon. But given his easy-peasy larder starter, I envisage nothing more home made or exotic than a bit of Biddy Baxter’s gruel, tinned salmon, ditto fruit salad, and an economy portion from the local chippy. And if anybody sees a pensioner with a pull-along, he doesn’t belong to me.
Risklo..1
Meg Munn is the Foreign Office minister who’s issued a health warning to the over 55s : having a good time on holiday involves risks. I’m reminded of the late, and lovely, Agnes Lloyd, mother of the prematurely-demised Terry (ITN reporter) and Kevin (Tosh, The Bill), who was a regular holiday companion. I’ve witnessed Agnes fly – and fall off - round Cala Bona bay on a speedy sausage, and whizz down bumpy water chutes with grandchildren Chelsey and Oliver, at the speed of sound. She was nearer 80 than 70 at the time. She was the feisty one who’d protest : "Oh, I don’t really drink" – and three Bacardi and Cokes later, was chuckling her way to the next bar. She was the one who insisted on sharing a room with her hot, demanding and fidgety grandchildren – but was up at 7 am next day, whacking us all round the heads with our chosen newspaper. Risk? Happiness and satisfaction personified, I’d say.