One of the last things I took her to was about the worst public talk I have ever heard. It was by the Civic Trust on local churches, a topic, I was interested in, having given related talks myself.
Mum was keen to come too. Anywhere I went mum wanted to come along, anything rather than be left behind. That was fine. I enjoyed her company, her warm dry hands in mine, tracing the curves of her fingernails with the ends of my fingers. Mum loved to have nice nails. I have always "bitten my feelings", but made sure mum enjoyed manicures and pedicures while she lived with us.
Mum's sense of inhibition was nowhere near as strong as it had been and she was inclined to be audibly outspoken in public settings about things she thought were problematic. This could be funny and slightly mortifying. Once, after coming to stay with me, I arranged for a checkup at a new surgery. Called in to see the obese doctor, mum commented, probably truthfully, yet far too loudly about how that young woman needed to go on a diet. It could be extraordinary to hear the inner thoughts of someone who, would never have said anything remotely similar aloud and whose most wayward silent comment might have been an arch glance and a grin.
So at the dreadful talk we rolled eyes at each other through the excruciating overlong experience and giggled, homeward, about how it was possible for anyone to give such a bad talk and for it to be received with such bizarre enthusiasm. If mum couldn't remember any of the details, she was certainly able to remember, for the next ten minutes at least, the sense of the general ordeal.
