The other day, Mum expressed a wish to go out to lunch again with her friend Lynette. For those who don’t know, Lynette is a chatty lady who never lets you get a word in edgeways—not even when she’s just asked you a question. It frustrates the pants off me, but Mum always seems to enjoy her time with Lynette. The fact that they were friends in school says everything about how much they must enjoy each other's company.
While I’m never forced to attend, I do get the impression that one of the main pleasures Mum gets out of having a daughter is the occasional chance to show her off. So, considering what she’s given me, it shouldn’t be beyond me to fulfill such obligations. I try to do it with meaning, from the heart, and not just as another chore—like baling for Mr. Luckyman or whatever.
When she mentioned going out to lunch with Lynette, I remembered that when we were away for my birthday, we visited a lovely little tearoom near Chatsworth. During the visit, Mum said, “What a shame this isn’t a little closer. It would be perfect for lunch with Lynette. She would love it.”
It’s about seventy miles from where we live—not too far, really. It takes about an hour and twenty minutes, which isn’t much to someone who drives a Massey Ferguson tractor for eight hours at a stretch. But for Mum, it’s too far to drive. So when she mentioned meeting Lynette, I volunteered to drive them over to the tearoom.
“Katie, dear, that’s so sweet. I can’t believe you even remembered! It’s a lovely idea, but I fear it’s a bit too far.”
“Mum! I’m a professional driver now. Honestly, I don’t mind. It’ll be nice.”
So, she got in touch with Lynette, who was happy to join us for lunch.
We also stopped by the garden center and the farm shop before heading home. As for Lynette—everything was business as usual. I defused my frustration with a walk around the village while they settled the bill. I wasn’t paying, and doing the driving, so I knew there’d be some prolonged conversation with the cashier before they could leave. That’s just how it goes with Lynette.
Simply walking around the garden center couldn’t happen without being drawn into a lengthy conversation with some random stranger about knee operations.
As is often the case with Mum and garden centers, we spent more on non-garden-related items than on anything for the garden. This time, we splashed out £7 on a feather duster with an extendable handle. We returned home and presented it to Dad as a new weekend pastime.
"I'd love to have a go with it. But knowing how you are with that tractor of yours, it will be squirreled away on there somewhere, never to be seen again."
"Oh yes, I never thought of that. Thanks dad."
Mum gave us both a look of contempt.
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