Salmon with noodles.

It’s a weekday evening and I’m cooking dinner. Salmon fillets this time, with spring onions, ginger, garlic, chilli, herbs, peppers and okra - or ladies' fingers as they call them in the shops round here - oh, and some cheap white wine, for the juice. I don’t really use recipes. I’m more of an emotional cook, reacting to the ingredients I find in front of me when I open the fridge.

"Maybe you need to see a doctor?” says my friend. 

She's leaning against the kitchen island, watching me cook. I pour some of the wine into a glass and hand it to her. She says she doesn’t want it because she’s on a health kick. I’m not on a health kick so I drink it, for both of us.

“Why, what will a doctor do?” I ask, popping a lid on the food to let it steam.

She looks over at the fencing kit on the kitchen table. “Well, he might be able to help with your procrastination issues.”

I just told her about the fencing kit. I bought it for the boys before Christmas and it was all the wrong sizes. It needs to be sent back and exchanged for the correct sizes. It’s been sitting in a box on the kitchen table since then, waiting for me to deal with it.

“I can’t see how a doctor will help with that,” I say.

Youngest comes in. He looks toward the hob at the simmering salmon. “Why do we always have to have middle class food?” he says. 

He only likes fish fingers and chips.

“Because it's an evil plot to make you suffer,” I say.

He flounces off.

“You might be depressed,” says my friend.

I think about this. I had a friend who got depressed, properly clinically depressed. She climbed into the shower one morning and then couldn’t move. Suddenly her arms felt heavy as lead. She wasn't able to lift them to shampoo her hair. She just stood there, water pounding down around her, unable to wash, or get out. After that she didn’t leave her house or answer her phone for weeks. We - all her friends - didn’t know what to do to help. In the end I left some chocolates, a note, and some nice DVDs, on her doorstep. Pretty lame I know but she liked it, and she still mentions it. That was a long, long time ago. She’s fine now.

“I don’t think I have the right symptoms for depression,” I say, although I don’t really understand what these are. “Perhaps it’s a menopause thing?”

“Could be,” says my friend.

“What are the symptoms for that?” I ask.

“Putting on weight,” says my friend, “hot flushes, mood swings, headaches, insomnia, loss of libido, lunacy, forgetfulness...”

“Wow," I say. "Sounds fun. I’ve lost weight, I’m always freezing, I’ve always had mood swings, I don’t get headaches, I love sleep, I’m not saying anything about that libido thing, and I can’t remember that last one.”

I have some of this lovely crockery, from Heals.

“What did you think of the book?” says my friend.

That's her way of tactfully changing the subject, I think.

“I haven’t read it,” I say. “I forgot. I haven’t even read the Wikipedia page. There’s no point my going to book group tonight.”

“What?!” says my friend, “You’ve not read it? You're not going! When I’ve come all this way?”

This makes me feel bad, because she makes such an effort to come back to south London, especially for the book group she set up. She always stays with us, and I always cook her a meal. I like having her to stay. In fact, I love it.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll go.”

I’ll just have to fiddle with my phone or something, I think, while the rest of them sit around and intelligently discuss the book and I feel inadequate.

“My mum used to say, ‘stop the world I want to get off,’ when she got really busy,” I say, going to the pantry to find noodles to serve with the meal. “She was a teacher - a head teacher - so she never had time to sort out her cupboards, so she said.”

"I know that feeling," says my friend.

“I'm not particularly busy but I’d love the world to stop for a few hours," I say, "just so I could catch up with stuff: forms I haven’t filled in, books I haven’t read, films I haven’t seen, people I haven’t thanked, crap I haven’t taken to the charity shop, things I still haven’t sent back… and when I say I, I obviously mean you, too."

Middle One comes into the kitchen, just home from school, late, looking tired and cold.

“Have you been to school today without a coat on?” I say.

“Coats aren’t cool,” he says. “What’s for dinner?

“Umm...” I say.

“Because whatever it is, it smells amazing.”

"Thank you, honey," I say.

Love E x

@DOESNOTDOIT

P.S. "Why do we always do middle class things?" said Youngest, when we were out for lunch this weekend. 
"Why?" I said. "Are you planning to grow up and be a chav?"
"For god's sake, Mummy!" said Middle One. "No one says that any more. It's a roadman, now." 
"Really?" I said. "I thought that was someone who gatecrashes a party?" 
"Where the hell did you get that from?" said Middle One. 
"I think I read it," I said. 
"You really need to stop reading," said Middle One. 
He has a point, I thought. Except, of course, for the books for my book group.

The wonderful view from the restaurant.

Cool.

“Are you taking pills for that?” I shout to the elderly woman on the end of the line. “Yes!” she shouts back, because they all shout. “Warfarin!” and they’re nearly all on Warfarin. Many of them are diabetic too.

She tells me about her palpitations and all the other things that are wrong with her. She can’t see well, her hearing is shot, her legs don’t work, she keeps having to have a quick lie down. ‘Off her legs’ is the expression my mother uses for what suddenly happens to people in advanced old age. 

Getting on is no joke, this elderly lady informs me, which is not what I want to hear with a birthday of my own in the offing, even though I know the alternative to getting old is definitely worse. I'd rather hear jokes, but jokes are thin on the ground with this malarkey, so it’s important to keep things light, and loud. 

“Do you have enough food in?” I holler, to the next one down the list, a lovely old gent.

“What’s that, love?” he says.

“Food, I said! Are you getting enough?!”

“Oh! Yes, thank you for asking.”

"Good. Right. Well, we're here if you need us."

"What?" 

"If you need us!" 

“You’re made for this job,” said the woman I work with at the charity after the first time I did it, moments after I'd burst forth from the tiny windowless room at the back of the office there, where they keep me hidden away so I don’t disturb anyone with my incessant bellowing. That first session had been long, a particularly exhausting one, but incredibly rewarding; I couldn't wipe the grin off my face.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “I loved that. Soooo much better than filing and data entry,” which is what I did before, and which I was totally crap at because I didn't concentrate properly and kept drifting off and making mistakes. 

“I’ve finally found my thing, something I’m good at… chatting!”

It can be a bit of a downer, but every now and again there’s a surprisingly up-beat soul to talk to. Case in point, last week, when I commiserated with an old lady about her recently deceased husband. “Don’t worry, dear,” she giggled. “I didn't like him. He was handy with his fists, knocked my block off on more than one occasion. I took him to court and everything and the judge actually turned round and agreed with me. Me! Took my side in the matter.” Okay. Goodness. Didn't see that coming.

It goes without saying that all these old people are house-bound, which is why I’m ringing them in the first place, and a lot of them are bed-ridden too. Each week I’m left haunted by their stories. By the time I get off the phone after a couple of hours every Monday morning, there are all these little snippets of information tumbling round my head like a jumbled wash load: whites, colours, wool, synthetics, all in there together. And speaking of dirty laundry, one old lady cried down the phone to me this week because her washing machine had flooded her kitchen floor and she couldn't get in touch with the repair service.

We're failing these elderly people, hundreds of thousands of them up and down the country in boroughs just like mine, leaving them to fend for themselves. "I'm lively, just lonely," one man told me this week, and it was so apt, I actually wrote that down. There’s got to be a better way.

 “Can’t you come round?” the broken washing machine lady pleaded. “You sound like such a lovely person. Please come.”

But there was nothing I could do but listen. “This is the telephone befriending service,” I explained, “home visits are a whole other thing.”

Last week left me feeling particularly low, listening to tale after tale of sickness and befuddlement. One lady said she’s not left her flat in six months. Six months! She was on the top floor of a block and couldn’t get down the stairs. “I’m just marking time,” she told me. “I look forward to bed from the minute I get up. I turn in as early as possible, taking two hot water bottles with me to keep warm.” It was heartbreaking.

The contrast between most of these elderly people I speak to for the charity and my own parents, who are the same age as a lot of them, couldn’t be more pronounced. My mum and dad are incredible, fully active, on committees, still teaching, writing, organising events. My mother does Zumba classes. My father grows veg and shimmies up trees at weekends in the community orchard he helps to manage. Despite knocking on in years he’s as fit as a fiddle, still with a zest for life; “nifty” as my little niece quaintly described him the other week.

A lot of it is attitude, I think, as I sit listening to tale after tale, as well as what’s in the genes. Sure, there’s the luck of the draw, genetics-wise, but there’s also a refusal to give up and lie down. My parents grab life by the scruff of the neck, and they’re optimists. Well, my mother’s an optimist, my dad just goes with the flow and does what she says, which is the perfect model for a successful pairing, as I keep telling my husband.

And then the other day, just when I was feeling quite down about the whole thing, a cheery voice suddenly answered my last call of the morning.

“How are you today? “ I asked.

“I’m okay,” said the cheery voice.

“And what are you doing right now?” I enquired.

“Reading the paper,” she said. “I’m very interested in current affairs. I like to stay up with what’s going on.”

“Good for you!” I exclaimed, because this was an extremely unusual turn for one of these conversations to take.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I think we should stay in the EU,” she said, all of a sudden, a propos of nothing.

Jesus, it's the fucking EU again, I thought.

“Okay. Right. Interesting. So what’s your take on that?” I asked politely.

“I think we should remain in it,” she said.

“Do you?” I replied, because this was also not what I was expecting to hear, somehow.

“Yes,” she told me. “I know all the young people these days are for out, but I’m all for in.”

“Sounds good,” I responded. “Do you mind telling me how old you are?” 

I don’t usually ask this because it sounds cheeky, but there was something about the timbre of her voice that interested me.

“Not at all," she said, "I’m 99.” 

“99!” I said. “Wow, that’s so cool.”

“Yes,” she said, “that’s what I am.”

Which made me smile.

Love E x

@DOESNOTDOIT

P.S. She also told me she was extremely worried about the prospect of Donald Trump becoming president of the United States, which I thought was very selfless of her.

Conversations.

Middle One is scooting round the kitchen on Youngest’s scooter, round and round, as I’m writing on my laptop at the island.

“What are you doing?” he says.

 “My blog,” I say.

“Why?” he says, going round and round.

“Good question,” I say.

“I don't know why you do it,” he says, round and round.

"Very funny," I say. 

"Seriously," he says.

"Practice," I say, "and habit."

"Why don't you quit?" he says.

“I might,” I say.

“What are you writing now?” he says.

“Nothing," I say, looking up, "actually I was just looking at last week's where I wrote, ‘no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing.' I think it's inadequate clothing, but I can't be bothered to check.”

“It's not true either way,” says Middle One. “Try telling the victims of Hurricane Katrina that all they needed was an anorak.”

This makes me laugh. 

“You make me laugh,” I say. “But can you please stop scooting. Go and argue with your friends on Facebook or something.”

“I can’t,” says Middle One.

“Why not?” I say. “Don’t tell me it's broken, all teen life in SW London will grind to a halt.”

“No,” he says. “You told me not to. You read an article. You said I was addicted to screens and I should do my homework.”

Oh yes. 

"Go and do your homework,” I say.

“Hey!” he says, “I have something for you, in my pocket.”

“What?” I say.

He scoots over, pulls his extended index finger out of his pocket and jabs it skywards inches from my face, while wearing a huge smile on his own.

“Ha, ha,” I say, “very funny." Not.

He scoots away. The phone rings.

“You didn’t ring to say thank you,” says my mother, on the other end of the line.

“Gosh,” I say. “I’m so sorry! No I didn’t.”

I give up on the whole blog thing and walk over to the sofa by the window to sit down and talk to my mother.

“Thank you for having us at half-term,” I say to my mother, belatedly. “I'm saying it now. It was lovely. I meant to ring. I don’t know where the week’s gone.”

“What have you been doing?” she says.

“Umm…” I say, noticing a robin landing on the garden table.

“What's the matter?” she says.

"Sorry," I say, "I meant to ring. I forgot. I keep forgetting things.”

This reminds me of something.

“What does Daddy want for his birthday?” I say.

“I sent you an email about that,” says my mother.

“I know,” I say, “thank you.”

There’s a pause.

That robin is looking at me, I think.

“You didn’t read it, did you?” says my mother.

“No,” I say. “Sorry.”

There’s a huff down the line.

"You're hopeless," says my mother.

“Don’t take it personally,” I say, “I’m not reading anyone’s emails, not properly.”

“What are you doing then?” she says.

Right now? I’m watching a robin.

“Work,” I say, but this is barely true.

“Writing," I add, because this is half true.

“Swimming," I add to that, because this is a bit true. 

“Talking to lots of lonely elderly people,” because this is totally true, and also depressing. 

“Are you having a mid-life crisis?” says my mother.

Only if I live to a hundred, I think, and with the amount I’m drinking at the moment this is unlikely.

“Maybe,” I say.

Middle One scoots back in the kitchen. “Why have I only this moment learnt about the Armenian genocide?” he says.

“I’m on the phone,” I say.

"You never told me," he says. “I just read about it on Wikipedia."

"I've failed as a parent," I say.

"Pardon?" says my mother. 

“Don’t believe everything you read on Wikipedia,” I say, still looking at the robin, while listening to my mother. "Some of it's made up. Although I do know that the Armenian genocide happened."

“Is there someone there?” says my mother. 

“It was terrible,” says Middle One. “Also, why is the annihilation of the native American Indians not included on the list?”

“What list?” I say.

"List?” says my mother. "Are you having two conversations at once?"

“Of genocides,” says Middle One, “on Wikipedia.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess it’s not definitive, it’s selective.”

“What’s selective?” says my mother. 

“You think it would be, though,” says Middle One.

The robin hops down from the table and comes closer to the window, cocking its head on one side.

“Really terrible,” he repeats. 

“You’re not listening to me,” says my mother.

“I am," I say. 

"His birthday is soon," says my mother.

“It's complicated,” says Middle One.

"It's always complicated," I say.

"What is?" says my mother.

“Umm…” I say, to both my mother and to Middle One.

“You’re not listening again,” says my mother.

“I am.” I say. But I'm really not. I’m not listening to either of them. I’m watching the robin.

My mother ends the conversation quite abruptly because I’m being exasperating and because there’s someone at the front door.

Husband walks in. “What are we doing about lunch?” he says. Which means what am I doing about lunch.

“When’s March 6th?” I say.

“Right after the 5^th” he says.

“It's my father’s birthday on March 6th,” I say.

"Oh, right," he says. "This weekend."

"So soon,” I say, "another weekend."

“Why?" he says. "What’s wrong with weekends?”

"They're not the same now you're at home all week." I say. "Now every day is the weekend."

Middle One scoots very close to the window, still talking about the Armenian genocide.

“Don’t do that,” I say, “it’s bad for the wooden floor, and you’re going to scare that robin away.”

“What robin?” he says.

I turn to point at the robin, but it’s gone.

Love E x

@DOESNOTDOIT

P.S. Here's the article about kids and screen addiction from The Times. There's a pay wall. It's keeping them afloat. http://www.thetimes.co.uk/tto/magazine/article4697288.ece