For my mum...
Almost a month ago, I received the phone call that every emigrant with elderly parents dreads. "Mum's not well," came my brother's voice down the phone, "the doctor doubts she'll make the end of the week - you'd better make some plans." I knew this day would come, in many ways I hoped it would be sooner rather than later. Mum had dementia and had been non-verbal for almost seven years and missing for oh so much longer than that. After my dad had died - nine years earlier - she had declined massively within a short period of time, and had been living in a nursing home since then. To my shame, I hadn't seen her in four years. A woman who up until the last decade and a half had taken great pride in her appearance, mum had taught us girls how to be ladies; she placed great importance on good manners and a groomed appearance - she didn't understand the laddish culture I grew up with at all and consequently, and apart from a brief s...