So there we were, en route to the West Midlands to visit the Shah’s parents. We are going cross-country and quite enjoying the drive in a middle-aged sort of way. That is if you can call the Shah bellowing at every other car on the road enjoyable. His prize comment on this particular journey was “that’s the woman behind us in front.” Don’t ask. In order to take his mind off the inefficiencies of his fellow road users, I remarked (following the nth panicky phone call from his mother) that, if we could invent a pill to counter old-age anxiety, we’d be on to an absolute winner. The Shah laughs a hollow laugh. “Yes,” he opines “and we could call it the Geriatric Anxiety Healer or GAH! for short.”
At this point in my tale, I should issue a caveat – this is not a moan about the Shah’s parents – far from it. Rather, it is an exposé of the vicissitudes of old age and it applies to everyone I know in their dealings with elderly relatives.
So me and the Shah fall to discussing (running a sweepstake on) the varieties of Anxiety (yes with a capital A) we will encounter when we get there. Reader, I have to tell you that, whatever we imagined, the reality beat it into a cocked hat.
The Shah had already spoken to his parents, so they were expecting us. It was his dad’s birthday and he had asked if I would make him a chicken curry as a birthday present (once again, don’t ask). Mother-in-law (Mil) has never allowed a single piece of meat to pass her lips, so I think the poor old buffer was getting a bit desperate for some first class protein. Consequently, the Shah and I spent most of the evening before cooking. Chicken Curry (two types) Bombay Potato (a farm’s worth). The Shah also made a leaning tower of pizza – well not quite, but the Indian equivalent, a sort of spicy rotli. We departed for Coventry well and truly laden with scran.
So, even before we arrived there was anxiety about the food – would we bring it? Would there be enough? Is there a famine in the West Midlands? We also had “Arrival Time Anxiety” which produced several stress phone calls demanding to know if we were dead on the motorway yet. We were happy to assure them that we were not.
On arrival, there was the Amount of Food Anxiety to deal with. It transpired that neither father-in-law (Fil) nor Mil had actually believed that we would, or even could, fulfil their demands for curry, so they had made some themselves. Oh goody! Four people in the house and enough grub for 44. Mil opens one of the plastic containers. “What’s that?” she asks, pointing a finger at my delicious Coriander and Lemon chicken. “Is it potato?” “No,” I tell her. “It’s chicken.” Mil makes some rather too convincing vomiting noises. Following a gargantuan feast (after which we are exhorted to eat a rich, creamy pudding flavoured with pistachio and cardamom in a true Mr Creosote moment to avert Starvation Anxiety), the Shah is despatched upstairs to sort out the satellite TV/computer link and I am led to the kitchen sink to do women’s work. I start to rinse crockery and stack the dishwasher. “Do you want to use the dishwasher or would you like to wash them yourself?” asks Mil kindly. Although thrilled by her kind offer, I nobly decline. This leads to a severe attack of Housework Anxiety and Mil does not allow herself to be deflected so easily. TWICE MORE she asks me if I wouldn’t rather wash up by hand and twice more I demur. Eventually, the Shah wanders in and I ask him for the Gujarati version of “Why buy a dog and bark yourself?” but apparently it wouldn’t translate well. As fast as I am stacking the dishwasher, it is being re-stacked according to Mil’s strict rules and, of course, Dishwasher Anxiety. The only problem is that neither she nor I have any idea what those rules are or what I have done wrong in the first place.
Meanwhile the Shah, having failed to sort out his dad’s router, has been despatched to the garden to mow the lawn and do some weeding. Aha! Yes – now we have Titchmarsh Anxiety which means that Mil is frantic about the incipient ruination of her garden by a pair of weed-pulling wallies like us. The garden is not huge and is by no means weed-infested, but I still spend some pleasant time in the sunshine pulling up several miles of bindweed and the odd groundsel. Mil follows us around yelling at the Shah to make sure to put the weeds in the bin. Eventually the Shah tires of this nonsense and snaps back that he will be lobbing them over next door’s fence if she doesn't shut up.
Finally, we are allowed to leave. Mind you, not before we have Leftovers Anxiety to deal with. Due to Mil’s prodigious cooking, there is a ton of food left. We try to leave most of the chicken with them for Fil to have when he fancies. We agree to take a little bit of it home for a quiet life and decant it back into one of our own Tupperware containers where it covers the bottom 2 inches. This, for some reason, incenses Mil and she lectures the Shah in rapid-fire Gujarati about the necessity of filling it up (what with, FFS?) The Shah responds in kind and Fil stands by laughing.
The Shah mutters under his breath. I think I hear the words “pain” and “arse” being mentioned....
At this point in my tale, I should issue a caveat – this is not a moan about the Shah’s parents – far from it. Rather, it is an exposé of the vicissitudes of old age and it applies to everyone I know in their dealings with elderly relatives.
So me and the Shah fall to discussing (running a sweepstake on) the varieties of Anxiety (yes with a capital A) we will encounter when we get there. Reader, I have to tell you that, whatever we imagined, the reality beat it into a cocked hat.
The Shah had already spoken to his parents, so they were expecting us. It was his dad’s birthday and he had asked if I would make him a chicken curry as a birthday present (once again, don’t ask). Mother-in-law (Mil) has never allowed a single piece of meat to pass her lips, so I think the poor old buffer was getting a bit desperate for some first class protein. Consequently, the Shah and I spent most of the evening before cooking. Chicken Curry (two types) Bombay Potato (a farm’s worth). The Shah also made a leaning tower of pizza – well not quite, but the Indian equivalent, a sort of spicy rotli. We departed for Coventry well and truly laden with scran.
So, even before we arrived there was anxiety about the food – would we bring it? Would there be enough? Is there a famine in the West Midlands? We also had “Arrival Time Anxiety” which produced several stress phone calls demanding to know if we were dead on the motorway yet. We were happy to assure them that we were not.
On arrival, there was the Amount of Food Anxiety to deal with. It transpired that neither father-in-law (Fil) nor Mil had actually believed that we would, or even could, fulfil their demands for curry, so they had made some themselves. Oh goody! Four people in the house and enough grub for 44. Mil opens one of the plastic containers. “What’s that?” she asks, pointing a finger at my delicious Coriander and Lemon chicken. “Is it potato?” “No,” I tell her. “It’s chicken.” Mil makes some rather too convincing vomiting noises. Following a gargantuan feast (after which we are exhorted to eat a rich, creamy pudding flavoured with pistachio and cardamom in a true Mr Creosote moment to avert Starvation Anxiety), the Shah is despatched upstairs to sort out the satellite TV/computer link and I am led to the kitchen sink to do women’s work. I start to rinse crockery and stack the dishwasher. “Do you want to use the dishwasher or would you like to wash them yourself?” asks Mil kindly. Although thrilled by her kind offer, I nobly decline. This leads to a severe attack of Housework Anxiety and Mil does not allow herself to be deflected so easily. TWICE MORE she asks me if I wouldn’t rather wash up by hand and twice more I demur. Eventually, the Shah wanders in and I ask him for the Gujarati version of “Why buy a dog and bark yourself?” but apparently it wouldn’t translate well. As fast as I am stacking the dishwasher, it is being re-stacked according to Mil’s strict rules and, of course, Dishwasher Anxiety. The only problem is that neither she nor I have any idea what those rules are or what I have done wrong in the first place.
 |
| A wafer-thin mint sahib? |
Finally, we are allowed to leave. Mind you, not before we have Leftovers Anxiety to deal with. Due to Mil’s prodigious cooking, there is a ton of food left. We try to leave most of the chicken with them for Fil to have when he fancies. We agree to take a little bit of it home for a quiet life and decant it back into one of our own Tupperware containers where it covers the bottom 2 inches. This, for some reason, incenses Mil and she lectures the Shah in rapid-fire Gujarati about the necessity of filling it up (what with, FFS?) The Shah responds in kind and Fil stands by laughing.
The Shah mutters under his breath. I think I hear the words “pain” and “arse” being mentioned....
