Air travel was once just a given, but now I find myself second-guessing every sound the engine makes. And since when did the weather become so damned interesting?
* * *
Because dealing with my parents’ phonia (the irrational fear of pressing the wrong button on a telephone) doesn’t fill my days with quite enough joy, I recently made the questionable decision to gift my mother an old iPad I was no longer using. I figured the technology would make certain tasks easier for her. I hadn’t counted on it increasing the frustration in my own life tenfold.
The iPad dings in Mum’s handbag and after several minutes of fishing around (how hard is it to find something that big in there?) she pulls it out and opens its cover.
Another sharp intake of breath, but as no hands have reached for the dash, it can’t be my driving’s fault this time. I suspect perhaps she’s been emailed that someone has just died.
As she remains unforthcoming, I am forced to ask: ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I accidentally deleted the phone bill!’
One lost email could very well see her hospitalised with the highest heart rate ever measured in the records of modern science.
‘Mum, it’s okay,’ I reassure her to no avail. ‘The bill isn’t lost, I’ll find it when we stop for lunch. And even if you did accidentally double delete it, you know they’ll send you a reminder in a few weeks anyway, don’t you?’
‘I’ll get fined with interest!’
‘No, not immediately.’
‘But it was just here a second ago,’ she says, pressing icons at random. Thus proving there is no point trying to reason with her.
‘Give it to me, Jude, I’ll find it for you,’ Jeff says from over the back which saves me from pulling over and calling the SES to assist with Mum’s latest dire emergency.
After a second he says: ‘It was in deleted items. I moved it back to your inbox.’
‘Phew!’ Mum actually says. ‘You’re a lifesaver, Jiffy.’
‘Yes, I’d love another mint thanks, Jude,’ he says and Mum beams appreciatively – at both his silly little joke, and his enjoyment of her mints.
I should pause to acknowledge when necessity becomes the mother of invention. While Jude simply cannot work out how to purchase anything online using her own credit card, during our last Covid lockdown, when her local club was closed, she managed the miraculous feat of mastering online Keno . . . paying using my Apple account and stored credit card of course.
With a forlorn suffering that bordered on mourning, on the occasions I could visit, Mum would ask whether I’d driven past the club on my way.
‘Yes, I did actually.’
In tones that suggested she may never see her old friend again, she asked, ‘How are the renovations coming along?’
‘They’ve erected a dazzling gold plaque on the outside of the new extension,’ I informed her.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, it says “The Judy Alexander Pavilion”.’
‘Get out,’ she said, though I think a small part of her hoped I was telling the truth.
‘Well, you’ve more or less single-handedly funded it,’ I delivered, deadpan.
‘Very good,’ she said, with that lovely little sparkle in her eye. ‘Now, top up my Keno while you’re here, will you, love?’
Attention Twilight Waters Residents:
Due to ongoing congestion in the Hazel Doyle-Scott Ward, henceforth all spices including pepper, chilli, garlic, et cetera will no longer be used in the preparation of meals at this facility.
Thank You,
Management
ELEVEN
Aside Salad
We arrive at the pub in Branxton for lunch and, as its small carpark is full, I’m forced to pull in across the road to the overflow area.
‘Just park in the disabled,’ Dad insists.
‘I don’t have your sticker on my car.’
‘Yeah, but everyone will see how hard it is for me to walk.’
‘Dad, I can’t park there without a sticker, I’m sorry.’
Now that the car has stopped, Dad ejects himself from the back seat and Mum’s feet come awkwardly down to the ground because she’s once again forgotten how high the car is, even though she climbed into it just nineteen minutes ago. I walk ahead of everyone to make sure they have a table for us, leaving my parents in Jeff’s more than capable hands.
Despite the smaller carpark being full, I bound up the stairs of the pub, hoping to beat the lunchtime tradie rush. There are plenty of tables spare – thank goodness for pokies – so I take a seat at one on the balcony overlooking the sea of vehicles outside. This pub doesn’t have the nicest view but, of all the places in the Hunter, it’s both close to my parents’ house and there’s always something on the menu that will keep Dad happy. While I wait for the others, I pull out my phone and check it for messages and emails from potential accommodation guests. In two short months I will never have to worry about doing this again and the thought fills me with joy. There’s nothing worth responding to, so I flick over to Instagram and scroll through several photos before Jeff appears without my parents.
