And here we have a photo of Margaret Graham, AKA Milly Adams showing the kids how it’s done on a holiday in Italy some years ago. Let’s be honest, I dye my hair, well, who wouldn’t? And the water bleaches it, and so does the sun, hence the hat, and the head up in the air, looking ridiculous, stance.
It was one of those holidays which showed clearly the demarcation between the generations and indeed the sexes, if one can even mention the sexes in this day and age. The teenagers lounged round the pool of the Italian house we’d rented, or dived elegantly into the pool. Margaret the Mummy swam arduous lengths in a hat, hoping to chase away the galloping cellulite, whilst the teenagers refused to believe they could be related to this apparition.
Meanwhile, Dick the Daddy lingered in the kitchen, reading his electronics magazines, out of the sun entirely, and out of hearing distance of the Female Mafia.
This absenteeism was quite possibly brought about by an unfortunate episode when Margaret the Mummy was navigating around Florence (why did we drive? Why? Why? We should have flown and grabbed a taxi). Well, I say navigating when I should have said, I was supposed to be navigating. Instead I was sitting frozen in the passenger seat in a state of terror as Italian drivers swept in and out, here and there around and in front of us, all at great speed, and much honking of horns.
We reached a cross-roads. ‘Where now?’ barked Dick the Daddy.
Margaret the Mummy had forgotten all about navigating, so:
- a) had to find the map.
- B) the the page.
- C) Turn said page up the right way.
All the while the cacophony of horns grew ever louder, as did the ‘What the hell are you doing?’ within the car, from him to my right, and the teenagers behind.
So, there we were, an island of Britishness amongst a sea of furious Italians. Hey, let’s take a look at that sentence again. So there I was, an island of one English woman, trying to work out where we actually were on the wretched map, while inside and out there were furious, gesticulating ‘others’..
Finally, in desperation Dick the Daddy swung the car into the curb, snatched the map without saying please. Spent half a minute looking at it, then handed the map to a teenager, and drove on without a word, while the teenager navigated.
I sulked. Said teenager muttered, ‘You’re lucky you weren’t left at the side of the road.’
Well!! Well!!
Now we are happier. Each journey doesn’t end with threats of divorce, because we have Sally the SatNav, and the teenagers have children of their own, who sit in the back of granny and gramp’s car and ignore where we’re going, because they have social media and are chasing ever more ‘friends’.
This leads me free to:
a) press the imaginary break when I feel Dick the grandpa should be doing so.
b) suggest that Dick the grandpa should just get into the boot of the car in front, and be done with it, as he’s driving so close.
c) Or drive myself, which is liberating because I can sing-along to Smooth radio only interrupted by Sally the Satnav suggesting I should have turned right, but to do so at the next turning – IF YOU PLEASE.
I do feel she shouts sometimes, but one can’t drive a SatNav to distraction, surely. Answers in writing.