I get back from Glasgow and we go out for a meal at my parents' favourite Turkish restaurant. We go there about once a year and it's a treat my parents talk about every time they discuss a London visit. "Ooh, the bread!" my mother will often gasp fondly. They used to dream about going back to Turkey. Now they're so old they simply dream about a Turkish restaurant in Mornington Crescent.
Well, they're never going back there again.
The nice thing, the lovely thing, about them being so old is that, after a lifetime of not making a fuss, they've finally started complaining. We were halfway through our starters when waiters descending, snatching their plates away mid forkful. Dad and I looked stunned. My mum turned around, bless her, and yelled, "Bring that back and then just piss off."
She will clearly be a terror in the care home.
The manager arrives a few minutes later and offers by way of justification, "But so many of our customers are in a hurry to get to Koko...."
To which I yell at him, "My parents are over 70, do you really think they're going clubbing?"
He shrugs. On the walk home my mother says "I have never been clubbing. Do you think I should enjoy it?"