Some time passes.

"I was worried sick about you," she says eventually.

She really is a dear.

"There was no need to be." I sigh. "I was with Sylvana."

"I left a message on your phone at least twice."

"Four times in total."

Mother dislikes being teased when she's sulking.

"I promise to be a better daughter in future." I laugh.

"I don't need your charity, Julie. If I need charity I'll ring up that organization that sends out smiling young people on minibuses to make friends with you. I'm not senile or helpless, you know."

"Of course you're not helpless."

"That's not funny, dear. The point is, I sensed something wasn't right with you."

"I'm fine."

"I even called round."

"I know. Ronan told me."

"I had to put up with that creeping Jesus for three whole hours."

"Although it is his apartment."

"You ought to tell him he can't treat his guests like that; it was so obvious he resented me watching his precious digital TV..."

"Of course he didn't."

"...despite the fact that he was the one who plonked me in front of it in the first place to shut me up for the evening. And then what does he do?"

"What."

"He goes to his bedroom to read a book for an hour, comes back out at nine o'clock and tells me he wants to see the news."

"And?"

"And? I was watching something else."

"But you always watch the news."

"I was watching Deconstructing Harry Deconstructing Harry."

"But you hate Woody Allen."

"Yes, but do you think I was going to let him saunter in like the pink panther and dictate my evening's pleasure? I point blank refused to switch over. I won't be bossed around by a brat with one or two manners. All my two friends agree. They think he's very odd."

"All dentists are odd, Mother."

"It's all that staring into people's mouths. It can't be good for a person's mental health."

"Dental health."

"Well? How was your holiday?"

"Fine."

"Did you make any important decisions?"

I know what she means. "I'm going to hold off having a baby for a while longer. I have to sort one or two things out first."

"Such as?"

"Just one or two things."

Very disapproving gap in the conversation at this point. Mother wants a baby even more than I do. My baby, to be precise.

"I admit you had me completely fooled," she says at last.

"What do you mean?"

"You went ahead and let me buy a Mickey Mouse blanket for this wonderful child you told me you'd be having next spring."

"Oh, Mother! You didn't go and buy a Mickey Mouse blanket."

"I did."

"Well, I'm sorry, you'll have to find an alternative use for it. Use it on your knees instead. Save on your winter heating bills."

"Oh, I see: because I'm a stingy cow and prefer to freeze myself to death in my own housethat gives you the right to tell me you're planning children so that I get my hopes up and go and invest in a Mickey Mouse blanket?"

What can you say?

"It was the same with the pram," she relentlessly pursues.

"Oh God! You didn't go and buy a pram."

"I did."

"Mother, whatever about the blanket, I never suggested you go out and buy a pram."

"No. I suggested it for reasons of shrewd financial planning and you let me go ahead and have it delivered."

"I told you not to."

"Only because you think I can't afford it. I'm not poor: I have a valuable home and I'm selling it. I think I can afford a pram."

"You're going on as if you'll you'll be the mother." be the mother."

"Haven't you heard? These days it's grandmothers who get landed with all the rearing."

"Can we drop this subject now? For the time being you have a spare pram and I suggest that you use it as a shrubbery."

I ask her if she's still thinking of selling her house. I ask her this because something has just occurred to me.

"I already told you I am. It gets bigger and colder each year. Either that or I'm getting smaller with age."

"And warmer."

"A small apartment is just what I need, with plenty of spare cash, which I can lavish on myself for a change."

I fall silent for a moment.

"Mother?"

"What?" she snaps.

"I have a proposition."

"Is he handsome?"

"I'd like you to move in here for a while."

She doesn't reply for some time.

"I don't understand."

"You just said you wanted to sell your house."

"Yes..."

"Well, you can stay with us while you look for another place and avoid the worry over bridging finance."

When she has partially recovered she says she couldn't possibly move in with useven temporarily. And this from the person who never ceases to complain that we never have time for her.

"I'm serious, Mother."

"But you two lead busy lives."

She really is a sweetie. "Not so busy that we have no time for you."

"Well, it's very thoughtful of you, love, but I don't know...I'd only make a nuisance of myself."

I detect a sudden tearfulness in her voice.

"You're a young couple," she continues. "You have your own lives. I don't want to interfere."

"But you don't."

"Yes I do. I go on about you having children. I don't mean to, not really. Whatever you decideyou know I'm behind you."

"I know," I reply, my nostrils turning liquid.

"And I know I'm too harsh on Ronan."

"I don't know."

"Well, I am. It's just that I worry about you. I think of your father and what a sorry mess that whole thing was, and I think of young men these days and I suppose I just worry."

"Well, don't."

Suddenly I feel a pang of guilt. Why am I inviting Mother to stay? I know why. If I am to be honest, I'm doing it to torment Ronan. That is my primary motive. But Mother can benefit too, can't she?

"I want you to call your estate agent today to set the whole thing in motion. I don't see why you can't move in immediate-ly."

To her progressively weakening protests, I keep insisting. I tell her I'll be calling over to her place this evening around seven to help her pack a few suitcases.

She tells me that I am a wonderful daughter and she doesn't know what she'd do without me. And she says she doesn't really blame me for forgetting to send her a card last Mother's Day.

I end the call.

Mother is moving in. Ha!

I can't wait to tell Ronan the good news.

14 14.

Marlborough Street.

Clearway Travel.

I've been peeping through the glass window into the interior of the premises for the last five minutes, in between travel posters announcing special deals to the Azores, the Caribbean, the Algarve and Prague. I don't know how much longer I can continue to find these posters fascinating without raising attention.

Your one is inside.

How different she looks during the day, without her shades, her lipstick, her bikini. Ronan should come here and have a good peep. She's like she was in that demure dressing-table photograph. Only a lot worse: she's got dark circles round her eyes (I can see them from here; they're like huge muddy hubcaps) and she looks rather depressed and exhausted.

In short, she's nothing much to write home about.

Course, that means nothing, as we women know. I myself am not much to write home about, although to judge by the amount of genital pestering I get, malesideat work or in the middle of the traffic or walking down the streetyou'd expect that a lot of pricks out there would simply die to put pen to paper. But then why should any positive self-image I might have depend on, let's face it, pricks?

Still, this woman needs to be, how shall I say...demytholo-gized. Ronan should come here and take a close look through the glass. Demagicated women do wonders to stimulate male impotence. Imagine! A live flesh-and-blood woman with minimal cosmetics plus turn-offs such as spots and odours and feelings and spiritual wounds, and fears and hopes and insecurities: Ronan would run a mile if he guessed.