We popped over to see my mum today, to check that she’s not going (any more) loopy during lockdown and to arrange things for her visit to ours over Christmas. She’s allowed to come because she’s in our bubble, but she is not allowed to lick anything. And we will be telling her that.
Here’s the thing, though. My half-blind, stroke-addled mother is still shinning up into the loft for things that she “needs”.
She’s been up there this week for some Christmas gift tags which were, apparently, just inside the hatch so “no climbing was required”.
Apart from the climbing on a stool to open the hatch and get down the ladder and then climbing up the ladder to access the hatch.
But other than that, no climbing.
And then she asked us to put some of her Christmas cards up above the window, where she tucks them in the top of the plastic trim surrounding the window. She couldn’t reach, you see. “I managed those,” she said, pointing at the cards on top of the two cabinets on one side of the room, “but I can’t reach the window.”
The cards on the cabinets are, arguably, higher than the ones on the window.
“Oh I got those up there by using the little steps, and then had one foot on the steps and one foot on a chair…”
I mean… come on…
And then she’s in the kitchen struggling to divide two peppermint tea bags.
If they’d been at the top of a ladder, though, she’d have been all over that shit.
I think while she’s here for Christmas we’ll have to find an excuse to pop out, go to her house and take away all her ladders. Or buy her really heavy shoes for Christmas so she can barely lift her feet, let alone scale the furniture.
At least, though, she was mindful of those old public information films from the 70s, where old John used to shin up on a chair in slippers to change a light bulb. It never ended well for him. At least she had trainers on. So she had a bit of grip.