Two Firsts for the Dear Mama.

The past week or so has been troublesome to me – loaded with nothing but dire prospects, worrying health issues, and a pocketful of reasons to feel both anxious and depressed. Today was no exception. The left leg which has been causing pain and difficulty since early winter was at its worst, and the 300yd walk from the supermarket car park to the bottom of Ashbourne town was unpleasant. (I found myself wishing for a cane so that I could at least emulate Dr House and be thought Miserable but Magnificent. I had no cane, just the limp and the frequent rests. And it seems it’s going to be some time before the medical professionals get around to assessing the problem with the sort of gadgets to which only they have access.)

But then, as I was limping back to my car, I heard my name called. I turned to see that the person who was stopping my way on my own version of the blasted heath was none other than the Lady B’s mother. In the thirteen years I’ve known her, she’s never sought to attract my attention by calling my name before. That was today’s first first.

Now, the Lady B’s mother has been mentioned a few times on this blog, usually under the more archaic and poetic title of ‘the Lady B’s dear mama.’ You might remember her. She’s the one who played the Grand Duchess parts in my little Shire fictions, the one who called me Mr Jeffrey, the one who addressed me in a gently condescending manner without realising for one moment that she was doing it, the one who offered to send over the table scraps with the footman, the one who asked ‘And how are Mrs Jeffrey and your seventeen children? It is seventeen, isn’t it?’ And I replied: Dunno, Ma’am. I lost count, while tugging my forelock.

Only it isn’t true. The Lady B’s mother is nothing like that at all. (Well, a bit I suppose, but not much.) I’ve always liked her, and it really is most unusual for me to like somebody when I don’t even really know them. She, too, has an almost palpable presence about her, just as her daughter does. And although it’s a very different kind of presence, it’s every bit as strong. And that’s why it was very pleasant being accosted by her in the middle of Ashbourne.

We chatted for about fifteen minutes, during which time I mostly whinged about my troubles (which has become a most unfortunate habit of mine over the past 18 months and for which I always feel truly sorry in retrospect.) But eventually the conversation took a more general tone, during which she gave me a broad hint of her age.

Well, I was genuinely surprised. She doesn’t look that old, she really doesn’t, and I couldn’t resist remarking on the fact (without the slightest hint of affectation, I might add.) And so I regarded her more closely in order to assess the source of this apparent mystery and came to the following conclusion:

The Lady B’s mother has never been youthful during the time I’ve known her, but there’s always been a certain youngness about her. It shows in the way she dresses; it shows in her bearing; it shows in her strong and perfectly modulated voice; and it shows in the clarity of her eyes which appear ageless. And here’s what’s really remarkable: she’s still physically attractive.

Now, you might ask why that should be so remarkable, and I’ll tell you. It’s a sad fact about me that I can only recognise physical attractiveness in young women. Whatever other – and maybe more laudable – qualities the older woman might have, physical attractiveness can never be among them for me. I know that’s a reprehensible admission, but I can make no apology for it because it’s in my genes. It’s an integral part of who I am and will remain so no matter how long I live. And I can say with certainty that never in my life have I found a 60+ woman physically attractive. That’s today’s second first.

So where does that leave me? Surprised. But my subsequent mood was lifted immeasurably, so that was good.