"Honestly. At 76 — addicted to Candy Crunch"

IT’S 1am, London, and I’m sitting on my sister’s sofa, talking to my mother, who’s just called the landline. 

In time-honoured tradition, my mother inquires after me, then my four children. But today, her investigation feels unusually rushed. And, in another departure from the norm, our conversation doesn’t then immediately pivot into our Two-Way Book Recommendation Service.

My mother launched this service when she recommended Czardas by Diane Pearson to me at 14, thereby saving me from the dismal run of Dickens my late father had recommended.

Since then, we’ve exchanged book recommendations on a weekly basis, in our ongoing search for an unforgettable, muscular, infatuating, pulverising epic. We want the book that throbs in your handbag like a lover’s heart while you’re standing in the post office. That whispers, “come to bed early with me tonight,” when you’re loading the dishwasher. A book which afterwards, when you recommend it to others, makes you feel like you’re lending out a lover you’ll never quite get over — and horribly jealous for all the fun they’re going to have with it.

My mother and I both understand that when you lend out a lover, you want one back in exchange. It’s a fair game of swaps. But this morning, her heart doesn’t seem to be in it.

“What are you reading?” I ask.

“‘A God in Every Stone,’” she says, “Kamila Shamsie. What are you reading?”

“The Son by Philipp Meyer.”

Ordinarily, at a point such as this, Mum might say, “Right. I’ll download The Son onto my Kindle.” After which she’ll ask, “what book have you got lined up next then?” And it’s always in that cat-and-mouse voice of hers, which signifies it had better be something good because she’s got a firework of a book up her sleeve and she’s not trading that for a damp squib.

And then I will say, for example, “American Rust, another Meyer,” which might or might not appease her and after a good half hour of tussling, we’ll both put the phone down, reading material sorted.

But this morning there’s no “what have you got lined up for after?” And no cat-and-mouse. Just eerie silence.

“Well what are you reading next?” I say.

“Nothing,” she says, somehow sounding both uncomfortable and furious.

She would like me to pass her over to my sister, she says, because she’s the one to blame.

“Blame for what?” I say.

“Candy Crunch,” she says, “I was up all night playing it. Put her on.”

“She’s on the balcony, hunched over her iPhone.”

“I bet she is,” she says, all doughty. “Put her on.”

“She wants to talk to you,” I say, handing over the phone, “something about Candy Crunch.”

“Candy Crush, Mum,” my sister says, taking the phone and sitting beside me, “not Crunch.”

“Do I take the prompts that Candy Crunch offers?” Mum says.

“No Mum, because you need to get four in a line.”

“How do I get four in a line?”

“You look for the patterns Mum. Have you got five in a row yet?”

“NO! WHY? WHAT’S THAT?” she bellows.

“It’s when you get a glitter ball and it gets rid of loads of lines.”

“I hope you know,” Mum says, “I was sitting in a towel on the end of my bed after my bath last night, and the next thing I know it was two in the morning and I was still in my towel, trying to get four in a line. All night I dreamt of lines. You got me into this mess. You get me out. Now, how do I get five in a row?”

“You have to...”

“I mean I haven’t picked up a book for three days. All I can think about are those silly points. It’s all your fault. ”

“I’d like to speak to Mum,” I say. “Hand her over.”

My sister hands me the phone.

“Mum, what do you mean you’ve got nothing lined up to read next?” I say. “You must have something.” I’m starting to panic. She has single-handedly saved me from book boredom — never mind book-club boredom, for 35 years. “Who else is going to do that if you don’t?” I ask.

“Don’t ask me,” she hoots, “I can’t stop thinking about Candy Crunch. Honestly. At 76 — addicted to Candy Crunch. ”

“Candy Crush,” my sister sighs beside me on the sofa.

“I heard that,” Mum barks, “and it doesn’t matter what I call the blasted thing. Now put me back on to your sister. I want to know all about this glitter ball.”

“Honestly. At 76 — addicted to Candy Crunch”