"It won’t be dark, so I’ll be able to see the ditches"

My mother is on the phone, alerting me to the travel arrangements which she and my mother-in-law have made on my behalf; I fly to England next week to visit both women, who live four hours apart in the West Country.

She informs me that my mother-in-law will collect me from Bristol airport and drive me back to her home in Somerset on Wednesday. Then on Thursday, Mum instructs me, I will travel with my mother-in-law down to Dartington Hall, a midway point between her house and my mother’s.

“Then I’ll drive you down to Cornwall,” my mother says, “but we’ll all have lunch first. Sheila’s coming too. They do a lovely lunch in Dartington, and lunch will break the driving up.”

These arrangements will work in reverse six days later, on my return home, she says. It’s all been agreed: I am to travel as a passenger for extended periods of time in two octogenarians’ cars. It appears that we are all feeling perfectly chipper about this.

“I mean my car could find the way to Dartington all by itself,” my mother says, “I do that journey all the time. Sometimes I’ve arrived without even knowing how I got there. I do wonder about that sometimes —that it might be connected with that funny thing I had.”

“What funny thing?” I say.

“Oh you know,” she says, “that thing I had a couple of years ago. TGA or whatever the doctors called it. Can’t remember what the TGA stands for now. Not a stroke anyway and that’s the main thing.”

“And it won’t be dark,” she continues, “so I’ll be able to see the hedges at least. And you’ll be in the car, so you can reverse it for me on the narrow lanes. It’s all narrow lanes around Dartington. I refuse point blank to reverse anymore. I don’t care how many people I infuriate.”

“It will save everyone a lot of hassle if I just hire a car,” I say.

“What hassle?” she says, “there won’t be any hassle. I can’t afford any more hassle. Not with nine points on my licence. You’re only allowed 12 before they disqualify you. And I certainly don’t want to be sent back to that stupid place.”

“What stupid place?” I say.

“I’ve just remembered what TGA stands for,” she says, “Transient Global Amnesia. Sudden memory loss. Where you can’t remember where you are or how you got there. Totally benign. Doesn’t show up on a scan. Doesn’t mean anything, thank God. Unlikely to happen again, the doctors said.”

“What stupid place?” I persist.

“That speed-awareness place. Nowadays in England, you can choose to do a speed-awareness course instead of paying a fine,” she says. “Like Borstal for bad drivers. They try to reform your driving.

"Though last time I went, I told my instructor that it would be a much better use of his time — and mine for that matter — if he was to teach me how to reverse on a lane in the dark when I can’t see the hedges, instead of telling me how important it is not to do 37 miles an hour in a 30-mile zone. I mean honestly, what a waste of precious time.”

“What about putting me on the car insurance so I can drive?” I say, “it might take the stress off.”

“What stress?” she says, in her stress-is-for-sissies voice, “I’m not stressed at all. I’m looking forward to that lunch. I’m perfectly happy with the arrangements.”

I phone my mother-in-law.

“I’ll hire a car,” I say, “it will save you the trouble of having to drop me all the way to Dartington.”

“What trouble?” she says, “there’s no trouble. I’ve done that Dartington route a hundred times. I’ll just take it nice and slow. I’m looking forward to meeting your mother for lunch.”

“It’s a four-hour round trip for you,” I say, for I know all about nice and slow, “so what about putting me on the car insurance, to save you the bother of driving.”

“What do you mean bother?” she says, with such genuine curiosity I can only conclude she remains as oblivious to the lethal perversity of her driving-style — G-force haring round corners, tortoise-slow on the straight — as ever she was.

Yes. It seems we are all absolutely delighted with the travel arrangements. In my case, I am also shit-scared.

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