There’s nothing so depressing as boasting about something you used to do that you can’t anymore

Home, Tuesday, 7pm, and my daughter is unsettled to discover, that, at 23 years of age, she’s lost the ability to do the splits.

“It’s kind of disconcerting,” she says, extending her right leg and lowering herself gracefully to the kitchen floor.

“I didn’t know ageing started so young.”

She’s determined to recover this ability. Everywhere.

Especially in doorways; side-stepping her attempts is kind of disconcerting.

So is tripping over them.

But not nearly as disconcerting as watching her.

My husband, entering the kitchen in tennis gear, looks at her, then quickly looks away.

“That looks painful,” he says.

“Nearly there,” my daughter says. “I’m about three inches off.”

“You’re going to do yourself an injury,” I say, stepping over her to reach the kettle.

“You sound like Granny,” my daughter says.

My husband agrees. “I remember Granny shouting that at you from the beach, when you were wind-surfing.”

“Me? windsurfing? That’s an event you most certainly dreamt,” I say.

“No,” he says. “It was you, on Gyllyngvase beach, when you were three months pregnant.

“Granny turned to me and said, “well, if you want her womb to fall out, you’re going the right way about it.

“Don’t just stand there. Go and get her.”

“That sounds like Granny,” my daughter says, “but that doesn’t sound like Mum,” and looks at me like she’s never seen me before.

“Could you ever do the splits, Mum?” she says.

“Can you please take your splits into the sitting room?” I say, backing into her with the kettle.

“But could you, Mum?” she says, getting up.

“There’s nothing so depressing as boasting about something you used to be able to do, that you can’t do any more,” I say.

“That didn’t stop you boasting that you could do the splits, when I first met you,” my husband says.

“That’s because I could still do them,” I say.

“You could do the splits at 20?” my daughter says.

“I never saw you do them,” he says.

“Do them,” my daughter says.

“Yes, do them,” my husband says.

“Or, instead,” I say, “you could touch your toes?”

My husband starts stuffing tennis gear into his sports bag, muttering something about short hamstrings.

“It would seem your hamstrings are too short for lots of things,” I say.

“Such as what?” he says, swinging about his tennis racket, coming over all lofty.

“Such as touching your toes,” I say. “This hamstring thing is just a fancy way of saying you’re stiff as a board.”

“I can touch my toes,” he says.

“Go on, then,” I say.

“I am not touching my toes just to gratify you.”

“Yeah, what’s that about Mum?” my daughter says. “You love that Dad can’t touch his toes...”

“...I can touch my toes...”

“...I mean, honestly, Mum, what does that say about you?”

“Nothing good, I am sure,” I say, “unless being delighted about being able to beat him at something physical counts as good. Now, go on,” I persist, “touch your toes.”

“You do the splits,” he says.

“With great pleasure,” I say, “if you touch your toes.”

“With great pleasure, Olga Korbett,” he says, putting his tennis bag down.

“Who’s Olga Korbett”? my daughter asks.

“Olympic gymnast,” I say.

“Impish charm. Muscles like elastic.”

“Come on, Olga,” my husband says.

“Stop putting it off.”

“Right, Dad,” my daughter says. “You go first,” and my husband touches his toes quickly; quite as if his toes are burning at 3,000 degrees, like coal.

“Do it again,” I say, “and, this time, keep your fingers on your toes for five seconds.”

He repeats the exercise.

“There,” he gasps, shooting upright. “See?”

“That’s four,” I say, “and there was definitely no evidence of ‘great pleasure’.”

“Really, Mum,” my daughter says. “What does this say about you?”

My husband rubs the backs of his legs and limps over to his tennis bag.

“Go on Olga,” he says. “Your turn.”

I extend my right leg forward along the carpet and lower myself into the splits position.

“THAT’S AMAZING, MUM,” my daughter shouts. “You’re only about four inches off. That’s nearly the same as me.”

“There’s life in the old dog yet,” I say.

I raise my arms in the splits position, so that my husband can better appreciate the life in the old dog.

My husband swings his tennis bag over his shoulder.

Now, I must smile — so as to give him evidence of great pleasure, and muscles like elastic.

I smile. And now all I need to do is to rise from the floor in one swift, balletic movement — and VICTORY is mine.

But there’s only one problem: the old dog is insurmountably stuck.