One minute we were chatting, the next she was face down in her dinner - dead.’
Ten years ago that was the answer my dating agency date gave me when I enquired how exactly his wife had passed away.
Instead of shutting up and letting it lie, my mouth has always had its own batteries.
So, assuming he’d waited the respectable few months before coming out on the dating scene, I enquired: ‘How long ago was that?’
‘One month,’ came the reply.
A mere four weeks since his beloved had keeled over? I was gobsmacked and quickly found an excuse to terminate the date.
I never gave it another thought until the other day. You see, I’ve been worn out by 10 months of dealing with Ma’s dementia, from the labyrinth of council and government red tape to finding a nursing home, selling her flat to pay the fees and so much more.
All this while your heart is breaking as you watch your once-vibrant mother slip slowly into a never-never land of fantasy.
Folks, I have spoken to so many of you recently, all trying to cope with a loved one in a nursing home.
This whole complex system need to be streamlined.
Anyway, I don’t want anyone to go through this for me.
So I’ve put a chit into my angels, saying that when it’s time for me to hang up my earth boots, I just want to be allowed to fall face first into my spag bol, dear.
And finally...those bloomin’ meerkats.
I always mute the gogglebox whenever Sergei and his fluffy buddies are on advertising insurance.
Oodles of my girliepals say ‘oh they’re so cute’ and even have meerkat toys in their homes.
Aaargggh! And, even worse, they cannot understand why I don’t like them.
Well I don’t and that’s that. Get over it.
But, hang on. Last week I was waiting for Coronation Street to begin and, instead of the usual furniture advert, it was THEM, the meerkats.
Before I could grab the TV zapper to silence them, I found myself giggling at the creatures, especially the one on the drum.
No, no, no! Get thee behind me, meerkats.
You are NOT cute and you will not get me under your spell.