When I remember that I am a daughter

I take my mother for granted.  She’s amazing; an unpaid babysitter who does my ironing and a lot, lot more. I can’t list it all because not only would it take too long but also the guilt might fall on me like the sky.

I moan to her. I cry about sleepless nights, teething, tantrums (the toddlers and mine), and I get sympathy and help. I don’t take into account that I did all this to her back in the day, oh no, I am of course the only person allowed to go through all I am going through.

She had a special birthday coming up and we knew that she really wanted to go on the Orient Express. It was something she hoped to do with my father but unfortunately they didn’t before he passed away. So, my brother and I booked a lunch on the Orient Express from Plymouth. We couldn’t quite manage Venice.

It wasn’t really my brother’s thing and being a huge fan of Agatha Christie I was the chosen one to go with her.

My mother burst into tears on her birthday when presented with the gift. She was so excited, talking outfits, getting her hair done and I felt so glad that we had actually made her cry with happiness for once.

On the day we set out early. I fed Xavier breakfast in my vintage dress (luckily no porridge damage), and then when his babysitter arrived we drove to the station. I wasn’t worried about my boy; he was in great hands with a lovely lady who looked after him at nursery, so I could concentrate on making the day magical for my mother. I vowed not to be cross with her or impatient; I would be nice Faith for the whole day.

We arrived after a wobble with the sat nav, which took us to a main roundabout and declared, (rather smugly I thought) that we had reached our destination. We had to stop and ask someone, who to I thought was drunk but mum said was very nice, and we did get there in the end.

After parking the car I changed my shoes and my mother immediately made friends with a couple smoking outside the station having correctly guessed due to their attire (he was wearing a bow tie), that they were on our train.  When I joined them, they immediately fell in love with my handbag. This handbag is vintage, brown with a watch fob attached to the front, and I adore it. They adored it too, asking all sorts of questions. I clutched it a bit tighter.

I needed coffee and we sat in the station surrounded by a lot of men in bow ties and women in floral frocks. I tried not to panic despite my brother always saying that men who wore bow ties nearly always turned out to be serial killers.

Pushing that aside we made our way to the train which was as magnificent as we hoped; I immediately felt transported back in time as the staff took our photos and mum beamed excitedly.

On boarding the train we were shown to our table; mum had been given a birthday card and the table was dressed beautifully, with promises of Champagne, food and wine. We set off and both mum and I were giggly with the sense of occasion. We were given a glass of Champagne whilst the menu was explained. Basically we were pretty much going to eat for five hours which is genius. The train interior was stunning, and I especially admired the loo which I wanted in my home.

Just before the starters were served my mother went to ‘freshen up’ and I waited. And waited. The food arrived. I waited. I went to the loo which was only a short walk away and it was empty. Finally I had to send the steward off in search of my mother.

‘This happens a lot,’ he said. She was escorted back having taken a wrong turning and ended up at the wrong end of the very long train.

She had also met up with her friends from the station. The woman also had a birthday card and mum noticed it was addressed to Lady –; she said ‘goodness you’re titled.’ They smiled and told her that they’d bought their titles off the internet for £30.00. They then tried to buy my handbag.

We had a gorgeous meal. My mother had the lion’s share of the wine because I was driving. She nodded off at one point and I had to wake her and remind her that it was rude to fall asleep at the lunch table. I refrained from reminding her how much it bloody well cost.

The ‘titled’ couple came to visit us before the journey ended to try to negotiate again the sale of my bag. I was resolutely refusing to sell.

When we arrived back at the station, there had been no murder despite the plethora of bow ties, which wasn’t terribly disappointing; not only for moral reasons but my babysitter was charging by the hour so I couldn’t have afforded the delay.

So one day of being a great daughter, was all I gave, but I took away so much more. I remembered how wonderful my mother was and how she deserved to be spoilt more often. I thought as I hugged my child that I wanted him to want to spend time with me when I was older. So I made a vow that I would appreciate my mother more. I would remember how much my mother went through with me. Not only am I now trying to be the perfect mother but also the perfect daughter too.

Or at least a bit more perfect than I clearly am. My to-do list just keeps growing...