Before you decide that this where you abandon my blog – admissions of incontinence and swearing are one thing – but anti-Downton sentiments are a step too far – let me reassure you – Downton has a place in my heart – it does not, however, have a place in my father’s…
It is after midnight, I am staying at my parents, unable to sleep, trying to compose my blog with an old laptop that is playing up – I seem to have downloaded something by mistake so that if my mouse veeres off ever so slightly then I inadvertantly activate a barrage of images and audio messages telling I’ve won something or alerting me to to the wonders of something…
Talking of mice… 30 minutes ago I set two mouse traps down here – that was before I decided I couldn’t sleep and was going to come down and write my blog…whilst struggling a few minutes ago with my infuriating laptop, I heard the tell tale scruffling (another Emily word) of mice rumaging through some of my parents papers – it is amazing how loud such noises are – here at the dead of midnight with everyone in their beds…well except me… but now, of course, I am down here, among the scruffling mice plus the primed mouse traps – I was steeled to deal with little limp furry bodies in the morning – but actually being here, hearing the scruffling, then the sudden plastic twang – or is it snap – of the activated trap – and then the silence… that is a bit too real and immediate for me…but here I am and the scruffling has stopped – without any accompanying twang – so perhaps they have gone off exploring elsewhere…
So, back to Downton, and my father…
I come here to visit for a couple of days pretty much every other week – and each time I come my father can’t remember who I am or that I have ever been here before. Today he was assured that I come here regularly and at last got hold of the notion that I was his daughter, “But…” he said with an air of intense confusion and intense concentration – if those two are not mutually incompatible – and he wandered off back into the house – we were sitting in the garden – he came back out clutching a photo of me taken a few years ago when I was younger with long hair in a pony tail – he seemed lost for words… My mother laughed, “Do you mean ‘but she’s pretty!!'” … I laughed too … seemed like the only thing to do … but odd … I think she was pleased to have something to balance out my father’s response to being shown pictures of her as a young woman – to which I usually say something jolly like, “Aren’t you lucky to be married to someone so lovely!?” But these days he just looks from the photo to my mother, back to the photo, back to my mother – and just looks confused and as if he’s been short changed… dementia is rather sad… instead of remembering the happy times and marvelling at over 70 years of being in love with my mother … all he can see is a photo of someone he can’t remember and the 88 year old woman beside him who seems familiar…
But in all this confusion and vagueness he is sure of one thing – he loathes Downton Abbey… And it occured to me today that this is perverse… Downton Abbey only comes into his consciousness when I am here – my mother and I watch it together…
You only have to mention Downton Abbey and a rueful smile comes over his lips … he starts limbering up – these days his best insult is pretty much summed up by, “WHO likes it? WHY would anyone like it?” he can’t actually articulate why is is so abhorrent to him – but it absolutely is.
My parents have a long lounge with the telly and two sofas at one end and another sofa under the window at the opposite end … his protest usually takes the form of theatrically lying down and going to sleep at the other end of the room – often I cover him with a blanket for consolation – one time he had me in stitches as he balanced cushions on his head whilst pulling the cover over his ears repeatedly – determined not to be ignored and be more arresting in his plight than the entire cast of Downton…
But today I suddenly thought, “How come you remember Downton Abbey so vividly that your face changes at the mere expression of it…and yet you seen me more often than Downton Abbey – and have pictures of me around your house – and yet I don’t seem to exist in your memory?” And I said to him, “It seems a bit sad that you remember Downton Abbey and how much you loathe it but you don’t remember that I come here every two weeks and bring you lunch, buy you chocolates and fill up the bird feeder with you…” And he smiled at me and offered me a chocolate…
The daft thing is that I’m awfully fond of the old bugger, and the fact that I seem less memorable than Downton Abbey doesn’t matter – because I DO remember the 54 year’s worth of times we’ve spent together – I do know who he is – he’s my father.
