Page 11 of The Happiness Project

‘A more sensible possibility is that we were both having a lie-in on a Sunday morning as it’s not even eight,’ I reply grumpily.

She checks her watch and shrugs.

‘I’m a bit fast, it’s a minute past on my watch.’

We head to the kitchen and I get some fresh coffee beans out — a day that starts like this really does need an extra caffeine boost. I hold a cup up to her and she nods; the act of grinding the beans and inhaling the delicious aromas helps to wake me. I fill the cafetière and place it with cups and milk on the table.

‘No breakfast?’ says Mum.

‘No,’ I reply sternly. I do not want her to take up residency. ‘Now, what is so urgent that you’ve disturbed my beauty sleep?’

‘Sorry,’ she says with a hint of mischief. ‘And I know how much you need it.’

I give her a little punch on the arm and ask her again what’s up.

‘I’ve done my bucket list and wanted you to be the first to hear it,’ she says.

At that moment a bleary-eyed Patty walks through the door.

‘Good Lord, was that you? How can someone so small make so much noise?’

‘You can talk,’ replies my mother. ‘About the noise bit, not the . . . small . . . bit.’

Her voice drifts off towards the end as Patty puts her hand on her hip and purses her lips at Mum.

‘An early wake-up and insults — this had better be good,’ says Patty.

‘She’s written her bucket list.’ I can see that I’ve immediately got Patty’s attention.

‘Now this I have to see,’ she says, going via the cupboard and pulling out a packet of croissants and a jar of jam. ‘But it needs sustenance.’

‘You said there wasn’t anything,’ Mum protests, looking accusingly at me.

‘I was hoping to go back to bed if I didn’t feed you,’ I confess. I’m really not awake enough to make something up. Mercifully, she accepts that without comment.

We all help ourselves to breakfast and Mum lays out a fairly short written list on the table, smoothing out the folds. She begins eating so I pick it up and start reading the first item on it out loud.

‘Number one, “Do that 10 Years Younger thing”.’ I look to Mum for an explanation.

‘You know, that TV programme where they take someone who looks a bit of a mess and transform them,’ she muffles through some shreds of croissant. ‘They’ve usually had a hard life or something and their family don’t even recognise them when they’re done.’

I know the programme well; Patty and I often indulge guessing how old the contestants are and speculating whether they’ll keep up any of the grooming after the show ends. After all, if you look old because you’ve twenty children, you’ll still have them when the cameras stop rolling.

‘I like that one,’ says Patty. ‘I might do it with you — not that I need to look ten years younger, but a couple knocked off might be handy.’

‘There’s usually surgery involved — new teeth implants and sometimes even facelifts,’ I say with a little trepidation. ‘Surely you don’t want that, Mum.’

‘Oh no, nothing that might hurt,’ she replies, much to my relief. ‘Just the other bits — the hair, the clothes, make-up and maybe that Botox stuff.’

‘Botox stops the wrinkles forming.’ Patty laughs. ‘I think that ship has sailed, Mrs S.’

‘Pots and black kettles,’ murmurs my mum, reaching for the final croissant. Patty slaps her hand and takes it for herself. I rap the table with a teaspoon and call everyone to order.

‘Okay, Mum,’ I say. ‘This would be a really nice thing to do with Zoe too and I think I can start to organise it, if you like.’

Mum is delighted with that and I’m cheering up after my rude awakening, imagining all three generations enjoying a bit of a pamper and makeover. I look at the next item on the list.

‘“Ride a motorbike,”’ I read out. ‘Really?’

---