Being Me

I'm going to Cornwall tomorrow. I've booked my taxi to Leamington Station. 'What's the address?' the taxi office said when I rang. 'Albert Street. Leamington,' I said. 'Okay.' I could hear him scribbling. 'Not Albert Street, Warwick.' 'Ah,' he said. I think he knew why I was making sure. Warwick is the town closest to Leamington and there being two Albert Streets can cause confusion. Albert Street, Warwick, sometimes gets our takeaways, and we get theirs. 'Pizza for 8?' says the delivery driver. 'Sure,' I say. 'We'll take it. Please tell the people in Albert Street, Warwick, that we're very grateful. We've just eaten shepherds pie and broccoli but we're bound to be peckish later.' That's when they get suspicious and clutch the pizza boxes to their chests. We've had taxis turn up to collect people from Albert Street, Warwick. 'Where were they going?' I ask. ...

Most Mondays, my day off work, I go to fetch my grandson Elijah from school. He's six now, having had a birthday last Thursday, and he's got to that leggy stage when they change from small child to boy and suddenly their trainers take up more of the hallway and their appetites take up everything in the fridge. Here we are, in Zizzis, celebrating his sixness. He's wearing his birthday shirt. I look as though I'm wearing a large garden, I now realise. Back in the winter, the pick-up-from-school routine went like this: Welcome Elijah out of school at 3.15 in Arctic playground and persuade him into his coat, gloves and hat. He says, 'Can I go and play on the swings just behind the school?' I say, 'It's really cold. Let's go to a cafe instead and I'll buy you cake and hot chocolate.' (This is called bribery generosity) Walk him up the hill towards a cosy, warm cafe. If he has his scooter at school, run after him up the hill. Puff a...