My mother is meeting me in London. She's bringing her liquidiser.
She has a condition that means food gets stuck, so the liquidiser comes everywhere with her. I've decided not to warn the Nobu concierge.
She has no idea what Nobu is. She just knows it's a nice hotel and she's very excited about the breakfast. This is enough for her. Almost everything is enough for her. She is the least high-maintenance person I have ever met, to the point where asking what she'd like to do is an exercise in patience.
"Oh, I don't mind, you choose. I'm just happy to be here."
Last time she visited, I treated her to a facial. They gave her a wrap to cover her body. She wore it round her neck like a cape, naked underneath, entirely unbothered. She'd never had a facial before. She didn't need instructions. She just got on with it.
I also took her to 6th Street, the dirty side. At 70 years old, she danced on the bar at Coyote Ugly and did her first ever Jello shot at The Piano Bar.
She actually doesn't drink. She will, however, apparently do Jello shots if the atmosphere is right, and she's always the first person on the dance floor and the last one off it.
She comments on every single one of my social media posts. Things like, "So proud of you," and, "I knew you could do it," as though I've just got my first paper round, not spent years selling very fabulous homes in Austin. I keep threatening to block her.
In London we will visit vintage markets, Churchill War Rooms, ABBA Voyage, The Blind Beggar and whatever else we stumble into. We'll stop for lunch so she can have mashed potato and soup. No liquidiser required. And ice cream. Always ice cream.
She will be delighted by all of it. Every single bit of it. She will ask for nothing, complain about nothing, and be genuinely thrilled by everything.
And I will be right there next to her, liquidiser and all.
