Ice Cream Day Trip

DAY TRIP

Have you ever wondered what it would be like when you reach the grand
old age of ninety? I did, some years ago. I had a ninety-year-old
mother-in-law. I also had a car, a guilty conscience and a wife. All of
them formed a conspiracy and told my conscience:

"It is a nice sunny time of the year and Gran deserves to get a run in
the car".

I remember that she had been complaining about anything and everything.
Firstly there was her hip, which she had broken last year and had been
replaced. Then there was her forearm, which suffered a small wrist
fracture some six weeks before. Even that had mended, but both
fractures still hurt her. Finally there were the television programmes.
"Why you have to watch all that rubbish, anyway?" and "No, I haven't
seen 'The Importance of being Earnest' - I was always too busy, so what
else is on anyway?")

One regular favourite was her answer to "What do you want for breakfast
(or lunch or tea)?" It was always "I'll have whatever you're having",
except that she wouldn't, unless it was what she really wanted.

Constant communication was also the order of the day. Anything that
came up in conversation was up-staged by what she or her other children
or their relatives did, or her friends have done or were doing. This
was usually spoken through the TV programme which we were all watching,
but if you turned the sound down so that you could listen to her, she
asked for the sound to be turned up, as she couldn't hear what they
were saying.

Enough is enough!

I told myself that surely someone like me could beat the system, by
accepting that all these are symptoms of boredom. What she needed was
some new 'input', perhaps on the basis of 'put up or shut up'. A ride
in the car to the seaside could be the answer, so I moved the
conversation on with:

"Let's go for a trip in the new car. Where would you like to go?" (If
she had said 'I'll go anywhere you're going', I would have
screamed!)

My wife, sensing trouble, butted in with:
"How about Weston-super-Mare? {This is our nearest seaside town). Mum,
you haven't been there."
"I went with your father many years ago".

Aha! This time only a partial block, a chink which could be used to
advantage, because my father-in-law died a good few years ago.

"Things might have changed since you were last there, let's go and
see!"
"I don't know if I can, my arm's a bit sore today"
"It'll be all right. We'll just be sitting in the car, taking in the
sunshine and seeing all the sights. Your arm will be sore anyway and
this could take your mind off it!"

With defeat looming on the horizon of this conversation, she let
herself be encouraged to do what she wanted to do anyway - go for a run
in the car. Just one last try to my wife, (who needed a rest from all
this):

"Are you coming?"
"No, I'm a bit tired and, remember I have to go in the front seat
because of my bad leg. You'd have to go in the back."

Self-interest won out and soon the two of us were bowling along the
road to the seaside, me driving and mother-in-law in the front
passenger seat.

The constant communication was now dimmed by my need to concentrate on
driving. At long last, I had a legitimate excuse for not listening, as
the safety of the car and its passengers naturally came first.

Occasionally, interesting sights went by, which prompted me to
interrupt her chatter with things like "Here on the left; these hills
have got the Cheddar Gorge in them."

She looked straight ahead. I pointed left, briefly taking a hand off
the wheel. She looked again, this time to the right, perhaps because I
had already returned my hand to the steering wheel. As this sort of
thing had often happened before, I was convinced (and still am) that
the old lady didn't know her left from her right. Never mind, at her
age I suppose she was allowed a few guesses. She would argue that she
was looking left anyway and the only way to cope with that argument I
found was to agree with her.

Even this ploy had its dangers. She was always liable to change her
point of view in the middle of a discussion if she felt that
disagreement with you was more important than being correct.

We arrived at the seaside and drove to the beach promenade. It was very
busy, as it was the weekend before Easter. The cool sunshine brought
out the day-trippers in their cars and there wasn't a parking space
anywhere, but I was happy. If there were no parking spaces, it meant we
had to keep on the move. I could concentrate on the driving while my
passenger took in the sights.

All too soon we had seen all there was to see from the car and it was
time to go home for tea. We retraced our journey at the same moderate
pace and when we were near home, I asked "Did you enjoy that?"

Her response, although not gushing, was adequate and I felt like a Boy
Scout who had done his good deed for the day. My conscience, however,
was not satisfied. "This needs to be rounded off", it said.

What could I do to put the cherry on the cake, before we got
home?

The thought of food and the sight of an ice cream van scurrying to its
pitch gave the answer. I detoured slightly to find a favourite van,
which is always there in our neighbourhood park on sunny spring days.
As I parked beside it, I asked "Would you like a small, medium or large
one and do you want the chocolate in it?"

Now, we both like ice cream, so this was not a difficult decision. Even
so, she asked "What are you having?"

Naturally, I was prepared for this and replied "A medium, without the
chocolate." She replied "I'll have the same" and smiled broadly.

Then we were having an ice cream together in the front of the parked
car, like two five year olds. Our day trip was complete. We could now
go home, both having got what we wanted from the day.

Do you think there will still be ice-cream vans when we are
ninety?

John Cheyne (c) 2001