Since Pop died she’s been finding things like bank accounts tough to manage.
She’s always asking me to sign her cheques for her, and no matter how many times I tell her I can’t, it’s illegal, the bank won’t accept them with my signature on them, she still asks me to sign her name every time I go round.
This time she wanted me to look for her plates as well.
Those damn plates.
She started going on about them a few months ago, and I can’t even remember which ones she means.
“The ones with the willow pattern, Mum’s ones,” she keeps saying.
Well I can’t find them.
There are plenty on the little plate rack that goes all round the top of the sitting room wall where most people have a picture rail, but they, apparently, are not The Plates.
