I was in the gents at the Black Lion in Plaistow, east London, standing at one of the two urinals, when it hit me. I was thinking about my Mum. She hasn’t been well. First it was a chest infection, then the violence of the coughing fits put her back out, rendering her out of action for over a fortnight.
They say nurses make the worst patients and they’re right. Mum is 75 now, but the state registered nursing training she underwent in the Fifties became so ingrained in her, she’s remained a nurse at heart ever since. And she’s a difficult patient, permanently in a state of frustration at the weakness of her body. As a Christian, she’s waged a lifelong war against the flesh. And now that hers is on the verge of defeat, she’s not showing it any magnanimity. ‘It’s so stupid,’ she says, wincing, as she leans forward in her fireside chair to receive a meal tray from me.
Because I belong to the world, and my Mum doesn’t, our interests have tended to diverge. But the other day I was kneeling on the floor trying to make her video work when I accidentally pushed the wrong button and summoned on the screen a digital channel showing a rerun of a Muhammad Ali–Joe Frazier world heavyweight title fight.
We were in the 13th round. Ali was swaying like a mongoose. His steam-hammer jabs were finding Frazier’s head without fail, as if drawn there by a homing device. Smokin’ Joe’s right eye was nearly shut, and his gumshield was in Row W, but he was still blinking and coming forward and trying to punch a hole in Ali’s diaphragm.
I abandoned the video and sat down beside Mum.
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