I have only just realised it is the weekend.

I spent all yesterday thinking it was Friday.

A week of sun and back to teaching and taking my octogenarian mother to a funeral in Hampshire.

Such is her stage in life she is seeing her relatives and friends off in true style.

I had booked us into a hotel with ground floor rooms.

She rather enjoyed it all and chatted to all who would listen.

She taught the bar staff how to mix a martini.

She told the restaurant staff  their wild mushrooms on toast needed seasoning and their macerated strawberries needed more brandy. She sang lustily at the funeral and dare’st I say, enjoyed the free bar afterwards.

She has all her marbles but occasionally mixes up her words…perhaps its the martini effect. So the poor waiter had to cope with…’mild mushrooms’ and ‘masticated strawberries‘ !

I returned her home in the heatwave, reignited my phone and found ailing Daughter 1 swiftly followed by Son 2. Needing paracetamol and brow mopped ie a good excuse for a duvet day Friday.

By Saturday I realised I could ignore bladderations no more. Kidney was clearly stirred and shaken!  I found latest results which Jerome must have sent at some point. Thinking it was Friday I left a message at his office.

Eventually I twigged it was in fact Saturday and such is the wonder of technology I emailed.   He responded. We quickly agreed action. I need to write to apologise to him for disturbing his weekend.

I also need to explain about undertakers…for the record.  As I began student life in London, my dad, in a strange quirk of civil service rules had a 6 month sabbatical from his travels round the world . My parents for once were in the UK and bored. So he applied for a job advertised in his local paper. He got the job at his local undertakers, they needed a driver. He loved it. He was soon promoted to director of services, I am sure he looked after everyone with  his own lovely brand of empathy and concern. He did of course have some stories to tell. Many of them harrowing. However, one in particular stuck in my mind. The burial of a rail worker. No one had anticipated that he had kept detonators in his trousers. So to considerable alarm of those gathered, the crematorium suffered a massive explosion. No living person was injured but he went out with one helluva bang. As a pyromaniac myself I rather like that idea.

For the record, I have so much metal in me now that I cannot be put in a crematorium…you have been warned!