1.

My father laments the legislation

that prevents him from completing

electrical work without a license. He

tells me at length of the injustices

he faces in this sphere. He believes

fiercely that he, a man with a degree

in physics (not electrotechnology)

should be entitled to jeopardise his

health as he likes in the privacy of

his heritage listed home. The hefty

fine he might incur does not dissuade

him. After drinking half a cup of tea

he sneaks out to the back garden.

For legal reasons I will not record

his deeds. When he returns, a little

singed, he says: don’t tell your mother.

2.

Over lunch I ask my mother what she’d do

if she had to sit down for an hour and

do nothing. Instantly and with absolute

sincerity she tells me: I’d die. It shocks

a laugh from me. In my eyes my mother

is unkillable, more powerful than any

man or law or god. When I replaced

my mattress, she hauled the old one

out to the street one-armed. She is fluent

in four languages, able to befriend any

passing stranger within minutes, but

insists she isn’t “clever” like the rest

of us. The rest of us regard her with

awe, unable to reproduce her heroism.

Unlike her, we are mortal. The titan

of my childhood finishes her mug of

English Breakfast, then starts doing

sit-ups on the rug. Between sets, she

regales me with her recent feats of

physical prowess, leaving me speechless

as she often does. The burdens she

carries are beyond my comprehension.

3.

At 92 my father’s mother is remarkably

lucid, capable of concealing vascular

dementia beneath deadpan wit and a

sharp eye for context clues. Her decades

of medical expertise have made her a

terrible patient: well-versed in espionage

and institutional routines, reluctant to cede

authority, adept at playing her part.

After moving into supported accommodation

she becomes a templar of deception,

tricking the pressure plates to sneak out

and smoke on her little balcony. Dad says

she’s gone full Mission Impossible. On

video calls she never recognises me

at first, but feigns familiarity with the air

of a monarch entertaining her subjects.

She betrays herself by visibly brightening

upon realising she’s speaking to her

firstborn grandchild. She doesn’t know

my face or name, but she knows me still.

In each call she studies me anew, often

noting with joy that I resemble both my

parents. Once she said, it’s like we’re

meeting for the first time. How are you,

darling? I want to know everything.