The trouble with little old ladies (as I know only too well) is they are often prone to outbursts of well-meaning but anti-social behaviour.

Last week The Mother and I went to London, where she was due to catch a bus to Yorkshire from Victoria coach station.

We arrived with almost two hours to kill, a result of my insistence that whenever travelling long distances by public transport, two hours early is better than five minutes late and missing your connection.

Now a bus station is not nearly as exciting as an airport or even a railway station. Outside there are just boring old buses, while inside members of the budget travel fraternity - students, men in shabby anoraks and little old ladies, queue for the lavatories.

In less than 15 minutes The Mother and I had toured the entire bus station, visited all the facilities, including joining a queue for the loos, and were getting a little fractious with each other.

"Let's have something to eat," I suggested. For me, food is always a great comforter in times of stress.

I joined a queue at a coffee and cakes kiosk and returned to find The Mother sitting on seats in a passenger area designated for travellers to Dover - "less crowded than the one for Leeds", she said.

Nearby was an open door to the bus bays. Through this door an occasional pigeon flew, making its way on foot (well, you know what I mean) across the crowded concourse before flying back out again.

The Mother took her coffee and cake - which had cost me almost £2 a slice - and started to throw crumbs to the pigeon. In less time than you can say Whoosh! the floor was alive with dozens of birds.

"Oh, dear," said The Mother. "Where have all these come from? Poor little things, they must be hungry."

"Stop it, stop it at once!" I said. "You're the sort of old lady who gives old ladies a bad name.

You're not supposed to feed the pigeons, it encourages them to swarm in here and most people don't like it. I certainly don't. And do you realise that cake you're throwing away cost me £2 a slice?"

I noticed a couple opposite were nudging each other and smirking.

"Oh, dear," said The Mother again, not so much embarrassed as overwhelmed by the number of pecking beaks at her feet.

Just then there was an announcement on the public address system: "In the interests of safety and hygiene, would passengers please not encourage the pigeons to come inside the station by feeding them. Thank you."

I prayed The Mother had not been spotted, that this was purely a routine announcement along the lines of those "Unattended luggage will be removed and you'll never see it again" directives also made at stations and airports.

Kicking the crumbs under her seat, I took the remaining cake from The Mother.

"Why don't you go and have a cigarette?" I suggested.

"What a good idea," she said and got the packet and lighter from her handbag.

"Not in here!" I hissed. "You're not allowed to smoke in here. Go outside and join your feathered friends."

The couple opposite were now openly sniggering, whether at The Mother's antics or my discomfiture, I wasn't sure.

When I got home that evening a friend phoned. "Was it today your mother was off to Yorkshire?" he asked.

"I think you could say the bird has flown," I replied.