Spare me, please, from conversation which starts with someone muttering into my ear: "If I were you ..." or "The best thing you can do now ..."

The advice that usually follows is invariably well-intentioned but when you're feeling at odds with the world those words can also sound unbearably smug.

So I was surprised to catch myself saying to The Mother last week: "If I were you I'd go to Yorkshire for a break. It's the best thing you can do now that Trixie's no longer here." For those not familiar with this column, Trixie was The Mother's much-loved dog who died recently.

"I'll think about it," said The Mother, which roughly translates into: "Mind your own business."

She hates any interference in her life, however well-intentioned. Hmmm, sounds familiar.

I did what I usually do in these situations - I went behind her back and made all the necessary arrangements.

First I phoned her youngest sister in Yorkshire, who in turn phoned The Mother's twin sister (yes, there are two of them) in Wales. Secondly I phoned the chiropodist.

Both sisters then called The Mother and insisted she come to their homes for a holiday. The Mother apparently agreed to this suggestion without a squeak of dissent.

"I'm going to Yorkshire on Monday ...

I think it's the best thing I could do right now," she told me over lunch on Friday.

"It's a good job I made an appointment for you to see the chiropodist this afternoon then," I replied.

The Mother does not enjoy a happy relationship with her feet. Unless taken in hand, corns and calluses proliferate and her normally brisk gait becomes a hobble.

You can't take feet like that on holiday - but you can't leave them at home either.

The Mother returned from the chiropodist's, and that evening I caught a flash of bright pink toenails.

I found this rather unsettling, probably because I associate painted toenails with the sort of hedonistic lifestyle not normally enjoyed by octogenarians.

At the weekend I hauled a suitcase down from the loft while The Mother planned her adventure.

"What about vests?" I said. "You really should be wearing those by now, especially in the north. And you mustn't forget to take gloves and a woolly hat."

"Stop fussing," said The Mother and lit a cigarette. That's another of her signals telling me to mind my own business.

Glancing into her case I noticed a spare lighter, two packets of Silk Cut and an emergency box of matches were already packed, half hidden inside a pair of tights.

Later we went to book tickets for the journey. "I'll come with you to London, make sure you arrive safely and get you settled on the Yorkshire coach," I said.

"There's absolutely no need for that," she said indignantly. "I'm quite capable of looking after myself. I don't want to be treated like an old woman!"

The Mother is 81 next month and age is a sensitive issue.

"But you are old," I said gently, adding quickly, "and so am I. I'm old enough to be a grandmother."

"That would make me a great-grandmother," she said. "So there's no need to treat me like a child either!"

On Sunday I went for a drink with a friend. I brought her up-to-date with what had been happening Mother-wise.

She listened thoughtfully while I complained, then turned to face me across the table. "If I were you ..." she began.