I'm an easy person to please. For instance, whenever it's time for a spot of home decorating, I'll obligingly say: "I'll have any colour . . . so long as it's white."
That way the need for sensitive colour co-ordination is solved in an instant. There isn't one. White, used liberally on walls and ceilings, goes with anything and is surely the ultimate in non-offensive decor.
The Mother thinks differently. Colour for her is life enhancing and since she moved in with me almost, unbelievably, six months ago, my restrained good taste has met with her disapproval - her very vocal disapproval.
It's boring, unimaginative, clinical and cold, she has complained.
So recently, when the first glimmers of spring highlighted the need for some urgent improvements on the domestic front, I capitulated.
"Okay," I said, "We'll redecorate. We'll have some colour around the house, but I am not having pink in any shade whatsoever. Pink is for small girls or little old ladies - but on this occasion that doesn't include you."
"That's fine by me," said The Mother. "I think I'll have blue in my bedroom and a nice pale lemon would look good in the living room."
A couple of weeks later I was standing in the by now transformed pale lemon living room when I realised the cushion covers simply didn't go with the new colour scheme. The curtains were a bit iffy, too.
I found the almost empty five litre can of lemon emulsion paint, popped it into a carrier bag and set off for the centre of Brighton to find toning replacements.
"You're completely crazy," said The Mother as I left. "You can't walk round the shops carrying a completely empty can of paint."
"It's okay," I said. "It's not empty."
Next I moved on to her bedroom. I removed several ornaments and pictures that, to my mind, clashed with her new decor.
The Mother was not appreciative. "Put them back," she demanded. "I like them."
"But they ruin the effect," I said. "They just don't go with the room any more."
Then I grasped a nettle I'd been meaning to tackle for several days.
"I'll tell you what else doesn't go with the room," I said. "Your smoking.
The cigarette smoke will spoil all the nice new paintwork - and I'm afraid the same applies to downstairs now."
Much to my surprise, The Mother agreed. But it left the problem of where could she smoke?
"I could always open the bedroom window and lean out," she said.
"Not in the winter you couldn't," I said, imagining headlines in The Argus about a frail pensioner dying from hypothermia in a freezing bedroom, a frozen Silk Cut still clutched in her icy fingers, while her hard-hearted daughter sat downstairs in centrally heated splendour.
"The kitchen's not being decorated yet, is it?" said The Mother.
The following day her ashtray appeared by the bread bin - but not for long.
"Where's my ashtray?" The Mother enquired on Monday morning.
"It didn't go, so it went," I said.
"Didn't go? But we've not had the kitchen redecorated, so why didn't it go?" asked The Mother.
"Because I'm afraid your ashtray and its contents didn't go with my poached eggs, my bowl of muesli or my buttered toast," I replied.
"Oh, how I wish you'd go," she said.
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