Mothers

I have a little ritual. On Fridays at 12 noon, I collect my mother and she comes to me for lunch. It's no big deal for me, but it makes her week as otherwise she doesn't get out. The fact that she puts up with her grumpy daughter for the best part of six hours shows how lonely she must get. I have usually bought her some clothes during the week, which we discussed carefully on Friday and then I take the whole lot back on Monday morning. All this is fine. I also don't mind that she's on a dairy-free diet but implores me to buy her Roses chocolates and muffins. What does get on my nerves though is the humming. Right from the moment I collect her to when I take her back, if she's not eating or talking, she's humming. It's like having a large Winnie the Pooh sitting next to you in the car, only not nearly as amusing.
I told my friend. "She's happy, that's why she's humming. Don't be so critical." I felt like a heel.
I told my daughter. "Humming?" "Humming?" she said again as if she couldn't believe I had said it and looked at me with, I felt, a little more loathing than was strictly necessary. "If my mother's only fault was her humming, I'd be really grateful." Touche, mon petit.