Mother's way

The more you try not to be like your mum, the more she rears her carefully-coiffed head. Mum and I had a feisty relationship right up to my early thirties. She would disapprove of my partners, my choice of flats, and the messy scramble of my life. Occasionally, I would remind myself that she was my mother I had bounced around in her womb, for goodness sake but quickly reassured myself that it hardly made us the same species.

Then something switched. Her marriage to my father ended and I started to see her as a real, rounded person (rather than someone to tolerate). When my first marriage ended too, she didn't blame or waggle a disapproving finger. Perhaps we were alike. Maybe we had views and experiences to offer each other. We have since grown to like each other, stopped fighting and are now planning a holiday together (surprise, surprise: each of us chose the same destination). I am immensely proud when mum says she has enjoyed something I've written.

Occasionally, of course, the extent of her influence comes as an almighty shocker like during the row last night. I hope I didn't sound like my mum, I wheedled, giving my husband a back rub in order to make amends.

He laughed and said, Don't you think I'd be first to let you know?

I nodded, temporarily reassured. Then I trotted to the kitchen and bleached the coffee cups.