Ladies who lunch

 My mother and a group of friends used to meet for lunch once a month in Norwich and this has kept going, as a semi-formal club, since 1988.  Now, I drive several friends there, who are of an age to have given up driving.  

I told the tale once of, at about this time of year, asking Jo what she and her sister Lilian were doing for Christmas.  "We're going to die over Christmas," she said casually.  I blinked.  "Say that again, darling?" "We're going to Di for Christmas," she repeated.  "Oh, that's lovely," I said, while Rose, in the back of the car, tried not to laugh (she's been laughing about it ever since, though).  Anyway, Jo did die in the end, of covid, in December 2020 but I still drive Lilian over for lunch - she's now about 97.  I also drive Diane, who is 89.  Both still very sharp of mind, but becoming sadly prone to anecdotage.  

I woke up just after 6.30 this morning, which was an excellent time to sleep to, but my pleasure lasted less than a minute before I realised I was developing the aura of a migraine.  Luckily, I knew I had some pills in the next room - I usually keep them in my handbag, for emergencies - and went straight to get them, then stayed in bed until they worked.  But I did feel a bit out of sorts all day, so perhaps that's why the same stories they talk about every month were a little harder to take this time.  I nodded and smiled and responded in all the right places as usual, but my heart wasn't in it.  

But there was good news this evening.  Another of our number found a lump on her jaw and, as she had been treated last year for cancer, this was very worrying and she had plainly assumed that today's tests would bring bad news - she'd given permission for us all to be told.  But Doreen phoned this evening to tell us that Ann has rung her to say it's just a cyst.  It's just a cyst, nothing more.  So maybe I'd been grieving, in advance of expected bad news and that also fed my irritation.  Luckily, I hadn't shown it.

All the stories are good the first time, but not necessarily the 50th.  All the same, I feel churlish.