Monday night = Date With Dad. He's finally cottoned on that he can call me, when his mate Brian is indisposed, to go to obscure events. In the past it's been a Dubliners concert, surprisingly enjoyable; a whisky tasting, I drove(humpph!); a Whist Drive where we were the only ones not wearing Eau De Commode; and a smattering of parish events that usually result in the ( replacement-)hippest and wildest of the local over-50s rampaging through his drinks cabinet like drought-ravaged locusts whilst I serve them cheese and biscuits and the occasional cup of medicinal coffee.

Tonight it was the turn of the local Museum Society. It started at 7.15pm, we got there at 7.16 ( I get my time-keeping genes from my Dad). We followed the directions of the bored curator on the door and found ourselves at the lecture room. It appeared to be filled with Exhibits. For a moment I thought we'd stumbled upon an exhibition of Comb-Overs Of the Last Century. One of them finally moved, probably no more than a pulse from his pacemaker, but sufficient for us to ensure that we were, indeed, at the right place.

I hadn't had time to eat beforehand, having dashed around every budget store I knew looking for a black coat to replace my cheerful red maternity smock ( I'm going to a funeral in the morning) so I thought it might be nice to get a bite to eat afterwards at one of the new places that has sprung up around town since I last ventured out at night ( 1997, if my memory serves me correctly). Alas, Dad dumped me unceremoniously straight back home. The gritter lorry had made him nervous. Probably worried about slipping and breaking a hip. He's only 57!! In glorious health, winning more than a couple of envious looks at his thick head of hair from all the shiny pates sitting beside us tonight, and stronger than an ox. My guess is that he was more freaked by the chap from the Museum Society who had assumed I was his wife. It comes to something when you are too old even for your Dad to want to be seen with you!