We live till ripe old ages, and hardly spend any time in bed, sick. In fact, during my whole childhood, I can only remember my mother taking to her bed on one occasion. It was just after we’d moved into our new house in London, and I guess looking back the stress of relocating from Birmingham had taken its toll. My father filled the void as well as he could, but after three days he sent an SOS to some obscure relatives in Ireland and headed back to the safety of his office. Two old ladies answered his distress call, and they had an almost immediate effect. Within hours of them arriving, my mother was out of bed, cooking, washing up, and making sure the guests were comfortable. And within two days, she was in the hospital. The Irish ladies were well meaning, but hopeless. She felt she had no option but to look after them, even though it was supposed to be the other way around. And the effort required was simply too great. I heard the grown-ups referring to the whole episode as the Curse of Good Intentions.
