Safely ensconced in the village of Wether Bilbury, Mother reconciles herself as best she can to her daughter's move to London. She keeps in constant touch by letter and phone, offering sage advice about good hot lunches (milk pudding is most nourishing and rich in vitamins), warm underclothes (combinations are splendid), and the perils of galloping about London in six-inch heels from one bed-sitting-room to another and pints of black coffee.
Reported conversations with disapproving aunts, inquisitive neighbours, and triumphant friends whose daughters have married well or have steady jobs with pensions, underline the hopelessness of Mother's cause. But she battles on bravely, sustained by the knowledge that 'When you're eighty and your wasted life is a mirror of empty cosmetic jars and bed-sitting-rooms with no roots ... at least you won't be able to turn round and blame me.'
First published in 1954, this enchantingly funny book is essential reading for everyone who's ever had, or been, a mother.
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