Home Front

‘Mexico’s such a great place. I might move here permanently!’ enthused son Fred from his Guanajuato apartment back in February. ‘Come and visit – you’ll love it!’

So I did. Only for him to announce on my arrival that not only was he ‘done with Mexico’ but he had booked his return flight even earlier than expected.

Still, I don’t regret going. I flew BA super economy, expecting to be miserable for 11 hours. Instead I loved it (the only mild irritant a woman who periodically left her seat to do yoga exercises in the aisle).

The flight attendants were so friendly that I felt like an unknowing participant in a BA advertisement. One splendid steward even sneaked me a glass of champagne from Club Class when I cheekily requested another prosecco. The low-dose valium (2mg) prescribed by my doctor to help with my fear of flying combined so agreeably with champagne that I didn’t even notice take-off.

Decent food and booze, the latest in-flight movies, courtesy blankets… I was a bit disappointed when eventually we landed. I watched the latest version of A Star Is Born. Lady Gaga was good, though I couldn’t understand how her character would be propelled to superstardom with such dreadful songs. Give me the 1954 version with Judy Garland and James Mason every time. Judy’s Esther Blodgett singing The Man That Got Away still gives me goose bumps. And the ending always makes me cry: ‘Hello, everybody. This is Mrs Norman Maine.’

The boy and I had a great time in Mexico City. He took me to an Aztec temple where they performed human sacrifices. I made him take me round the art galleries. Then there was our gay-bar crawl in Roma – the only part of my holiday the Aged P took any interest in (‘Did any lesbians give you the eye?’).

From salsa to karaoke bars – everywhere was heaving with Saturdaynight revellers. ‘They do seem to have more fun than heterosexuals,’ I observed, aware of sounding like a spinster anthropologist in a Barbara Pym novel.

In one nightclub, a gnome-like man with an Abraham Lincoln beard sashayed across the floor to where I was dancing in an uncertain Top of the Pops audiencemember-type way and asked if Fred was my boyfriend: ‘I kinda like the look of him but don’t want to tread on your toes.’ ‘I’m his mother!’ I laughed. ‘Well, when he comes back,’ he continued solemnly, ‘would you mind telling him I’ll be on the balcony up there with my cousin?’ I followed his gaze up to a young Andy Warhol lookalike with peroxide blond hair who stared intensely down at us. When Fred returned from the bar, I pointed out his new admirer who was now waving coquettishly from the balcony.

‘What the hell?’ said Fred, appalled. ‘Why were you even talking to him?’

‘He came up and spoke to me – he thought I was your girlfriend! He’s from Mexico City but now lives in Chicago.’ ‘I don’t care!’ The episode delighted me. Fred was indignant that the man should think he was in for a chance with the Surrey Adonis.

Then to Guanajuato, a beautiful Spanish colonial city about the size of Guildford. I stayed at Hotel Chocolate, a short stroll from Fred’s lodgings on a hill.

‘Will I be in the Twix suite?’ I said. No one spoke any English. And my Spanish was so appalling that I came to rely on a translation app on my mobile phone.

I insisted Fred take me to Guanajuato’s Museum of the Mummies. Among the cadavers writhing in eternal agony were murder victims, a victim of the Spanish Inquisition and babies dressed as saints (Fred was so disturbed by the babies that he legged it outside).

The tour guide spent longest beside the display of a six-month-old foetus from a pregnant victim of cholera. He shone his torch on its frozen rictus of horror and declared it was the youngest-known mummy in the world. A curious silence descended as we gawped at it, not quite knowing what expression to wear.

Meanwhile, back in England, Mr Home Front had been left with two simple instructions: ‘Walk Destry’ and ‘Don’t burn the house down’. And because he couldn’t be trusted to carry these out, I’d insisted Betty give me daily updates:

Monday: He’s been on the sofa all day watching women’s football.

Tuesday: He lost Destry for two hours in Effingham.

Wednesday: He left the key in the front door.

Thursday: He fried fish and the frying pan caught fire.

Friday: He keeps asking when you’re coming home.

Perhaps I should go away more often.