It would have been my mother’s 84th birthday on 29 May. I thought about her as I clattered down the corkscrew stairs at Holland Park Underground Station, past the prissy sign warning travellers not to attempt the stairs because there were 93 of them, instead of encouraging people to use them as I would if I were in charge around here.
On the platform, in the soupy tunnel, I took out my iPhone to play my little game, which is to do the Wordle before the next train arrives, which – thanks to the Central Line’s rapid peristalsis – is usually only a couple of minutes. Mission accomplished, I got onto a standing-room-only carriage.
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My mother died in 2021, aged 79. It was her time. But now she’s away – that tender Irish way of saying someone has died – I still miss her every day. I reminded myself of the vow I made to myself: I’d pack every minute of my remaining portion with action and incident since she couldn’t – in short, I’d live my Best Life, in her honour.
