My mother's bunion

I believe that we draw to ourselves those people we need to act out our drama, on this earthly stage: the characters in our play, our supporting cast. Some have big parts (Anastasia, Georgina, Amanda, Carole.) Others, the bit players, may have just a few lines (Mrs Wincey).
Is my play a tragedy? A comedy? A thriller? A farce?
I wonder who will be nominated for best supporting role?

- Well?
- Well what?
- I thought you were going to tell me about your mother’s bunion?
- Oh, yes. Well, my mother was troubled by a bunion. She was in her sixties. It was so bad she could only wear ‘sensible’ shoes, and she had always considered herself a ‘stylish’ person. Also, on a bad day, it caused her considerable pain and forced her to limp. She had put up with this situation for a number of years until eventually she consulted her GP.
He referred her to a podiatric surgeon. This man explained the various surgical procedures on offer, all of them involving some breaking of bones and time in hospital. Although it could never be guaranteed, the likelihood was that eventually she would once again be able to wear ‘nice shoes’ and be relatively limp free.
What should she do? The decision was hers.

- So what did she do?
- In the end she decided it was not worth it. She had ‘managed’ for so long, she could ‘put up with it’ and live a reasonable life. And she did, until her death some years later.

Silence, except for the sound of Carole buttering a slice of toast.

- Do you see what I’m saying? I have put up with this so-called mental illness for many years. On the ‘bad days’ it incapacitates me, and it is on those days that I think I would do anything to be rid of it.
But there are the ‘good days’, when I feel great, full of energy, creative.
So what should I do, Carole? Should I elect for the ‘surgery’ or should I try and live with my disability?

- And suppose on one of your ‘bad’ days you go for another walk on the girders, only this time you make a proper job of it?
- Well, so be it. I will at last learn the great secret. Perhaps I shall be looking down on you all (or up, or sideways) as you run around tidying up after me.
No, I’m not saying that I want to go just yet: not with all those orgasms waiting for me to experience. But none of us can live for ever and, to paraphrase Amy Johnson: I think I would rather go that way than from pneumonia or senile decay.

Carole pours herself another cup of tea

- And what about the fact that you are on a Section Order?
- Oh, yes, my ‘sectioning’. Well I was thinking about what you said yesterday: no I am not Ronnie Biggs – I am not one of the Great Train Robbers. I am not a psychopath. I’ve committed no criminal offence. I’m hardly worth launching a manhunt for, am I?
- What are you talking about?
- Carole… come to London with me.