Christopher Moore - A Stroke of Luck: Or a Beginners Guide to Being Hospitalised and What You Can Reasonably Expect!

My name is Chris. If Im being told off for any misdemeanour, be it a large one or a small one, then my name becomes Christopher, with a very strong emphasis on the Chris syllable. Conversely, if I had done something very good indeed, like popping up the road to buy some milk and The Daily Mail, or mowing the lawn, or attempting to sort out the computer, then, as if by magic, my name transforms into Chrissie Sweetie, or, at a push, My Darling, complete with a couple of house-points to boot.

And who, pray (could be prey when I think about it) is responsible for changing your name, depending upon your actions? I hear you asking (that, too, is a pretty stupid thing to say really because of course I dont hear you in any shape or form, but I guess I can hear you asking that question, along with Is it your missus?).

To the supplementary part of the question, I can respond with a categorical No. Nisis, Absolutes and solicitors fees put an end to my status as a married man after twenty-three years served as part of a life sentence. Nothe guilty party is none other than my mum. I too can play the name-change game. If I need to offer a slightly formal response to one of her many enquiries, the term Mother comes into play. On the other hand, if I am thanking her for a cup of tea served to me in bed at precisely 06:45 hours, its appropriate to use the title Mum, Ma, Mom or Mummy. These are generic terms of endearment and can be interchanged as often as necessary to avoid repetition.

We all have or had a mum otherwise we would not be in any form of existence. We wouldnt even be an ex. We certainly would not have been a glint in our mothers eye (or eyes, if she is blessed with two). And dont we love them! Of course, we do! I love mine to bits. Of course, they have their little foibles. For example, my mum will quite often (in fact, lets ignore the word quite) start a conversation like this:

Christopher, you really must lose some weightyoure fat! (Note the usage of Christopher and the unambiguous nature of her observation.)

Im doing my best Mum, honest

Well, its not good enough Christopher

She then proceeds to serve me a portion of dinner, which is large enough to serve an army and the opposing army too! Then, at the end of said meal, she will invariably say:

Come on Chris, just finish those potatoes and broccoli up; you know I dont like to throw food away.

But, you said I need to

Thats it son, you eat up

So, I duly oblige, stuff my face and get fatter and fatter by the day. A couple of hours pass in a drowsy, half asleep, wind-laden state, which is then followed by the statement from Mum which I have been anticipating:

Come on, Christopher, wake up. You know your trouble dont you Christopher? You eat too much and dont exercise enough; youll get fat, you know

Oh well. Worse things happen at sea, as it is so profoundly mentioned. You might hit an iceberg I suppose. Nonetheless, I fail to see how a non-descript item of rabbit food could cause considerable damage, cos (see what Ive done there, clever or what? OKwhat) as an item, it is not particularly substantial.

Mothers seem to live in a time warp whereby their offspring remain at the age of seven (Sev-errnn, as good old Len is prone to saying), totally ignoring the fact that the ravages of time have taken their toll. I AM 60. There. Said it. Am I bovvered? A soon to be OAP! Will get a bus pass soon. Get 25% off at Specsavers. I qualify for free medication now, which is saving me an absolute fortune. Also, I can apply for a Senior Persons Railcard (why dont they call it an old-has-been railcardseems about right to me?

And there, in a very circuitous fashion, is the main emphasis of my story. I might be 60. But, I dont feel 60. I like being in the company of young people. I volunteer five days a week at my local community radio station,