The festivities marking Mum and Dad's fortieth wedding have now gone on longer than would be considered seemly for the marriage of a pasha's daughter. Today's lunch was for the 'other' half of the social circle: those whose liveliness would offend the sharply protestant consciousness of Aunties Doreen and Vera.

Those two upright Methodists were entertained a few weeks ago. Today's event was noisier, boozier and more fun. David Griggs was there. Purely one of the nicest men I've ever met, he's one of the few who can get under mum's defences, making her drink a lot and laugh at risqué jokes.

She needs a laugh at the moment: her hip is crumbling and the consultant won't operate because of the club foot on the other side. The Toyne family's physical weirdnesses, so long a subject for laughs, are starting to get their own back.

As a family we usually fail to go gentle into that good night with a bloody-mindedness that even Dylan Thomas might find unsettling. So while I'll feel terribly sorry for Mum when the time comes she has to use a wheelchair, I'm going to feel a lot more sorry for the poor bastard who has to tell her - a sorrow that's lent extra keenness by the growing suspicion that that poor bastard is going to be me.