FOR someone who professes to not watch a lot of television The Mother certainly has more than her fair share of gripes about it.

For many years it’s been Fiona Bruce, who she relishes the opportunity to shout at all the way through Question Time.

“She’s the worse chairman they’ve ever had,” she announces at every possible opportunity.

“She’s always chipping in and giving her opinion rather than letting the guests speak for themselves.”

“I don’t know why you get so wound up about about her,” I dared to venture once after yet another rant.

“She’s awful…and there’s something even worse than her interrupting and chipping in her own opinions,” she replied

“Really,” I answered bracing myself for a revelation.

“She wears daps to read the news! Daps! On television with a smart dress!”

“Would you wear daps to read the news?” She asked fixing me with The Mother look.

“Well no…but I’m so short I have high heels on my slippers,” I replied.

“I think she had an accident to her foot which is why she wears flats a lot,” I added, trying to defend the beleaguered presenter.

“I don’t care what she’s had. You don’t wear daps with smart clothes,” she replied ending the conversation once and for all.

This weekend at Sunday dinner as the topic of conversation turned to our weekly TV viewing, we braced ourselves for the Question Time rant only to find it breezed over with a simple, “I don’t like Fiona Bruce but there we are…”

As my sister and exchanged glances and the housemate breathed a sigh of relief The Mother warmed up…

“Have you seen the adverts on TV at the moment?”

We all looked at each other like rabbits in the headlights not quite sure which way to dart.

“What is going on with all the dancing?”

“I liked the old days when there were jingles you could sing along with,” said my sister in the vain hope of deflection.

“Nuts, whole hazelnuts,” I sang more by way of distraction than commentary.

“Everyone is dancing all the time…’I’ve just sold my car, so I’ll have a little dance’…’I’ve just done the washing, so I’ll have a little dance’…I don’t understand it,” said the increasingly irate Mother.

“If I pop round to see your Auntie who thinks you’ve got a sunny disposition, and she’s drying her smalls on the clothes-horse, she doesn’t throw a pair at me and dance around the kitchen!”

Not sure how to react to that particular mental image, we tried to move on…albeit unsuccessfully.

“And what are all those adverts for incontinence pads about?” asked The Mother dishing out the rice pudding.

“I’m fed up of that woman bouncing around on her husband’s shoulders and shouting about her boggy pee pants!”

“What?” we all asked in unison.

“The woman in the advert. She’s always saying she can’t go to concerts or do yoga or go shopping because she worries about her boggy pee pants!”

“It’s bulky pee pads,” said my sister.

“What?”

“She’s worried about her bulky pee pads not her boggy pee pants…which would be gross!” continued my sister.

“Are you sure?” asked The Mother with a grimace. “I’ll have to listen again but I suppose that does make a bit more sense…although I don’t know why she has to dance while she’s talking about it whichever it is,” she added.

“At least she’s not wearing daps!” I added as she glared at me.