It's not easy being suave and cultured

Mary has a good opinion of me, because I talk to her about politics and religion. It's one of the many things I like about her and it's something I'm keen to hang on to. 

But the harder you try to be suave and cultured, I find, the more your inner idjit gets out.

So we're chatting together in her living-room, as she eats the dinner I've brought round and I sip a small Talisker she's poured for me, and she asks me how I'm doing.

"Struggling," I say. "Recessions are tough for a freelance, and living off your wits gets harder as they lose their edge with age."

"Have a biscuit and don't be daft," she says. "What age are you?"

"Fifty-five," I say. 

"Just a boy," she says

"Can I get you a coffee?" I say, leaping lithely to my feet to prove that she's right.

"I have it with all milk nowadays," she says. "In my favourite mug."

"What does your favourite mug look like?" I call from the kitchen with a sinking feeling, as I can see about 40 mugs around the room. 

"It looks like a mug," she calls back. So I stick my head through, to find her pushing her plate away and looking expectant. "Gimme a clue," I say. "What kind of mug?"

"It looks like this," she says, making a mug-sized shape with her hands. "It has a nice pattern on it and Fay gave me it as a present."

Short of the gift tag still being on the damned thing, I fail to see how that helps me. But I head back to the kitchen and play for time by pouring milk into a saucepan and heating it on the hob.

"You like it boiling or just hot?" I ask.

"Boiling," she says. "But not all over my cooker."

Ninety years old, yes. Fluffy and feeble, no. 

"She does this frail old woman act," Susan often tells me. "But she's anything but. She's manipulative. She used to write letters to the papers under different names, in praise of the charity she started for unmarried mums. She even changed her handwriting for each of them. That's devious."

"It's resourceful," I tell her. "And it's all for other people. That's what I like about her. She is unselfish. She's spiritual."

"She should be," she'd say. "She prays to the Holy Spirit all the time."

"For the benefit of other people," I'd point out. "God and scheming make a great combination. Ideal way to get things done, if you ask me."

And a little divine assistance wouldn't go amiss now, I'm thinking, as the milk boils over and I shut the door fast, so Mary can't hear the hissing. It is hard to get milk off a hot plate but I do my best. Then I scrabble around the kitchen some more, searching for this daft mug she's so keen on. 

Suddenly I spot it in the sink. Tall, tapering, with fancy flowers on the outside. I know it's the one. Don't ask me how. Maybe being this close to Mary means God is on my side tonight too. 

The thought makes me overconfident and the mug slips from my fingers and smashes itself to bits on the floor. I stare at it for a moment, my mind numb, then look upwards. "Thanks a bunch pal," I tell Him, as the milk boils over again, I reach out to grab it and tip the entire saucepan over the hob.

"Bugger, bugger, bugger," I say, as I survey the scattered chaos in a once lovely kitchen. "Bugger." 

Five minutes later I've cleaned up as best I can and made her black coffee in a Huckleberry Hound mug, with "Oh My Darling Clementine" in large letters on the side.

"I am sorry, Mary. I couldn't find your posh mug and you had run out of milk," I say, as I hand it to her. 

"Never mind son," she says, patting my hand, taking a small sip and pretending she likes it. "It's lovely to have you here to chat to, about all the stuff that's on my mind. 

"You are just so calm and sensible."

Catholic tastes

Having lulled me yet again with her elfin charm, Isle of Jura and Belgian chocolates, Mary gets to the point. "Have you read those articles I gave you?" she asks.

I play for time with a sip of the mellow malt and study the photos of her extended family above the fireplace, with the latest and tiniest taking temporary pride of place. "So you're a great-grandmother now?" I try diversionary tactics with small hope of success.

"For the third time," she says. "Never mind that. I can talk about babies with anybody. I expect more from you."

"Fair enough," I say, swirling the whisky, holding it up to the light and seeing the tear-drops separate and slide inside the crystal. "From the look of those legs I'd say this is the 15-year-old."

She shakes her head but says nothing, simply staring at me. Like a well-loved teacher she knows I can't take her disapproval. "All right," I say. "Tell me what you want to talk about."

Her blue eyes sparkle. "The article on the legacy of Vatican II and the challenge of secular society," she says.

I groan. "Hell's bells Mary, couldn't we start with something simpler? You know I'm somewhere on the Buddhist spectrum. I think monotheistic religions stuff spirituality into straitjackets. Debates about Catholic doctrine go well over my head."

"Did you read the article?" she asks again.

"Yes," I admit.

 "Well then," she says.

"Well then what?" I say.

"Stop prevaricating and give me your opinion."

I take a larger slug of the malt than the cratur deserves, think fast and talk slow. "Well, the short version is that it's unhelpful to regard different sides of the debate as traditional and modern or progressive and reactionary," I say and she nods encouragingly.

"Are you agreeing with the statement or with my saying it's the main point of the article?" I ask her.

"Bit of both," she says. "Keep talking."

I run my finger round the inside of my collar. "Well, it's better to see them as a struggle between keeping things simple, the writer says, and engaging with the complexities of the modern world. Vatican II chose complexity."

She sits forward in the padded high chair, surrounded by tables containing all the specs, phones, money, books and newspapers she needs to get through the day without moving far. Nine decades and half a dozen operations slow you down some.

"It did and we welcomed it," she says. "But 50 years on it hasn't delivered. Why not?"

She's testing me and exploring the argument. "Several reasons," I say. "The writer highlights 'aggressive atheism' and the church's over-reaction to it."

"We circled the wagons," she nods. "We simplified. We covered up instead of opening out."

She sits back in her chair, seemingly satisfied, and I start to relax. I will never learn. "Pour yourself another whisky," she smiles at me. "You've earned it."

I reach for the decanter. "So that's the problem," she says quietly and my hand freezes as she leans forward again.

"Now what do you think is the solution?" she says.