Her birthday party was two days away and I'd promised to take her shopping for a new dress. I arrived in town on the friday morning and we'd have all of the afternoon to find something.
But it seems that it wasn't the time constraint that was worrying her - it was more that she didn't know how she'd get along in the fitting rooms. As I'm the only one who can go and help her - yep, just me - and I'm a boy and therefore not allowed in english women's fitting rooms (who makes these rules?) then she'd be on her own to get in and out of frocks. Impossible.
So, being a bright soul as well as a good son I came up with the solution. You knew I would, right?
I booked her an appointment with the personal shopper in the local big department store. This meant that someone else would trawl the rails whilst me and mother could sip champagne in the trying-on 'suite'.
And very fancy it was too. Big comfy sofa's, loads of room to help an old lady in and out of her clothes - and a big rack full of dresses that fitted the description that my Mom had given the personal shopper over the phone that morning.
The personal shopper - called Rosemary - was as you'd imagine. Fortysomething, very glamorous in a high fashion kind of way. Perfectly coiffed, nails a-painted and tip top maquillage to boot.
I did think to myself "maybe she's born with it?" but figured it had to be Maybelline.
Anyway, I drink champagne, Mom tries on dresses, Rosemary prepares the next outfit.
An hour into proceedings and Mother has successfully wriggled her way into a very tight Paul Smith number and is now struggling to get out of it.
In a very inelegant scene, she has the skirt of the dress over her head and I'm pulling to try and release her.
Obviously she starts to giggle.
Giggling becomes laughing and laughing soon turns to exhaustion.
She edges backwards, finds the dressing room stool and sits down, with the dress still over her head.
And as she sits, she farts.
Loud. Long. Farts.
As the tears stream down my cheeks, all I can see of my Mom is a floral mess in the corner shaking uncontrollably.
I can see Rosemary, perfectly fashionable and superbly stylish Rosemary, out of the corner of my eye.
What on earth must she think of us?
"Are you sure that frock's a Paul Smith?" said our personal shopper. "Only, it sounds to me like it could be a Windsmoor"