I’ll call her S, because I don’t know if she would want herself on the web. A wonderfully gabby woman of an undisclosable age, she is extremely articulate well-informed. Her age is a mystery because, while she admits to children, grandchildren and even a great grandchild, she is very careful about giving too much detail lest I start doing the math. Her profession is  being a career, which is what she does for my mother on weekends. Full of energy, laughter, ideas and a determination to “give mother a good time”, she happily embarks on a series of adventures with my 87 year old Alzheimer’s infected parent  in tow. To movies, to the beach, and to tacos bars.

So having sat through Trolls, a perfectly good movie for six year olds, that’s where we went. Probably influenced by the presence of her granddaughter.

While we waited for our reputedly best tacos, mother embarked on her default program of making friends. Extending an impossibly thin arm in the direction of the next table, she announced to the bemused trio who were happily scoffing delicious highly spiced foreign food, “we haven’t been introduced. My name is Valerie.”

My dear mother is a delight to go out with. While the immensely cruel bug in her brain has chewed away most of her memory, what’s left is love. She adores everybody. No-one is safe from the hugger-mother, especially children, most of whom return the affection.

And the diners responded with politeness by shaking hands and  exchanging names. Then, intrigued as are most Americans we meet by her delightful BBC English accent, the inevitable question “Where are you guys from?”

Of course mother has forgotten so I briefly explained our respective provenance. South Africa, Britain, San Diego. And of course, S being Mexican. “Where are you from?”

To my surprise the woman responded, “Oh, we are from Mexico. Twenty years ago.” There had been little trace of an accent, so I was slightly surprised and a little embarrassed.

The woman was well dressed, rather better than most of the La Jollians in the place, as if she was about to go to a smart gallery opening in New York, say. In her forties, perhaps. Figure-fitted red dress, very attractive and self-confident. The other woman too, lipstick, silk scarf, tight-filling fifties-style flowered dress. Tasteful, both of them. Elegant. The man looked like a professor of, perhaps, Geology. Grey, dignified, moustache, a slight air of deshabille one might expect from an academic. Interestingly and perfectly irrelevant in every way, he wore one of those medical collars you get when suspected of suffering from whiplash, for when the insurance company come to inspect. He was certainly uncomfortable and tetchy. Frankly all three looked as if they had stepped out of one of those Cary Grant films filmed in Monte Carlo or Rome.

I was relieved. Here were people who would pile into the Trump-bashing bandwagon with us, people with whom one could bond and chat and have a good mutual moan.

“Oh,” I said sympathy dripping from my still untacoed lips, “So you are pretty devastated I suppose.”

“By what?” a pert and challenging response.

“Well,” surprised, “By this whole Trump thing?”

“Why should I be?” she asked.

I didn’t know what to say. S stared at her – they were so unalike. S with her scraggy ponytail, practical dress, free of makeup. Her surprise and annoyance palpable. And the woman with her makeup and sophistication.

“Well….” I said

“We need a change,” she said. “It’s too long we’ve had a Democrat in charge. He will do good for this country.”

Shit, I thought. Another turkey looking forward to Christmas.

“Besides, I like him. It’s time we kicked all the illegals out.” So once again, I was reminded of the Indian, Pakistani and Polish people I had spoken to in England who were pro Brexit. Amazing. Considering themselves safely British, being in possession of nationality gained in this or the previous generation,  they regarded other immigrants as a threat. Their contempt for asylum seekers was particularly galling. And I never hesitated to reveal that I myself had been an asylum seeker, as had some of their forebears.

I needed to stay polite. we were in public. They had been charming to mother.

So weakly I said, “He will build a wall…”

“Never,” she replied. “It will never happen. And if it does, that’s not terrible. More jobs for us.”

“He will appoint another Supreme Court judge. They will destroy Choice!”

“We are Catholics,” she said. “That’s what we want!”

“He doesn’t believe in Climate Change…”

“Ok, that’s not right. But he won’t be able to change anything there. You will see!”

At this point she gave a huge Audrey Hepburn smile, gathered up her companions and stood to go. “Lovely to meet you”, she said.

“Darling, you can’t go”, said mother. We haven’t even been introduced!”

And she stood unsteadily and gave the woman a great big hug and a kiss.