Iris knows best

When the television company rang to ask if I wanted to take part in a new RTÉ series called Mother Knows Best, I confess I considered it. For about a nanosecond I contemplated being filmed while my mother came over and tried to remedy all the things she thought were wrong with my life.

Then I asked my mother about the idea, and she said that at this stage there wasn't much she would change about me. Which, although I didn't quite believe her, still made me feel all warm and squidgy inside.

As it turned out, the people at the TV company were more interested in letting Iris, my mother-in-law-in-waiting, loose on my life. I considered that request for an even longer time, at least 30 seconds. There is no doubt that this scenario would make great television. Iris says exactly what she thinks - for example: "Oooh, so you have given up that WeightWatchers, then. What one are you on now?" - and doesn't hold back. Sometimes she says things to wind me up, but before I've realised this it's too late, and she has me just how she wants me - as a ranting, raving wreck.

The reason for my deliberation was this: I thought the programme could be the start of something big for Iris. She would probably get her own show afterwards. Ask Iris, perhaps, or, in a spin-off from the original programme, Iris Knows Best. She'd leave Portadown entirely when Hollywood came knocking, and ditch her husband, John, to shack up with some actor half her age. I had to at least give her a chance at stardom. I didn't want to be the one to stand in her way.

So I called her. Iris, I said, there are people at a TV company who want to make a programme about you and me. They want you to come down to Dublin and stick your nose into every element of my life, from grooming to domestic matters. For a whole week I'd have to live exactly the way you see fit. What do you reckon? I had to hold the phone away from my ear as she screamed her delight.

There followed a few seconds of silence. Would it mean I have to go on television, she asked. Iris can be impressively canny at times, but even she'd admit she's not always the sharpest knife in the cutlery drawer. It's a television programme, Iris; of course it means you have to go on television. Oh no, she screamed, oh no. Her modesty - up to this point I didn't know she possessed any of the stuff - ensured that her star fizzled out before it even had a chance to shine.

She and John came to stay with us the other night. In the ad break during Big Brother I had rustled up some roast-lamb sandwiches. I warmed the teapot, put on some lipstick and brushed my hair. I even ironed my shirt. Do I look Protestant enough, I asked my boyfriend. He rubbed some mint sauce off the side of his mouth and said, well, it's the closest you are ever going to get. I took this to mean I'd get away with attending a church fete but would probably get kicked out of Sunday school.

The doorbell rang. Iris and John were laden down with the usual carrier bags of lavender- infused bleach and kitchen roll and toilet paper and floury baps. After footering - adjective derived from the nearly obsolete verb "to footle", meaning to idle, trifle or indulge in trivialities, commonly used in parts of Northern Ireland and Scotland - around for a few minutes, they sat around the table for the tea and sandwiches.

They'd brought some cinnamon swirls, which I warmed in the oven. No microwave, blurted an astonished Iris before planting her tongue in her cheek and getting down to the nitty-gritty of what she would change about me if she had a magic wand and a television camera pointed at her.

My life according to Iris: a brood of children would be tugging at my skirts, which would all be freshly laundered and pressed. I'd be waiting on my boyfriend (who, obviously, would be my husband) hand and foot, dispensing sweet things and sandwiches around the clock. I'd be at home, minding children all day, not rushing about being one of these career-women types. I'd go to church each Sunday. I'd change the sheets each Monday. I'd sack my cleaner and do all the housework myself. I'd stop drinking wine and learn to darn socks. I had to stop her there.

They left early the next morning. I rang her later. Isn't there anything you wouldn't change about me, I asked, wishing I hadn't bothered making such an effort with the lipstick and the ironed shirt. What wouldn't I change, mused Iris. Your personality. Your smile. Your good nature. Your generosity. You'd give the bite out of your mouth, so you would, she said. It was Iris, so I didn't quite believe her. Still, it made me feel all warm and squidgy, like a freshly warmed cinnamon swirl.