Mother’s Day

How do I do it? It’s Mother’s Day, and I’m on my own. The children are with Mr X and, as the cherry on the top of the cake, it’s no speakies with True Love.

The children didn’t even say Happy Mother’s Day on the phone this morning. Well, they’re only small(ish), and the Mother’s Day impetus comes from grown-ups and let’s just say there is not a lot of impetus around these days, as I am a Bad Mother and don’t even deserve a paltry offering from Hallmark. And yes, I know the whole thing is all made up by card manufacturers (actually, there’s strong evidence that Mother’s Day is a pagan fertility festival that’s survived two thousand years and the death of matriarchy, but I’m going to pretend I don’t know that) but it still stings to be left out.

The TL aspect is more of a mystery. How is it that we can be relied upon to row during every major holiday? Christmas, New Year, Easter, Pancake Day, National No-Smoking Day, you name it, we’ve rowed. Mind you, catch us any given Wednesday and we’ll be arguing, too. I suppose it’s probably me, being much more aware of the family life I’ve given up, getting even more tense than usual during these bank holidays and being unable to let the slightest thing pass. Or maybe it’s him, just being TL, bless him.

All I know is that it sucks, but thank God for friends. This morning, I went to the Royal Festival Hall with a chum to listen to a Bach cello concert. It was beautiful, and the blue, cloudless skies over the London Eye as we walked along the South Bank were as perfect as the heavens in the opening sequence of the Simpsons. Seeing the Eye reminded me of a Mum Chum who’d said it could be used as a wedding venue. Of course, my mind leapt, ridiculously and romantically, to scenes of me and my TL pledging our lives to each other in one of the airborne pods. As well as the gorgeous view, this would have the advantage, I was thinking, of meaning he couldn’t possibly avoid me for once. And then I realised. He’d always find an escape hatch somewhere, even if it meant breaking the glass with his teeth and climbing down a rope made of his own shoelaces.

Ah well, I did get one Mother’s Day offering, and it was presented with special love. As I sat down at my desk just now to whinge, sorry, post, I discovered the mangled corpse of half a mouse placed just where my feet usually rest. Outside, sitting in the garden with a bashful smile on her whiskers and a self-satisfied twitch in her pussycat tail, was Mme Bovary, quite clearly waiting to be thanked. Darling, you really, really shouldn’t have.

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