Mothering

I have had a surprise today.

This afternoon the doorbell rang. It turned out to be neither the police nor the bailiffs, but a chap with a parcel. The label on the parcel said that it was from Interflora, and was to be opened immediately.

Somewhat to my surprise, it did not contain flowers, but evidence that somebody knows me rather well. There was a rather splendid looking bottle of red, some blue Stilton and oatcakes, some olives and some interesting-looking chutney, all beautifully arranged on a very useful-looking wooden tray.

That is tomorrow’s dinner sorted out, then.

It would have been tonight’s, but we need to use up the end of the pork before it starts to go off.

I was very pleased indeed, not least because I like wine, blue Stilton and olives very much, especially when accompanied by pear flavoured chutney. I have got bored with our own chutney now, which is apple flavoured because of the surplus of next door’s apple crop. Indeed, life has become so tedious under the auspices of our current rabble of beloved leaders that I think I might even say that I am quite excited about having a change.

Obviously I had an immediate suspicion that it might be related to the approach of Mothering Tuesday. This has traditionally been more celebrated amongst our family than Mothering Sunday, as it has enabled us to purchase reduced-price cards on Monday after we have all been reminded of our failings by Facebook on Sunday morning.

Dear my mother and Mark’s mother, we did remember and we did post some cards, if they have not turned up by the time you are reading this then it is the fault of the Royal Mail and you will have to ring the Queen and complain. I am sorry to say that we did not run to red wine and Stilton, although perhaps I could post you some apple chutney on Monday.

I investigated the parcel carefully and eventually discovered a small card in the bottom, which did indeed wish me a very happy Mothering Day, and which proclaimed itself, mysteriously, to be from my favourite child.

You will not be surprised to learn that I growled and rolled my eyes about this, because of course I love all of my children equally. Also I shouted Oliver downstairs and ascertained that he had not been spending his hoard of hard-earned cash on cheese, which leaves three suspects.

We discounted Lucy, who will be almost certainly not remember at all, even in time for Mothering Tuesday. This left Numbers One and Two Daughters, both of whom I love absolutely equally especially the one who sent the wine.

I thought that I would telephone them both tomorrow and express my heartfelt gratitude, and see which one does not sound surprised.

This mystery was definitely the most exciting moment in an otherwise uneventful day. Apart from this, we went to the farm to pick up some bits of trampoline. This did not last very long because of the uninviting weather. March is only halfway through, but it is certainly going out like a lamb, or at any rate like a sheep, in that it is being tiresome and unpredictable and generally a nuisance.

It snowed, and hailed, and lashed curtains of heavy rain, in between occasionally deceptive bursts of welcoming beams of sunshine. We trudged up the field through the mud and sheep poo, and decided not to stay long. We loaded the bits of trampoline and came home, where we did not linger in the yard, but spent the rest of the afternoon washing horrible horrible vine weevil maggots out of the roots of the potted plants in the conservatory.

Some of these have come from my mother’s house. We spoke to her a couple of weeks ago, and she warned us about an outbreak of the dreadful creatures in her own garden. Hence we thought that we would investigate everything that had begun its life there.

It was a good job we did, because I should have planted the poor things outside ages ago, and some of them were terribly cramped in their too-tight pots, like the newly-extended Oliver in last term’s massively expensive school uniform.

He is taller than I am now.

We emptied them over a washing up bowl and washed all of the roots clean, squishing a dozen horrid wriggling vine weevils in the process. I dashed outside and planted the poor things in the garden after that, where they reeled miserably from the shock of firstly being evicted from their nice solid pots and thoroughly rinsed, and secondly being thrown on the tender mercies of the Weather Gods.

I felt very sorry for them.

Spring seems to have gone on strike, like a recalcitrant nurse in a week or two.

Have a picture of me being a mother.