As regular readers might recall, we are not great celebrants of Mothers’ Day in this house.
We tend to forget all about it, either for ever, or at least until Tuesday, which is when belatedly posted cards, usually from Ritalin Boy, arrive. I quite like this method of proceeding, it has a relaxed tone to it and a predictable pattern all of our own.
This year things were different.
This year I have had an astonishing surprise.
This year there were flowers, chocolates, a card and a hand written framed poem, extolling my virtues. This latter was far more generous than I deserve, and failed to mention ‘grumpy about washing’ or ‘often drunk’. I was very touched by it indeed, and have put it on my desk next to my computer, in order that I can remind myself, in occasional bleak moments, that somebody approves of me.
You may not be astonished to hear that none of these unexpected happinesses were from the children. They were from the lodger, whose various misfortunes have left her woefully under-supplied in the parent department. I have helped to fill this vacancy, on and off, over the years, and this year she decided she would let me know that it was appreciated. This was lovely, and the chocolates were ace.
The children said guiltily “Oh, is it Mothers’ Day?” and Mark helped eat the chocolates, and we sat round the table together and felt pleased to have such a large family.
Today has felt as though spring has finally arrived. The sun shone so enthusiastically on our walk this morning that we peeled off first coats, then jumpers, then strolled warmly and contentedly along in cotton shirts, listening to the birds shouting abuse at one another and breathing in the first earthy smells of things starting to grow. We walked and talked, and felt happy with the world.
We had had a late night at work, with some memorable customers, not least a teenage boy who sneered and strutted and proudly told me about being expelled from school, and then burst into entirely unexpected noisy tears when I made concerned noises. His shoulders shook and he sobbed hard all the way to Kendal, and he kept wanting to hold my hand, which made it difficult when I was changing gear. He told me a bit about his mother, which made me not entirely surprised that he had been an idiot at school. I wished him well, and made encouraging remarks, but of course there is never anything I can do, and I drove off feeling sad.
There was a chap who said: “Look at that brilliant camper van,” as we drove past it, which made me squeak with proud excitement, and an extremely drunk girl who tried to encourage the taxi to stop by enthusiastically displaying bits of her anatomy in the road in front of it. This happens quite a bit, and they are always surprised when the driver turns out to be me.
When she got in, the drunk girl explained, with some embarrassment, that she was having a special exam-passing celebration, which was the reason for the excessive ribaldry. She had just finished her ten-week qualification course and was in the process of becoming a prison officer.
Naturally I was intrigued, and questioned her as hard as I could. This was not terribly fruitful, because of the fourteen Jaeger Bombs she had recently consumed, but I gathered that the Prison Service had launched her career by forgetting that she was going to turn up, and so when she presented herself at her prison for her first day of employment, she found herself unable to get in.
I thought this sounded splendidly incongruous, but made a mental note to telephone in advance when I reach that glorious moment. We grinned at one another, having discovered a kinship in Bleep Tests and shouty actors, and in the incomprehensible wish to spend our lives locking doors and counting heads.
We thought that we would probably meet again, and I hoped so, she seemed to be jolly good fun, in a reckless sort of way. I am very much looking forward to my future adventures.
The picture shows the poem and some of the flowers. There were enough to fill a vase for every room.
It is ace to have children.
