Trulove declares Mother’s Day a load of made-up rubbish. It’s a Victorian folly, sez he, and was never even about Mothers originally anyway but about the Mother Church. I say pretty much everything’s made up anyway; Wikipedia is not always accurate; and Trulove is just jealous.
Luckily for us all, Trulove may be a cynic but he values his bollocks. Yesterday Ziggler was telling me about some secret flowers they’d bought from the secret flower shop. This morning I was greeted by the secret flowers, a cupcake and a card with a picture of me on it. Also I was allowed an extra lie-in and Trulove cooked lunch. So I didn’t do too badly.
In other news, we have a new garden. Where once was a blasted wasteland scattered with trampettes, stray socks and those foam letter squares I bought off ebay in an attempt to provide some squish in the harsh outside (and which, I discovered recently but was ignoring, had become a woodlouse sanctuary) there is now a lush lawn and a new patio and a bit of cement with my children’s infeasibly titchy hand prints in. We got the newish social enterprise, Streetscape, who train up gardening apprentices, to do it. They were bloomin’ brilliant: friendly, quick and tidied up after themselves. Judging by the way Ziggler ran off screaming coquettishly whenever Luke, the head gardener, appeared at the back door, they were also frighteningly attractive to small girls. My loving respect for Trulove and my brother-in-law Zaffion is too great to admit that Sausage and I may have had a very very tiny and accidental ogle, too. To suggest any such thing would be a lie.
When the garden was finished and we were supposed to be letting it settle in a bit – i.e. as soon as the front door closed behind the gardeners and they had not yet reached their van – Ziggler, Pickle and I ran up and down the lawn, holding hands and screaming. Ziggler played galloping horses on it. Pickle happily teetered about on it and ate some mud from the borders. We took our socks off and relished the soft grass under our feet. We lay on our backs and looked at the sky. Nobody’s allowed on it ’til next Wednesday now, but I think we are going to enjoy our garden.
Anyway. Mothers, I hope your mother’s day was as nice as mine. Those of you who are not mothers, I also hope your mother’s day was as nice as mine. It probably involved a bit less general whining and faff. But no cute Mr-Potato-Head portraits, which are the kind of thing that make life worthwhile.