There is someone with a pneumatic drill in the vicinity. I live in an exceptionally (relatively speaking) quiet spot and it feels as though some alien, and not the friendly kind, has landed and is letting me know of its intentions, which are all about – well, invasion. If I ignore it perhaps it will go away.
So, lets talk about Mother’s Day. Sweet Daughter came with a card that said lovely things, later we went for meal out, and Son sent me a musical e-card and a recording of him with his barbershop band crooning a love song. I don’t care how much the miserable gits bang on about all this being an invention of the card industry, we need our small and large festivals, our special days, and I’m for them – yes, even pancake day – the more the better, I say; both pancakes and festivals. Mother’s Day can be a bit of a loaded one, of course, if you have had a conflicted or downright bad relationship with the mater, but even I managed a card with a photo of a large-eyed rabbit on it and a bunch of daffodils from my garden. She is getting better at taking these tokens of daughterly affection but did immediately point me in the direction of the sumptuous basket of flowers and big expensive-looking card my sister had sent. How nice, I said. She doesn’t actually find it that easy to receive gifts from me, but neither does it sit well if I don’t give. The classic occasion was the time when I had been instructed several times, and in no uncertain terms, not to bring anything at all for a birthday bash she was having in London – no card, present – nothing, and especially not the cake I had planned to make because she didn’t, repeat didn’t, want that or anything else and was that understood? Well the upshot was that I was the only one who arrived empty-handed. My sister made a speech and then there were murmurings to the effect that it was a shame no-one had thought to bring a cake. The mater looked at me, suitably stricken, and got, basically, what she wanted. So you could say it all worked out a treat.
But what am I doing sitting here in my red, white and tinsel pyjamas that are becoming almost as much as an established part of my sartorial repertoire as my purple trousers? I should be getting dressed and ready to go to a certain shrink-artiste in Brighton, getting stuff in the post, shopping for salad and spring onions, writing the next bit of my woman-on-the-edge-with-a-shrink-and-cigarette-habit thing. I think I will carry on sitting here a while – not do anything, and see what happens. The drilling has stopped. Silence.