I was woken up by two attention-seeking missiles. I’m not talking about my husband’s testicles, he was on the early shift. My kids, I mean my kids.
They came bearing gifts. An LP (which was not a surprise, as aforementioned husband had told me to order it for myself from them). My little boy had bought me a box of maltesers from the Mothers’ Day table top sale at his school. And my PWS teenager, eyeing the chocs with deep interest, gave me a tapestry handbag, because, hey, I’m a real tapestry handbag kind of woman. “You know you gave me £2 to spend at school on Red Nose Day, well I had 20p left, so I got you this,” she explained. “I know you’ve got a bag, but this one’s got a camel on it.”The messages inside their homemade cards said it all. The lad’s was an outpouring of random stuff (the mercenary bits given top priority, but I was dead pleased with the ‘cuddles’, and hugely relieved not to be thanked sarcastically for ‘all the shouting’). My girl’s was short. Pithy. Misspelt.
They were both beautiful.
Happy Morthers.
Video is Public Service Broadcasting - Gagarin, from the LP wot I got.
