I nearly forgot to ask my blossoms, did y’all have a fabby Mother’s Day? Mine was spent of course with the legendary Fag Hag Mum (think Shirley MacLaine in Postcards from the Edge meets Edith Piaf with a soupcon of Miss Jean Brodie) but it takes a whole lotta organising.
First there’s the fleurs. Fag Hag Mum will not tolerate carnations or roses or anything that looks like it could be fashioned into a floral guitar on a hearse. Then there’s the card. Fag Hag Mum hates cheap sentiment so it cannot feature pastel italics or a hint of a council teddy bear saying ‘I Love you THIS much’. But no matter how much you plan, there’s always something that’ll throw you off kilter.
This year I’d arrived so early for our little lunch I decided to pop into the clothes shop next door for a little browse. ‘Hello there,’ I said to the rather terrifying looking Greek lady behind the till as I wielded my hideously expensive bouquet around. ‘My mother is very lucky!’ I laughed, fingering a cheap chiffon blouse.
Suddenly Greek woman fixed me with a stare I haven’t seen the like of since The Hills Have Eyes. ‘I haf no mudder. She is die.’ Oh. Happy Mother’s day to you too. I’m still having nightmares…