Today is, apparently, the day when you are pampered and spoilt for all the shite you have to put up with as a mother. So how has yours been?
Mine started off early when Gizmo, the deaf cat with a deathwish, escaped from the garden to go bird-bothering in the hedge opposite house. Our neighbours, who also have a giant ginger moggie, hang up fat balls and bird feeders in the hedge so as not to provide lunch on tap for their cat. Unfortunately, Gizmo has discovered their cunning plan and now spends his life hatching every more devious ways to get over the road and sit in the hedge waiting for some poor unsuspecting sparrow. The only trouble is that as Gizmo is deaf and, contrary to perceived wisdom about your other senses becoming more acute if you lose the use of one, he is inclined to just saunter across the road regardless of oncoming traffic. He's used up most of his nine lives already and is, unfortunately, an accident waiting to happen. Most of my non-working life seems to be devoted to helping Gizmo live another day, not that he appreciates it of course.
Early worshippers at the local non-conformist churches were greeted with the sight of me in my pyjamas poking at a hedge with a big stick. Gizmo, hidden deep in the hedge, was invisible to their curious eyes. You could almost hear them muttering as they passed, 'there's an Anglican if ever I saw one'.
Gizmo was grounded for the rest of the day, not that he cares of course.
Later on, while I took my shower, I spied through the glass of the shower cubicle, Gizmo checking out the open bathroom window as a possible escape route. I leapt out of the shower, sopping wet, and hung out of the window naked to retrieve the damned cat. Anyone who owns a white cat will know that they moult like a cheap hooker shedding her knickers. Any of my neighbours, enjoying a bit of early morning sunshine, would have seen me grappling with my pussy, sporting a very impressive hairy (or should I say, furry) chest.
Downstairs in the kitchen I found my Mother's Day present from The Boy on the table. Two delicious looking lumps of cheese sat on a wooden board with a cheese knife, a jar of chutney and a card. My son had bought me cheese for Mother's Day. Now I like cheese and The Boy does like to chose original presents but I was a bit taken aback that he had bought me cheese! Feeling a little peckish I sliced off the end of one. It was a bit hard. Putting it to my mouth, I was just about to pop the little morsel in when the boy walked in.
"STTTTTOOOPPPPP" he screamed "It's not real cheese, it's soap"
Well how's a girl to know? It was, as it turned out, from Lush Cosmetics who, for reasons best known to themselves have made soap that looks like cheese. Fortunately it doesn't smell like cheese.
The Girl played safe with Adele's new album (God that girl can sing!) and a glass heart along with a lovely card signed by all her friends as well as her.
Next stop on my action packed Mother's Day agenda was watching The Boy play rugby. I discovered their new coach has been banned from the touchline as a result of the now infamous Wootton Bassett Bundle which resulted in both teams being sent off. It seems the RFU took a dim view of him getting an opposing parent in a headlock. Spoilsports! Obviously, a touchline ban does make coaching rather difficult but he managed admirably from the hedge that lines the pitch - what is it with me and hedges today - while we made sure The Compliance Lady, a formidable woman, wide of arse and wobbly of buttock, in a pair of alarmingly tight leggings, was headed off at the pass and encouraged to support the under 12s.
I left the match early to pick up The Girl who was on a sleepover with a friend. While I waited for her to get up/pack her stuff/find her boots I had an interesting conversation with her friend's father about what happens to you if you stand on an IED. The trouble with military people is that they forget everyone that not all of us are quite so strong of stomach. Body parts might be an integral part of his life but they aren't in mine, unless of course they are still attached to a body. I don't even know how we got on to the subject.
Back home to change then off to the local pub for lunch. It's not actually in our village but at a brisk 5 minute walk, although it's on the edge of town, we call it our local. It used to be a place that you went to get your head kicked in but it was closed down for a while and re-opened with a lovely South African couple at the helm. They've worked so hard to attract the right clientele - well clearly they've managed that admirably as we were there - and turned it from a biker's pub to a nice country pub with sofas and a 'no swearing' policy. Sadly they don't have a 'NoLoudScotsmenWho'veProbablyHadATeenyBitTooMuchToDrink' policy but you can't have it all ways, can you.
The menu was small but I've always said I'd rather have a small, well-cooked menu than pages of mediocrity. It was lovely. We had roast beef (not too rare in view of the IED conversation earlier) and all the trimmings. The chef has worked in France for the past three years so I was expecting vegetables boiled to within an inch of their little lives but they were crisp and well presented and definitely not out of a tin. For dessert we had individual apple crumbles with cream, except for The Husband who tucked into a delicious brownie, then I was presented with a rose and some handmade chocolates which I grudgingly shared with my lovely family, The Girl who refused to take her headphones off and The Boy, who wound her up mercilessly. Ain't family life grand! Thank god for a decent cappuccino.
Back home, The Husband sat down on the sofa and promptly fell asleep, The Girl retired to her bedroom to sulk and The Boy had the first of several megasations with his girlfriend, each one lasting about an hour.
There was nothing for it but to do the ironing. So how's yours been?