Mother’s Day was four days ago and I’m still waiting.
It’s not coming is it?
Walking the dog Sunday morning in the rain, I passed people getting out of their cars, arriving for family visits, laden with bouquets and nicely wrapped packages.
“Are you sure you’ve got all of mum’s presents?” I heard more than once.
The average spend on a present for mum is £27.37, and more than 30 million cards are sent.
But I got sweet FA apart from the cat pissing in the bath, and a text from my offspring.
My mum is sitting up in the clouds, looking down, and having a right chuckle. I of course once did exactly the same to her so I now know precisely how she felt. Sorry Mum!
And in said offspring’s defence, we’d planned to meet up for breakfast on Mother’s Day but on Friday I cancelled. She’d been explaining it would be the morning after the night before of her mate’s birthday party; so was apologising in advance for the state she’d be in.
I didn’t much fancy being on the receiving end of that; assuming she’d even make it out of bed.
But this still does not explain my missing card, which appears to have gone AWOL despite The Post Office’s 370 years of experience doing this mail delivery thing.
That’s the only explanation I can think of.