As a mother and a daughter, I look forward to Mother’s Day.
I get suitably spoiled by my two, and I try to show my own mum how much I really do love her, despite a few tiffs in the run-up to the big day.
They are not arguments exactly, but I do wish she would realise that, like most modern women, I don’t have time to mess around and much prefer people to be direct.
However, needless time wasting is par for the course with my mother.
“So,” I say in mid February, “any idea where you’d like to go for Mother’s Day lunch or maybe you’d prefer a present?”
“Ouch, don’t harass yourself, Kate. I’m sure you have plenty more to do with your money than waste it on old me.”
“No,” I insist. “I want to, you know that.”
“Hush yourself,” she says.
Two weeks pass. Our favourite restaurants are booked up for that Sunday by this time, and I can’t think of a single thing to buy her.
“Mum,” I say, “How about we take a drive on Mother’s Day, go to Loch Lomond and try to get into that restaurant you like for an early dinner?”
“All the way to Loch Lomond?” she says in a high-pitched voice. “Whatever for?”
Another week passes.
“Right, mum, if we don’t organise something next Sunday, then we’re going to be left with nothing because everything will be booked.”
“What’s happening next Sunday?” she finally says.
I swear to you, sometimes I’m sure she puts it on to annoy me.
“It’s Mother’s Day,” I snap angrily at her, “and I just want you to know how much I bloody love you!”
She looks at me, with a mixture of sadness and anger.
“Well, Jessie at the bingo was raving about a place in Assy Lane in Glasgow.”
“Ashton Lane,” I correct her, and pull out the phone to Google some restaurants.
After some toing and froing, I finally get us squeezed in “somewhere nice” at 12.15 p.m.
“12.15 p.m.,” she questions. “I’ll hardly have my breakfast down.”
Oh, the frustration.