Another Mother's day in the life. A mixture of the tacky, the exploitative and the very tacky. Flowers are pink, forced and forceful and a full scale emotional blackmail attack is underway. Pub car parks are stuffed with anxious families trying to do the right lunchtime thing and good and upright men buy more crappy gifts to pass to their kids to pass to their mothers. These are then passed onto landfill sites or a recycling centre somewhere you never really see, thanks to tasteful banks of moulded earth and planning certificates.
Of course I was caught up in this today as much as anyone before resigning to watch my son's football team playing away in Ladybank in (as ever) Fife. It was almost a pleasant morning and I had a coffee and Kit Kat breakfast (thanks to the ladies of Ladybank) standing in a muddy but not thankfully stone cold field. The flash gun memory of the speed camera trap on the A92 was slowly dying away at this point. We also won 3 - 1 and now have a 100% away record.
Then across to my current second home, West Fife's pink palace of a hospital to see my own mum who was having a "good" day and then home for a spot of my main aerobic exercise - ironing shirts. The Goldfrapp CD is still working, there are leftover quail's eggs in the fridge and Lost is on TV later this evening. Roll on Father's Day in sunny June, a personal favourite of mine naturally and a holy, golden day that has no commercial or underhand motives attached to any part of it.