A distance of seven miles hasn’t half made the heart grow fonder; Boy was coming for Sunday tea.
I’d killed the fatted calf; sort of. I’d diced and sliced a slab of best steak and the entire contents of my vegetable drawer for a beef stir-fry.
Everything was done. Where the hell was he? I decided to concoct an enquiring but un-angry text; no point falling out before he’d even arrived. But everything I composed sounded confrontational, even with one of those smiley faces at the end. So I settled for sending a “?”
“On the way” came the reply. Which I knew, from past experience, probably meant “on the way to the shower.”
Some 45 minutes later (the journey takes 15) he burst in, bouncy as Tigger, and clasped me to him in a Lynx anti-perspirant-infused bear hug. As usual, irritation melted instantly. He can wrap me around his little finger, that lad of mine.
I dished up. We ate. I gazed at him adoringly and tried to talk about non-irritating things. Then he leaned over with a smug look on his face and enquired: “You do realise what day it is, don’t you?”
I pondered on this; it was Sunday, May 13; so what? He wasn’t going all superstitious on me, was he?
“It’s Mothers’ Day,” he beamed.
“Nah, only in America,” I blithely informed him. “British Mothers’ Day was way back in March.” I became so caught up in wittering on about the fact that I’d been away on a weekend with the girls at the time and reminding him he’d taken me out for Sunday lunch the week after that I didn’t notice he was looking a bit crest-fallen.
Some time later, he sheepishly pushed a card and a box of Milk Tray my way. I might as well have them, he said. He felt a fool, he said.
A few hours before, he’d been on Twitter. He loves it; reckons it’s so much better than Facebook because it enables you to market yourself without being market-ed. And the Twit hadn’t reali(z)ed that, when he came across a flurry of chirpy Mothers’ Day tweets, they’d all been penned by Yanks.
He’d followed the herd; even a trend: I Love My Mom Because..., re-tweeting one that I’m not allowed to write about, LOL (D.C, TBF I too thought it meant lots of love for a long, long time).
Then, how Tweet, he’d zoomed off to buy me a little something. Bless, he’d had to call at every shop and garage on the journey from his place in Crookes. How exasperated he’d got when, one by one, he found every single card shelf bereft. What on earth? Surely they couldn’t ALL have sold out? Or had the shop assistants got overly scrupulous, having assumed that by 7pm no son or daughter could surely be any tardier with their heartfelt messages of love and gratitude - and had put all the cards away for next year?
Faced with yet another wall of Father’s Day cards and just half a mile to go to our house, it was all he could do not to hurl a sarcastic rebuke at some poor lass on the check-out at the beer-off on Firth Park as he made do with a blank card with red roses on the front that would just have to do.
How was he supposed to know, he said, that Mothers’ Day was on different dates in different countries? He thought it was like Easter and Christmas. And how stupid that it wasn’t, in this global communication day and age. Hilarious.
Thank y’all at Twitter, is all I can say.