Mamma Mia!

Hello Dear Readers!

Well, we do live in interesting times. Last week saw this pokey little blog hit new numbers for readership so a big thank you dear readers for being, well, dear readers, and thank you too to those that care to share on the various social media of this world. It really is very much appreciated. That nicely got out of the way let’s move on to the main thrust of today’s humble offering which, as the title (My mother, in Italian. Mother I have arrived, in the Yorkshire dialect) probably gives away is mainly about a lady I introduced last week. 

I suppose it’s only right to first of all wish a happy Mothering Sunday to all you producers of offspring out there, well at least the ones in the UK anyway. From what I understand the day is a relatively recent addition to the calendar and is celebrated on various days in the many disparate parts of this world. You live and you learn, eh.

That’s not to say that its relative youth should detract from the day. Mothers around the world do a fantastic job and deserve to have a day put aside in celebration of that fact. That goes about quadruple for my own marvellous mum.

Yes. I know. Everyone thinks their mum is the best mum in the world (if Facebook is anything to go by anyway!) but I think I really do have a shout for my own mother dearest being at least a contender.

I only have to think of the additional hardship raising a disabled child must have presented back in those days. From the worry and stress of each operation, to the countless medical appointments, boot fittings and approximately a million other things that literally started from day one, Mum was always there, always fighting on my behalf. That’s not to downplay the part my Dad played in all this by the way, but when it came to dealing with the various departments, specialists, footwear manufacturers et al; well Mum has always had, shall we say… a certain knack. 

There can be something intimidating about the great and the good of the services I required growing up and to some extent still do, whether that be a large faceless company, a local doctor, or a surgical registrar. Mum though would have none of that. In fact she would usually find a way to out intimidate them, typically by sheer force of character, and especially if everything was not shipshape and Bristol fashion. I can certainly remember one letter being written to the company that supplied my specially made to measure boots on the unhappy occasion of them getting the job spectacularly wrong, as was entirely far too common . I imagine enough steam escaping from that envelope to fill the letterbox and probably cause a serious case of damp in the entire town. I certainly don’t envy the clerk who had to open it!

I owe a lot to that fighting spirit and I certainly think that I have inherited a, perhaps slightly watered down, drop of it myself. I certainly think my stubbornness has its roots there, whether by nature or nurture. Whatever the case though I know that I owe Mum (and Dad too of course.) more than I can ever tell. She has never really been one to celebrate Mother’s day and customarily eschews presents (It is her birthday in a couple of week after all.) I hope, however, that this post can perhaps count as some small token of my affection, my gratitude, and my love.

Until next time…