In the grand tradition of my family (ie. my Mum made it up) Mother’s Day is considered short for Mother’s Day Off. In keeping with this venerable tradition my son woke me up by patting my face to make sure it was still there, patting the Bloke’s face, then leaped out of bed and took himself off to play with the new cars he bought at a school fete yesterday.

The Bloke reminded him after a while that they had a present for me, which was handed over with the usual two and a half year old style (“We got a book for you Mum, it’s a present, open it”). So I did open it, and then I stayed in bed reading it, interrupted only by the Bloke bringing in coffee. I did occasionally think that I was a tad peckish and perhaps I should leave the book, get up and find a morsel, perhaps get dressed and eat my breakfast at a cafe with the book, which had been the original plan. But I didn’t. I stayed in bed til I finished the whole book. Then I got up for lunch.

Mother's Day

This is the first novel I’ve finished in three and a half years.

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