It's never too late to tell your mother you love her
... even if she eats your Kit Kat and is a complete failure at all things domestic, writes Florence Horsman-Hogan
I HAVE to admit it. I was jealous. The 12-year-old daughter, Katie, had come back from her friend's house where they'd had a baking session with her friend's mum. She's starting to show a disconcerting -- and, to me, perturbing -- interest in other children's mothers.
I don't care that some of them are better looking, have nicer personalities, bigger houses, better figures or even more productive hobbies than I have. But the very mention of other mothers' superior cooking, sewing or housework skills is enough to have me curled up childishly on the sitting room couch, arms folded mutinously, sucking my thumb and muttering dark snipes at these overachievers.
"It's all very well for you," I sniff. "I didn't have a mother like everyone else had."